Demon Moon

sleeves loose at the cuffs; black leather jeans and boots finished the ensemble. Conforming, but not outside the boundaries of his personal taste. The metal rings studding his belt might have been a concession to Goth sensibilities, but she thought it fit his own; he looked lean, strong, dangerous—and ridiculously chic.
    She clasped her hands together to prevent herself from touching him. Though they’d spent the past few hours together, first in the kitchen as she prepared her meal, then in the studio as he painted and she set up her computer equipment in the adjoining tower room, he’d not approached her.
    She didn’t mind waiting until after they’d returned from Polidori’s; the anticipation would be almost unbearable by then, its own sweet pain.
    He slanted an amused glance at her. “Lilith lied to me, then. Are any of them wrong? But for the hairstyle.”
    She eyed his hair in silent envy; it looked as if he’d pushed his fingers into the thick strands, tugged them forward, and left it sticking up in a haphazard, golden tangle. Why wouldn’t she be surprised if that was all he’d done? And it had taken her nearly twenty minutes to gel and mess her hair to her satisfaction in front of the single mirror in the house: in her bathroom, hidden behind a wall panel.
    He’d retreated to his upstairs suite—the one set of rooms he hadn’t yet shown her.
    With a sigh, she turned back to the paintings. Again, that feeling of not quite right hit her, and she hesitated before she shook her head. “Not really. Not wrong, exactly.”
    “It’s important to me,” he said quietly. “You’ll not damage my artist’s ego by telling me I’ve done it incorrectly.”
    “No, it’s not that.” She stepped forward, studying the pitiless curve of his mouth. “Everything’s technically right. You’ve even captured your expressions, like in this one.”
    “You’ve seen me like this?” Dismay colored his voice.
    “In Auntie’s, the night we first met. A couple of times in Caelum. At Polidori’s. In the parking lot two nights ago.” Had it only been two days since he’d told her she was falling in love with him? How far she’d gone in that short time.
    He was silent, and she turned, lifting her brow in question. His lips quirked, but no humor touched his eyes. “I’m not always a kind man, Savitri, and I cannot apologize for it. But I’m sorry I directed it at you.”
    “I know. I’m not fishing for an apology.” She ran her hands over her arms. “It was there last night, too. When you saw what had happened to Nani and told me who’d done it. And I didn’t mind—was glad of it even—because I felt the same way.”
    He hauled in a deep breath. “Perhaps you won’t be once I’ve told you what I did to them.”
    Them . Three teenaged boys under the influence of a demon. He’d told her they’d been caught, that they were in SI’s custody, but not spoken of anything he’d done specifically.
    What could be so terrible that he was concerned about her reaction? “What did you do?”
    His gaze held hers, his features without expression, but she could almost feel the tension holding him still. “I punished them with Chaos. The same way I gave it to you.”
    “Oh.” She blinked up at the portrait again, tried to imagine their terror. Tried to weigh it against hers, and what Nani must have gone through. “I think I’m glad of that, too. It’s appropriate—though it must have felt like shit for you.”
    “A bit. I’ll not likely use it often.” His voice, his posture relaxed slightly. “With luck, we’ll convince the vampire community not to test me…or my consort. You look edible, by the by. I chose well; you carry the image spectacularly.”
    She blushed, glanced down at herself. She’d felt a little ridiculous when he’d given her the low-slung, white miniskirt, the boots that laced up to her knee, and a matching top that covered her arms and neck but left everything between her navel and hips bare. And doubly idiotic when he’d topped the pile of clothing with a pair of sai sheaths that strapped to her thighs, and a long white coat that fluttered behind her like a pair of wing tips as she walked.
    But wearing it was oddly comfortable, not ridiculous. Like his clothing, this wasn’t her typical style…but it wasn’t not her, either.
    “You realize I’m dressed almost exactly like Angelika from DemonSlayer?”
    He nodded, and his eyes rose from the strip of skin at her waist.