“Go!” she shouted at the mercenary, who gaped first at Étienne and then at Krysta.
He reached for the walkie on his shoulder.
She shook her head. “They’re all dead. I heard him kill them. It’s why he left me to fend for myself with those monsters who attacked me.”
He tried the walkie anyway and got nothing, his panic palpable.
Étienne rose with a groan, eyes glowing with what the mercenary no doubt took for promised retribution, but Krysta suspected was actually . . .
Was that desire?
She grabbed the mercenary by the shoulder and gave him a shove to get him moving.
Whatever it was, she didn’t want to have to hit Étienne again. Her hand was throbbing and she didn’t like hurting him. “Go, damn it!” she cried. “Run!”
“Come with me,” he said, shocking the hell out of her.
Either she was a better actress than she had thought or he wanted to score points with his superiors by capturing an immortal.
Shaking her head, she looked at Étienne. “He’ll catch me. He always catches me. And he’ll torture you for helping me.” She added a hitch to her breath and was pleased at how close to a sob it sounded. “Just go.”
He did.
As the mercenary’s feet pounded the pavement, Étienne stalked toward her. Hold your breath and tense your neck muscles.
She didn’t ask why, just did it.
Étienne wrapped the fingers of one hand around her throat and lifted her off her feet just as the mercenary’s footsteps slowed and he turned to look back.
Krysta wrapped her hands around Étienne’s wrist and kicked her feet, pretending to fight even as she used her new strength to push herself up and ease the pressure on her neck.
Étienne wrapped an arm around her and shot off into the night. The hold on her neck became a caress. Krysta took several deep breaths as the campus swept past. Étienne jumped. The ground fell away and she found herself on the roof of . . .
Actually Krysta didn’t know the name of this building. But they were still on campus and could see the mercenary in the distance.
Étienne set her down, drew out his phone, and dialed.
“Reordon,” Chris answered.
It was so odd to be able to hear both sides of the conversation without the phone being on speaker.
“It’s Étienne. We tagged a mercenary at UNC Chapel Hill. He’s fleeing the campus, heading south on foot. I need a cleanup crew to come collect the eleven dead or unconscious mercenaries he left behind.”
He hung up before Chris could say anything, pocketed the phone, and yanked Krysta into his arms. “I’m sorry. I had to make it look real. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No. It was just uncomfortable for a second.”
His arms tightened as he swore in French. (She was beginning to recognize some words now.)
“What about you?” she asked to distract him. “Am I wrong, or did my knocking the crap out of you turn you on?”
Leaning back, he summoned a sheepish smile and pressed his hips against hers to let her feel his arousal. “You weren’t wrong.”
“Really? Are you into the rough stuff?” She had never thought of trying that kind of thing herself.
“I didn’t think so,” he said with a baffled shake of his head, “But you were”—his glowing eyes grew brighter—“magnificent.”
“Hmm. Is this . . . something you want to explore? Sexually?” She wasn’t sure how that would work. She knew without trying it that hurting Étienne wouldn’t turn her on. And she sure as hell didn’t want him to hurt her. Pain tended to piss her off.
“Not really,” he said. “I just adore your strength and seeing you in action aroused me.” He hesitated. “I’d try anything you asked me to, though. In bed or out of it. I want you to be happy.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Let’s leave the pain on the battlefield.”
“Agreed.” He dipped his head and kissed her.
Her pulse leapt.
As he teased her lips with his tongue, she palmed his erection. “Want to do something about this while we wait for the cleanup crew to arrive?” She sure as hell did. She didn’t know if it was the adrenaline still coursing through her veins or just knowing that he wanted her, but she was already wet for him, her body tingling and desperate for his touch.
“That depends,” he whispered against her lips, leaning into her. “How do you feel about making love in front of an audience?”
“That’s not my thing either,” she admitted. She had never been an exhibitionist.
A throat cleared. “Then you might want to step away from my brother,” Richart drawled behind them, “so I won’t get an eyeful.”