Ink Exchange

Chapter 12

Several songs later, Leslie was thankful for the long hours of waitressing. Her legs ached, but not as much as they would have if she'd been out of shape. She'd never met anyone who could dance the way Niall did. He led her through moves that made her laugh and taught her strange steps that required more concentration that she thought casual dancing could ever need.

Through it all, he was curiously careful with her. His hands never strayed out of the safe zones. Like at the museum, he was almost distant as he held her. If not for a few flirtatious remarks, she'd suspect she'd imagined that delicious look when he'd invited her to dance.

Niall finally paused. "I need to check in with Seth before I" — he burrowed his face into the side of her neck, his breath almost painfully warm on her throat—"give in to my unconscionable desire to put my hands on you properly."

"I don't want to stop dancing. …" She was having fun, feeling free, and didn't want to risk that pleasure ending.

"So don't." Niall nodded to one of the dreadlocked guys who'd been dancing nearby. "They would dance with you until I return."

Leslie held out her hand and the dreadlocked guy pulled her into his arms and spun her across the room. She was laughing.

The first guy passed her to another dreadlocked guy, who spun her toward the next. Each of them looked identical to the last one. There were no pauses in their movements. It was as if the world had begun spinning at a different rate. It was fabulous. At least two songs passed, and Leslie wondered how many guys there were—or if she was dancing with the same two over and over. She wasn't sure if they really were identical or if the illusion was a result of being spun so impossibly fast. But then she stumbled to a halt. The music hadn't ended, but the dizzying movement had.

The dreadlocked guys stopped moving and she realized there were five of them.

A stranger walked across the floor toward her, moving with languid grace like he heard a different song than she did. His eyes were surrounded by dark shadows. He looked like he was surrounded by shadows, as if the blue lights glanced away without touching him. A silver chain glinted against his shirt. Dangling from the chain was a razor blade. He waved a hand dismissively at the dreadlocked guys and said, “Shoo.”

She blinked when she realized she was staring. "I know you. You were at Rabbit's once. … We met."

Her hand drifted to the top of her spine, where her not-yet-complete tattoo was. It suddenly throbbed like a drumbeat caught under her skin.

He smiled at her as if he could hear that illusory beat.

Two of the dreadlocked quints had bared their teeth. The others were growling.

Growling?

She looked at them and then back at him. "Irial, right? That's your name. From Rabbit's …"

He stepped behind her, slid his hands around her waist, and pulled her back to his chest. She didn't know why she was dancing with him, why she was still dancing at all. She wanted to walk off the dance floor, find Niall, find Seth, leave, but she couldn't walk away from the music.

Or him.

Her mind flashed odd images—sharks swimming toward her, cars careening out of control in her path, fangs sinking into her skin, shadowy wings curling around her in a caress. Somewhere in her mind she knew she needed to step away from him, but she didn't, couldn't. She'd felt the same way when she'd first seen him: like she'd follow him wherever he wanted. It wasn't a feeling she liked.

Irial spun her against his chest, holding her firmly to him as he matched his movements to hers. She didn't want to like it, but she did. For the first time in months, the humming fear that was always just under the surface quieted completely, as if it had never been there. The stillness was enough to make her want to stay next to Irial. It felt good—natural, as if the rush of ugliness she was constantly fighting not to feel had drifted away when he took her into his arms. His hands were on her skin, under the edge of her shirt. She didn't know him, but she couldn't find any words to make him stop. Or start.

Laughing softly, he slid his hands over her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight on her skin. "My lovely Shadow Girl. Almost mine …"

"I'm not sure who you think I am, but I'm not her." She pulled back with a ridiculous amount of effort. She felt like a cornered animal. She shoved at him. "And I'm not yours."

"You are" — he put his hand over hers, capturing it as she pushed angrily at him—"and I'll look after you well."

The room felt like it was shifting, tilting, and she wanted to run. She shook her head with effort, and she said, "No. I'm not. Let go."

Then Niall was beside them, saying, "Stop."

Irial pressed his lips to Leslie's in a lingering open-mouth kiss.

She didn't like him, but she wouldn't have pulled away for anything. Her anger shifted into something territorial. The dual desire to resist being claimed as property and to claim him as hers surged through her. Irial stepped back, staring at her as if they were the only two people there. "Soon, Leslie."

She stared at him, not sure if she wanted to shove him again or pull him closer. This isn't me. I'm not… what? She didn't have words for it.

Niall was watching, and standing behind him were all of the dreadlocked guys and a larger group of people she'd not noticed earlier. Where had they all come from? The club had seemed mostly empty before; now it was filled. And no one looked friendly.

Niall tried to move her behind him, murmuring, "Come away from him."

But Irial slid his hands around Leslie's waist. His thumbs slipped under the edge of her shirt to stroke her skin. Her eyes blurred at the pleasure of that casual touch—not anger, not fear, just want.

Irial was asking Niall, "You didn't think she was yours, did you? Just like old times. You find them, and I take them."

Leslie blinked, trying to focus, trying to remember what she should be doing. She should be afraid. She should be angry … or something. She shouldn't be watching Irial's mouth. She stumbled as she tried to back away from him.

Niall bristled. Leslie could swear his eyes actually flashed. He stepped closer to Irial, hand clenched like he'd strike him. He didn't. He just ground out, "Stay away from her. You're—"

"Mind your place, boy. You have no authority over me or mine. You made your feelings on that quite clear." Irial pulled Leslie closer until she was right back where she'd been when they danced, in his arms and frighteningly unable—unwilling—to move.

Her face was flame red, but she couldn't move for several heartbeats.

"No," she said, forcing the word out. "Let go."

Then Niall stepped forward. "Leave her alone."

His eyes did flash.

"She's a friend of our court, of Aislinn's, of mine." Niall moved as close as he could to Irial without touching him.

Court?

"My girl claimed by your family?" Irial pulled her up so they were face-to-face and gazed at her as if there were secrets written on her skin. "She's not been claimed by yours."

Claimed? Leslie looked at him, at Niall, at the strangers around her. This is not my world.

"Let go of me," she said. Her voice wasn't strong, but it was there.

And he did. He let go of her and stepped away so suddenly, she had to grab his arm to keep from falling to the floor. She was mortified.

"Get her out of here," Niall said. From somewhere in the crowd behind him, Seth stepped forward. He reached out for her hand, an uncharacteristically friendly move for him, and pulled her away from Irial.

"Soon, love," Irial said again as he bowed from the waist.

Leslie shivered. If her legs had been working, she would've run from the club. Instead the best she could do was stumble alongside Seth.