“Why are you smiling?” A whisky voice to go with her whisky mouth. Like liquor, it went straight to his head.
“Because I am happy.” Wholly, incandescently. He kissed her again, lingering. “Because you cannot resist this small luxury.” He touched the cool silk. “You crave it.”
Her wide eyes crinkled at the corners. “Just as you do.”
Yes. Because they were more alike than either of them had known. And she cared. She’d come for him on that dark day, not out of guilt or duty but because she cared. Oftentimes he’d been tempted to ask what her motives had been, but base cowardliness had stayed his tongue. Now he knew. It felled him, made him want things he had no business wanting.
He burrowed against her neck, inhaling her fragrance. “This spot,” he whispered against her skin. “I’ve dreamed of this spot. Of kissing it”—he kissed her there, and she shuddered—“of licking it”—his tongue slid over silken skin—“sucking…” His breath came on hard and fast, his grip upon her growing tighter.
Mary moaned, arching against him. He shivered, laving that heated spot. “God, I want to bite you here, Chase.”
Her gentle laugh vibrated against his mouth. “Do you know, Jack Talent, I think I’ve wanted you to bite me there for some time.” Her voice lowered to utter softness. “I think I’ve always wanted it.”
Then she touched him, a small caress of his jaw as if he meant something to her, as if she could protect him with that simple hold. Jack lifted his head. Her eyes gleamed gold and bronze. Wide open.
His throat closed up, heat prickling behind his lids. A sharp blade of emotion scraped over his skin, down into his heart where it pierced deep. At that moment she owned him. She altered him, from blood to vein, to bone and sinew and flesh, reshaping what once had been into something new—hers. He was hers now. Irrevocably.
It did not terrify him as he’d long thought it would. It made him feel strong, larger and more infinite. He had a purpose now. And he had a home. Her. Always. Her.
He kissed her. Frantic. Deep. She knew the core of him, past all his blundering and foolishness. So bloody well. The feeling crescendoed. A perfect moment of clarity and peace. And then it crashed down around him, so painful and raw that he squeezed his eyes shut. Because she might own him, but he would never own her.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled back. His body protested, his arms moving too slowly, and his heart trying to pound free. “I can’t.” Just saying it cut into his throat. So he said it again. “I cannot do this to you.”
At first Mary thought she’d misheard Jack. She was almost certain of it. Save he rolled away from her and sat up, bending his knees and putting his head in his hands.
“I am the one, Mary.”
Instantly she went cold, her chest seizing. “You… you’re killing the shifters?”
He wrenched around to look at her over his shoulder, his brows drawn. “What?” Confusion melted, but he appeared more pained, his eyes red beneath those scowling brows. “No. Not… Hell.”
Jack stood and turned. She could only gape at his tall form looming over her. Strong. And glorious. He destroyed her concentration.
As if realizing this as well, Jack muttered a curse and stepped away, his movements graceful and lithe. He was beautiful. And he was distressed, all those lovely, dense muscles along his fine frame twitching as he moved.
Turning back to her, he stopped, his expression broken and helpless. He made a furtive gesture toward her but halted.
“Jack.” She caught hold of her skirts and stood as well. “Tell me what pains you.”
His chest lifted on a sigh. And then he turned to stone before her. Cold, distant Jack Talent was back. That more than anything else terrified her.
“Mary. The night you died. I was there.”
“What? No.” No, he wasn’t one of the men who had hurt her. She remembered each leering face. They’d been older. Good God, had he shifted into another identity? He couldn’t possibly have. She’d killed them all. She struggled to breathe.
“I killed you, Mary.” His voice was deadwood. “I was driving the gin wagon.”
Her scattered thoughts stopped. Jack’s haunted eyes stared back at her. “Me, Will, and another named Nicky. We’d stolen the wagon from a London gang. We… we worked for the Nex, Mary.”
She flinched. He’d worked for the Nex.
His mouth flattened. “I was driving the wagon, urging the horses faster. You ran out of nowhere.”
Before her lay the gaping maw of the alleyway. Her feet slapped over the cobbles, wet and cold, as she raced for it, for safety. She’d lost a shoe. Cold air hit her skin. Lamplight blinded her. The clatter of horses. She bobbled, her ankle twisting. And then the wagon racing down the lane.