Must Love Hellhounds

sideswept bangs instead. “I like it.”
    “Ransom said it makes me look like I have raccoon eyes.”
    “Ransom has hair like a girl.”
    She grinned. “That’s what I said.” Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him with wild abandon, and it felt way beyond good. So she did it again. “The debutantes are going to wet their panties over you.”
    He looked horrified.
    “Don’t worry.” She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “I’ll scare them away.”
     
     
     
    Deacon caused such a stir she thought they might have a Chanel No. 5-scented stampede in the ballroom. She also thought it’d make him turn and run. That he’d come . . . well, hell, it had stolen her heart right out of her chest. But she didn’t expect him to stand at her side with quiet focus, as if the attention didn’t even register.
    A few of the men tried to use his presence to ignore her—male chauvinist pigs—but Deacon deflected the ball back at her so smoothly, the others never knew what hit them. Sexy, dangerous, smart, and he knew how to deal with dunderheads without making a scene. She was so keeping him. And stabbing a knife into the heart of any debutante/trophy-wife-wannabe who came within sniffing distance.
    “I expect,” he whispered in her ear during a rare minute of privacy, “large amounts of sexual favors for being this good.”
    Her lips twitched. “Done.”
    And she was. Done over thoroughly.
    By the time they reached the apartment, she was burning up for him. They didn’t make it to the bed the first time. Her pretty, slinky dress ended up in shreds at her feet as Deacon took her against the door, his mouth fused with hers. She came with a hard rush that had her clutching at his white dress shirt with desperate hands.
    The second time was slower, sweeter.
    Afterward, they lay side by side, face to face. It was an indescribably intimate way to be, and she hardly dared speak for fear of breaking the moment. “There goes your secret identity. As of tomorrow, you’re going to be in gossip columns from here to Timbuktu.”
    He nipped at her upper lip. “I bought the tux.”
    She blinked. “You bought the tux.” Bubbles of happiness burst into life inside her, rich and golden. “More cost-effective than renting one if you plan to use it a lot.”
    “That’s what the guy at the store said.” Shifting closer, he stroked his hand over the sweep of her back, his skin a little rough and all perfect. “But . . .”
    “No buts.” She kissed him. “I’m too happy right now.”
    A smile against her lips. “This ‘but’ you have to deal with, Ms. Guild Director.” Light words. Serious tone.
    She met his gaze. “What is it?”
    “I have to resign as the Slayer.”
    “Oh. Yes, of course.” As of tonight, he was too well-known, and more importantly, by staying with her, he’d get to know too many hunters . . . make too many friends. “We’ll find a replacem—”
    “That’s what I was doing. I have a candidate for you.”
    Nodding, Sara stroked her fingers over the square line of his jaw. “I can’t be your boss.” It was a solemn realization. “I need to be your lover.”
    Deacon reached out to draw a circle around the spot where her necklace had rested before he’d taken it off. “I figured I’d go totally independent with the weapons.”
    “That works.” The tightness in her chest eased. “Kind of seems one-sided though. You’re giving up everything.”
    “I get you.” A simple statement that meant more than she could ever articulate.
    She swallowed the knot of emotion in her throat. “I talked to Tim a week ago.”
    Deacon frowned. “Tim?”
    “Lucy’s pregnant.”
    The frown turned into a slow, spreading smile. “Really?”
    “Yes, really.” She threw a leg over his and snuggled close. “He’s going to keep one of the pups for me. I was going to call it Deacon.”
    He started laughing, and it was infectious. She buried her face in his neck and gave in.
     
     
     
    The puppy was black as pitch, with big brown eyes and feet so big he promised to become a monster like his mom. Since it would’ve been a little confusing to have two Deacons in the house, they decided to call him Slayer.

Magic Mourns

    Ilona Andrews

I sat in a small, drab office, one of many in the Atlanta chapter of the Order of Knights of Merciful Aid, and pretended to be Kate Daniels. Kate’s phone didn’t ring very often, so I didn’t have to pretend very hard.
    Unfortunately, when it did ring, like