Demon Forged

he’d felt when she’d hit him, or that a few moments after she’d done it, he realized that she’d lied to him. The demon had hurt her. Alejandro hadn’t seen the evidence, but he’d scented it. Irena’s blood had been spilled in that room.
    He wiped at his mouth and tasted his own blood. Mother of God, he didn’t know why she’d tried to revise history or why she’d struck him, but he would not stop until he found out.
    Rain splashed against his face as he bolted out of the car. Taylor had pulled over on a street not far from SI. Businesses lined the sidewalks, shabbier than their downtown counterparts. Awnings streaked with dirt were leaking. The scents of nail salons and sandwich shops drifted out through the damp. The sidewalks were almost empty. The humans moved quickly through the drizzle, using papers and umbrellas to shield their hair.
    Irena passed each storefront without looking left or right. Her head was down, her shoulders hunched.
    Her posture ripped at his heart. He was damned if he’d let her get far enough ahead to escape. Not without settling this between them.
    God knew if they could.
    He glanced back at Taylor and Preston, each standing behind their opened car door. Alejandro held up his hand, silently asking them to wait.
    Preston nodded.
    Alejandro took off, narrowing Irena’s lead to a few meters. She didn’t look to see who was running up behind her. Was she that oblivious to his pursuit—and leaving herself open to attack? Anger joined his worry.
    In the shadows between two of the storefronts, she stopped. Getting ready to fly?
    Not a chance. When she turned, he charged.
    She didn’t raise a hand to defend herself. Shocked anew that he wanted her to strike him, he caught her waist and lifted her. He’d been hard since her hand had connected with his face, and he fought the hot pleasure of holding her against his body, his erection caught between them. This wasn’t going to be about sex. His only intention was to question.
    When her back hit the side of the building, his intentions went flying. Amazement shot through him. He stared down into her wary eyes, disbelieving the evidence in his hands.
    She was so small. Irena weighed no more than a human. In the conference room, had he been too blind with arousal and surprise to notice it? Because until this moment, even knowing, knowing that Guardians were no heavier after their transformation, he’d imagined lifting her would be an effort. Irena had always been so solid, so indestructible in his mind, as if he thought she’d been made out of metal—but she was fragile flesh and blood beneath his hands.
    Her jaw set, but he didn’t just see strength and stubbornness. She expected a blow in return. Dear God. He leaned his forehead against hers, feeling as if he’d lost his footing, trying to regain it.
    He never intended to use pain.
    Instead, the demon had used Alejandro’s face and . . . forced her to enjoy his touch?
    Rage mounted in him, as it always did when he thought of the demon with her. But his feelings on her behalf were the same. Relief. An emotion that had made her strike out.
    Irena’s wet palm cupped the side of his neck. She had to feel his pulse racing. Must hear his heart pounding.
    He could barely hear the quick beat of hers over it.
    “Olek.” She pitched her voice low, and he was astonished to realize that she was trying to calm him .
    He lifted his head to look at her, and struggled to keep his shields strong. Tried to sound less shaken than he was. Despite that effort, he only managed, “You ran.”
    Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his cheek, though the mark from her hand must have faded. The back of his head felt as if his skull had shattered—but he could ignore the pain. The shock of the slap had affected him more than the blow.
    And her stillness, her silence now—was she afraid she’d hit him again?
    He didn’t care if she did. “Why did you not tell me before?”
    She closed her eyes. What was she hiding? What did she fight?
    Then he felt it, faint as a whisper behind closed doors: shame in her psychic scent.
    “Oh, Jesus.” He tried to find words again. “There is no shame in it, Irena. Forced to feel pleasure is no different than being forced to feel pain.”
    Her eyes flashed open, glowing a brilliant green. “You stupid ox. Do you think I do not know that?”
    He felt her anger, rising hot. His footing was gone, but this was familiar.
    And that told him something else; she had