Aisling tugged at the unfamiliar clothing. She felt self-conscious in the expensive blouse and pants, like a field hand dressed up to impersonate a wealthy landowner.

Zurael took her hand in his. All along the street, chauffeured cars stopped to discharge their passengers before driving away.

Aisling’s emotions ran the gamut from anger to sadness as she looked at the beautifully restored Victorians, housing clubs with names like Lust, Greed and Envy. She found it ironic that the powerful and privileged, the people who lived comfortably and without concern for what life was like for anyone outside their class, would gather here for their entertainment.

The Last War had been started by religious zealots, by people determined to cleanse mankind of sin. There were those who believed the plague finally ending the war was god-created and not war-born—apocalypse averted because mankind was forced to concentrate on survival instead of the afterlife.

Aisling knew only that the ghostlands were full of cast-aside gods, and human souls lingered or passed through at the will of something unknowable, that the spiritlands could be a place of heaven or hell.

She shivered and spared a glance at the demon by her side, became acutely conscious of the fiery heat of his palm against hers as they approached the club named for those who might one day find themselves in his domain.

Sinners was in the middle of the block. Despite its name, it was painted in cheerful yellow tones. Its windows were unmarred by bars, though Aisling didn’t doubt some type of elaborate security was in place. Colorful curtains were pulled back. Well-dressed patrons lingered behind the glass and viewed the activity on the street.

Aisling rubbed her palm against her pants as they approached the bouncers on either side of the doorway. They were heavyset men with bulging muscles and hard, emotionless eyes.

“Hand,” the one on the right said.

She offered her hand and felt nothing but callused skin against callused skin.

The bouncer’s eyes narrowed slightly. He dropped her hand and turned his head toward his partner. “Gifted.”

The second bouncer took her hand. “What are you?”

“A shamaness,” Aisling said, feeling afraid and exhilarated at the same time at being able to acknowledge a gift she’d rarely admitted openly before.

“You can go in.” The bouncer’s attention returned to Zurael. Zurael’s hand was already lifting. The contact was brief. “You’re clear.”

Aisling pulled out the bills Elena had given her and paid. The bouncer to the right opened the door.

A party was already in progress inside the house. People gathered in small groups. Most held crystal glasses full of colorful liquid. More than one of the women paused in their conversation to give Zurael a hungry, inviting look while men stripped Aisling with their eyes.

Zurael took her hand again and led her to a bay window. Outside, the night was arriving rapidly.

Nervousness and curiosity warred inside Aisling. Everything around her was so different from anything she’d ever known.

Zurael pulled her back against his front, then settled his muscular arms around her waist. The image of the two of them captured in the window glass filled Aisling with a longing that went beyond the physical.

A man and woman joined them at the window, their predatory expression captured in the glass before they turned and in a perfectly choreographed move lifted their hands, hers toward Zurael’s bare arm, his reaching for Aisling’s.

“No,” Zurael said with such deadly menace both hands dropped immediately.

“Not many people turn us down,” the man said, leaning against the edge of the bay window, the woman next to him in matching red.

“You’re new here,” the woman said. “We can help you get into the swing of things. In fact, there’s nobody better. Everybody follows our lead, especially when it comes to the voting.”

The man met Aisling’s eyes. “Come play with us. Alone, if your companion can’t be persuaded. You’ll enjoy it. I promise.”

“No.”

“Suit yourselves, though I think you’ll find you’ve made a mistake in turning us down.” He pushed off from the window bay, but not before Aisling saw the flash of anger at being rejected. The woman slipped her arm through his and they walked away.

Aisling’s attention lingered on them. She wondered what the woman meant about the others following their lead when it came to the voting, but then her focus shifted to a man scurrying into the red zone from the direction of the bus stop just outside of it.

The people in the room migrated to the front windows. The conversation grew hushed, the atmosphere heavy with anticipatory excitement, like a collective beast getting ready to pounce.

Aisling’s arms settled over Zurael’s. Her fingers slipped through his.

The windows of the Victorians across the street were free of bars, too, and crowded with watchers. One by one the bouncers guarding the entrance to those clubs went inside before the hurrying man reached the sidewalks leading to their doors.

“He’s not going to make it,” someone whispered in the hushed silence of the room.

“He will,” someone else said, a hint of regret in his voice. “Sinners is always the last to close.”

As the man reached the bay window, excitement slid through Aisling. It wasn’t the man who’d sold Ghost to Elena, but the cross on his cheek marked him as one of the regular dealers.

A deflated sigh went through the gathered crowd as the door to Sinners opened and the man darted inside. The bouncers followed.

There was the definitive sound of a lock clicking into place. A low-level hum signaled that some type of electrical current also served to keep the unwanted out.

Slowly the crowd dispersed. Elegantly dressed patrons re-formed into smaller groups. Some wandered up a beautiful wooden staircase. Others slipped into open rooms.

Aisling noticed that none of the interior rooms had doors, and understood the significance of Elena’s comment. Why privacy was hard to find.

The man and woman in red lingered nearby. The Ghost dealer went through a doorway with a small flock of people behind him. Aisling forced herself to leave the comfort of Zurael’s arms and walk across the room.

The dealer stood in an old-fashioned parlor. Furniture from the era, or copies of it, graced the room. There was a fireplace. The blackened and ash-coated tool set on the hearth indicated it wasn’t just for show.

There was no attempt at concealment. Like disciples to a messiah, men and women gathered around the Ghost dealer. They offered silver, gold, jewelry. They received small metal boxes in return.

Aisling shivered at the sight of the containers. The one in Elena’s possession had made her think of an antique pill- or snuffbox. Now she saw small metal coffins.

Three of the buyers hurried from the room. The remaining five settled on the chairs and couches. Aisling braced herself when their fingers reverently stroked the lids of the tiny boxes.

Zurael’s heat warmed her back. She longed for the comfort and security his touch had come to represent, but she didn’t blame him for standing apart until he knew she wouldn’t be dragged into the ghostlands.

Aisling felt the spirit winds as soon as the first lid was opened. Her hand went to the hidden fetish pouch containing the pentacle.

The winds recognized her. They swirled around her but didn’t pull at her spirit.

The Ghost users dug their fingers into the tainted substance. Some of them rubbed it on their bodies, while others licked and sucked it off their skin.

One by one they were taken.

Club patrons drifted into the room like theatergoers waiting for the show to begin. A few checked their watches. The Ghost seller moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

He surveyed the room, perhaps looking for other customers. Aisling tensed when his gaze settled on her. It was there for only an instant, then gone.

She’d expected to feel a jolt of recognition, to feel something of the ghostlands in him. Instead she felt nothing, as if he were only human, a man with no connection to the spirit world.

Aisling turned to look at Zurael. “I’m going over to him.”

Zurael’s eyes burned with an intensity that sent wild heat coursing through her. His hand curled around her forearm, possessive and protective, allowing for no argument. “I’ll go with you.”

She acquiesced. Until dawn arrived, they were all trapped in the house. There was little point in pretending she and Zurael weren’t together.

The five men who were Ghosting started to moan. Like Elena they must have been seeking pleasure in the spiritlands. Zippers gave way. Hardened cocks emerged to be taken in hand. Hips rose as backs arched.

Aisling couldn’t stop the blush from coloring her cheeks. She’d grown up on a farm and witnessed animals mating. She felt no shame in sexual desire or attending to those needs but she’d never imagined men and women, strangers, entertaining themselves like this.

She couldn’t tell whether the Ghost dealer was monitoring those he’d sold to or whether he was merely watching them. His attention shifted to her as she drew near. “Last one,” he said, pulling a container from his pocket.

Even as he said it, the spirit winds shifted and the rhythmic grunting of the men who were Ghosting was silenced. A coldness swept into the room along with a malevolent presence.

Aisling turned away from the dealer to look at the Ghosters. Their fingers were locked around their swollen organs, forgotten. They were all sitting, focused on her though they had the dead, empty eyes of zombies.

She heard a faint whispering, a command spoken on the spirit winds. Dull nothingness gave way to gleeful hatred in the men’s expressions, and the Ghost dealer quickly left the hearth.

Instinctively Aisling grabbed the poker from the fireplace tool set. It wasn’t as good as a hoe or pitchfork, but it would serve as a weapon.

“They mean to attack,” she said.

Zurael was already positioning himself in front of her. The men didn’t bother with their trousers before closing in.

Aisling stepped to the side even as the first one launched himself toward where she’d been. A second man attacked as Zurael tossed the first one across the room. The third and fourth were right behind him, and while Zurael dealt with them, the fifth leapt at Aisling.

She swung the poker and hit his arm, but he kept coming, slamming her against the wall. His fingers locked around her neck.

The thrust of the steel in her hand and her raised knee broke his hold. But her freedom lasted for only a second before he was on her again, his fingers a vise depriving her of air.

Aisling was vaguely aware of the room filling with shouts as the bouncers rushed in. Zurael’s arm went around her assailant’s neck. His hand grabbed her assailant’s chin, and with a sickening crack he snapped the man’s neck before tossing him to the side.

For an instant Aisling flashed back to the black mass and the bodies he’d casually discarded. Her gaze met his, but unlike that night, tonight Zurael’s eyes promised protection instead of retribution.

“Put the poker down,” a bouncer said. He was one of three closing in on them, leading with batons Aisling knew were capable of delivering a shock large enough to render someone unconscious.

She dropped the fireplace tool at her feet. “We were only defending ourselves.”

The bouncer shrugged but didn’t turn away. He and his companions stopped several feet back. They lowered their weapons to their waists. Their bulk continued to trap Zurael and Aisling near the fireplace.

Across the room additional bouncers hovered around the four remaining attackers. Two of the Ghosters were once again lost in pleasure. The other two were on their feet, dead-eyed, though Aisling sensed a different spirit presence hidden in them, beings who’d found a host and planned to remain in possession.

Slowly the room filled with the powerful and privileged. The air grew heavy with anticipatory excitement just as it had right before the club locked its doors. Conversation faded to hushed expectancy, only to give way to a chant. “Vote! Vote! Vote!”

The word traveled through the club with pulsing intensity. It brought more elegantly dressed men and women crowding in.

When it reached a crescendo, the bouncer who’d pronounced Aisling gifted raised his baton. Silence descended.

The bouncer pointed toward one of the men who was Ghosting, his hips jerking as his hand worked his penis. “In or out?”

A feminine laugh answered. The woman dressed in red waved a hand and said, “His act has gotten old and boring. Out!”

Those around her took up the chant. They were only silenced when the bouncer lifted his baton.

The same routine followed for the second Ghosting man, and then for the two who stood like zombies. They were all voted out.

When the bouncer pointed his baton at Zurael, the woman in red licked her lips and undressed him with her eyes. “What do you say? Will you play nice if we vote you in?”

Aisling glanced up and shivered at the sight of Zurael’s liquid gold eyes. They burned with a hatred so deep it was impossible to miss his intent to kill anyone who tried to force his or her will on him.

“I think not,” the man in red said. “Out!”

The chant was taken up immediately. It rolled through the house and filled the air until it was silenced.

When the baton was pointed at Aisling, the man in red said, “Having second thoughts, beautiful?”

“But will she play or will she be as interesting as a stone?” his female companion asked.

A stranger stepped forward. He waved his hand in the direction of the four men who’d used Ghost. “You’ll find it far more entertaining to vote her out with the others. She’s a shamaness.”

“An interesting piece of information, Peter,” the man in red said.

The woman in red smiled, but the flash of her teeth made Aisling think of a vicious dog. The mood of the crowd became more predatory. She said “Out!” and the others joined in.

The bouncers grabbed the two Ghosting men by their arms. People shifted, jostled, parted to form a pathway out of the room. With horrifying clarity Aisling understood what it meant to be voted in or out, as the bouncers dragged the men toward the front door.

Additional bouncers appeared carrying guns. “Out,” one of them said, pointing toward the two spirit-possessed men. The entities from the ghostlands were only too happy to comply.

Pure terror at the prospect of being outside after dark held Aisling frozen in place for an instant. Then she gathered her courage and picked up the discarded poker. She wouldn’t surrender this life without a fight.

Zurael leaned down. His soft chuckle melted some of the icy fear trapped in her chest. He brushed his lips against her cheek. “Tonight I am your weapon.”

A bouncer pointed a gun at them. “You two, out.”

No one tried to take the poker from Aisling as she walked from the parlor to the front door. Heavily padded bouncers wearing helmets had dragged the men still Ghosting out into the middle of the street and were hurrying back to the club, while other bouncers stood on the porch, rifles ready in case of attack.

Aisling’s breath came in fast, shallow pants as she stepped through the door and onto the porch. Despite Zurael’s confidence, his easy assurance he would serve as her weapon, her heart raced so fast she thought it might burst in her chest.

Her hand tightened on the fireplace poker. She forced the terror down. If she was going to survive, she couldn’t afford to act in a blind panic.

People gathered at the windows in the other Victorian houses as well as Sinners. Low-wattage spotlights illuminated the street. The scene made Aisling think of ancient Roman coliseums and the men and women whose fight for their lives served as a spectator sport.

Her skin pricked. She felt the enjoyment of the strangers watching from the safety of the clubs. Beyond that, she sensed a feral hunger radiating from the dark alleyways between the Victorians.

As soon as the heavily padded bouncers stepped back into Sinners, the armed men retreated. The door closed. The lock clicked into place. The low hum warned of additional safeguards.

The street held the waiting silence of prey and predator examining their surroundings carefully before acting. One of the men in the middle of the street stirred and sat up. He looked around with the incomprehension of a sleeper waking in a strange place and wondering if he was still dreaming. When reality crashed down on him, he scrambled to his feet and took off running. The two spirit-possessed men followed him.

None of them got farther than a house-length away before the werewolves emerged from a night-shrouded alleyway.

Zurael fought the urge to take Aisling’s hand and cripple her ability to protect herself. His mind sorted through possibilities even as he cursed the angels who patrolled this world. He could shift into nothingness, but he couldn’t protect Aisling against this threat without a form. He could transport both of them to her house, but the rapid travel would alert the angels to his presence and lead them to him.

Savage snarling drew Zurael’s attention to the man lying in the middle of the street, still lost to the spiritlands. Feral dogs prepared to claim the prize the werewolves ignored.

They circled and gathered around the body. They lunged in to bite. The boldest growled as they gripped arms and legs in their jaws and pulled in a bloody tug-of-war.

Zurael spared a glance at the windows crowed with spectators. The downed man held little interest for them. Most of the crowd watched as the werewolf pack toyed with the men who’d run, providing entertainment in exchange for the easy meal.

He could sense other predators waiting in the dark alleyways between the clubs. For the moment Aisling was safe on the porch, but she wouldn’t remain that way for long.

The wolves couldn’t kill him. Even the angels would probably try to capture him rather than destroy him if they came upon him. But Aisling . . .

Zurael looked at her and felt a fierce pride in her courage. Her face was strained. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the poker, but she wasn’t cowering in fear, though he could smell it on her.

The werewolves tired of playing with their food. The night filled with the sound of screaming.

Zurael glanced up to witness the sick pleasure on the faces of the men and women safe inside the clubs, and decided on a course of action. He grabbed Aisling’s hand and led her from the porch. When they reached the pitch-black alleyway, he pulled her into the concealing darkness and stopped. “Trust me,” he said, taking the poker from her hand and tossing it aside.

He could feel werewolves closing in on them. “Climb on my back.”

Aisling didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around Zurael’s neck and her legs around his waist.

In the street behind her there was a sudden silence followed by the growling, snarling sounds of a feeding frenzy. In front of her she could hear the rustle of predators.

She gasped when Zurael’s wings emerged and slid along her sides in a sensual caress. In her mind’s eye she saw him as he’d been when she summoned him, black-taloned and black-winged, demonic.

From somewhere in the darkness a beast launched itself at them. The hot spray of blood struck Aisling’s face and arms even as something gurgled and fell away.

She tightened her grip on Zurael. His wings were stretched out. She had only a second to wonder how he would defend an attack from behind, before she felt the swing of a powerful tail inches below her buttocks and heard the crack of bones being broken. Another attack followed, and this time the blood struck her back and soaked into her shirt. She closed her eyes and pressed her face to Zurael’s neck.

Zurael felt no satisfaction in killing the werewolves. He was coated in their blood, but rather than draw more of them to him, it began to act as a repellent. They started howling, announcing the presence of a demon.

His lips curled in a fierce smile. Long ago, in an effort to make the Djinn bow down before the creatures of mud, the alien god created a single demon by cursing The Prince into a hideous image. In the millennia since then, the humans had followed the example of their god. They’d conjured up thousands of nightmare creatures, named them demon, and along with their wars and false prophets had given the Djinn a way to disappear from human memory.

Zurael clung to the darkness as he carried Aisling away from Sinners. Behind and in front of him natural and supernatural predators alike scurried out of his way.

As the adrenaline faded and he no longer feared an attack, he found it impossible to ignore the warm press of Aisling against his back. He was aroused, beyond aroused. Part of it was genetic instinct, the need to mate and ensure another generation after being in the presence of violence and death. The larger part of it was his fascination with her.

He stopped a block away from her house. The moon was higher, the darkness less complete. He assessed the area for danger and found none. With a thought the wings, talons, and barbed tail faded.

Aisling slid from his back without him saying anything. His body tightened in protest. He turned and took in the sight of her. She was pale, blood-covered, her eyes shadowed with emotions he couldn’t read.

He took her hand and they hurried the remaining distance to her house. When they were safely inside, he followed her into the bathroom. Bloody clothes hit the floor an instant before she wrenched the shower curtain open.

In those first few minutes, as red water swirled around their feet before disappearing down the drain, Zurael wasn’t sure she was aware of him. But when the water finally cleared, she looked up and met his eyes. Heated need flashed between them.

The reasons he’d stepped away from her earlier flickered through his mind briefly and then were gone. His breath caught in his throat when she lathered her hands and touched his chest.

His cock bobbed against his abdomen. Stretched upward as if it wanted to reach her fingers.

“You saved my life,” she said, stroking across his nipples, then down his sides, driving the hunger higher with her caress.

He placed his hand on her neck and wanted to kill her assailant all over again for the bruises left on her throat. Her pulse thundered against his palm. Her eyes darkened with desire as he followed the delicate line of her neck to her shoulder. She licked her lips when his other hand settled on her hip, mimicking the slow slick glide of her fingers on his sides.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

He knew she was right. He knew it didn’t matter.

Her nipples were hard, tight points begging for his attention. She closed her eyes and arched her back when his fingers traced her collarbone, then slid down to circle a pale pink areola. He leaned in and captured its twin with his mouth.

Lust spiked through him as her belly rubbed against his cock. His hand moved from her hip to her lower back. Now that he was touching her he couldn’t stop.

Her sweet moans turned the shower into a sultry paradise. Her aroused scent made his penis weep and throb.

Zurael wanted to bathe in her. To plunge into her wet, hot depths. He wanted to thrust in and out of her until she screamed his name and summoned the lava-hot release of his seed.

He burned for her with the primal fire of the Djinn. It snaked through his veins in a roar that couldn’t be denied.

Zurael forced himself away from her breast and turned off the water. There would be other times for taking her in the shower. This first time he wanted her underneath him.

Aisling stepped from the shower stall. She toweled herself dry, though she could barely take her eyes off Zurael’s glistening body.

He was hard muscle and easy strength, masculine promise and otherworldly sensuality. There were those who would burn her at the stake if they found out she’d lain with him. She didn’t care.

She burned with the need to feel him against her, inside her. Longed to lose herself completely in the passion he promised.

Later she would remember what happened at Sinners. Later the guilt would assault her. For now she wanted her only reality to be what she shared with him.

She squeezed the water from her braid as best she could, then passed the towel to him. Watched as he rubbed it over his slick skin.

His cock pulsed when her gaze lingered on it. His testicles were smooth globes, like a stallion’s.

Aisling shivered as she imagined him covering her like a stallion mounts a mare. She turned her head slightly, flushed and aroused, already wet and parted for him—a willing participant in a seduction that might leave her damned.

When his hand took hers, she entwined her fingers with his. Anticipation and need built with each step toward the bed.

He paused next to it and pulled her tight against him. She kissed his throat as her hands roamed over his back and buttocks.

When she would have lifted her face and sought his lips, he eased her backward, onto the blanket. “Zurael,” she whispered, arching as his mouth found her breast again and he began suckling.

It felt as though his lips reached between her thighs and pulled wave after wave of pleasure from deep inside her womb. Her clit stood at attention. It throbbed to the rhythm of his mouth sucking her nipple.

His hands reached under her buttocks, urged her to spread her thighs so the slick folds of her labia and her erect clit were pressed against his heated belly. Aisling moaned. Her channel clenched and released. Her hands went to his hair.

She whimpered in frustration. His hair was wet and tightly braided, just as hers was.

He kissed lower. He teased her belly button with his tongue, stabbed in and out in the same way she wanted him to do to her mouth.

Lust made Zurael nearly mindless. The siren song of his name on Aisling’s lips made him want to press his mouth to hers and share his soul. He was saved from temptation by the heady musk of her arousal, by the lure of her petal-soft lower lips and the feminine mystery of her cunt.

She was ready for him. Her folds were slick and swollen, open, like a night-blooming flower. He could no more turn away from the sweet nectar of her than he could turn away from water in the desert.

He pressed his mouth to her soft skin and reveled in the way she arched and cried his name. He swiped his tongue along her slit and found the taste of her more intoxicating than any wine.

Aisling was lost in sensation, in the hot press and retreat of his tongue. His name was a litany she repeated over and over again.

Her hands went to her breasts, cupping, rubbing, tweaking the hardened nipples as he laved and kissed her lower lips, as he thrust into her with his tongue. She cried out when his mouth found her clit and he began sucking. Her hips jerked to the rhythm he set.

She was helpless against him, helpless against what he made her feel. “Please,” she said, panting, barely able to breathe under his onslaught.

He tightened his grip on her buttocks as if he were afraid she’d try to escape. His tongue joined his lips in tormenting her swollen clit. It swirled over the exposed head, stroked the sensitive underside until she was desperately fucking the tiny organ through his lips.

Aisling’s hands left her breasts and grabbed the bedding as erotic sensation rolled through her. The sounds of his pleasure fed her own. The image of him between her thighs was burned forever in her memory.

His tongue was a flame licking over her, filling her, turning her blood into molten lava until finally her cunt clenched and spasmed in a release that left her crying, as if only tears could extinguish the fire inside her.

But even the wetness of her tears wasn’t enough. She still ached. She still needed. She still wanted to feel his body against hers, in hers.

Zurael was desperate to couple with her, desperate beyond anything he’d known in centuries of existence. He wanted to lie on top of Aisling and press his mouth to hers. He wanted to share her taste in a deeply carnal kiss. He wanted to feel the slide of her tongue against his and swallow her whimpers as his cock pressed deep inside her channel.

Dangerous, she was so dangerous to him. If he wasn’t careful, she’d possess his soul and command him, even without binding him with the incantation the god had given to his mud creatures.

He lifted his mouth from her lush, wet cunt but didn’t give Aisling time to tempt him into crawling up her body.

Zurael positioned her on her hands and knees. He reveled in the way she went willingly, in the way she spread her thighs and pressed backward, enticing him to penetrate her.

Primitive pleasure surged through him at the sight of her readiness. His cock pulsed and leaked. His balls tightened in warning.

It was a torturous exercise in control to keep from impaling her with one hard thrust. He moaned as he pressed the tip of his penis against her heated opening. He panted and struggled to go slowly.

She was so tight, so hot. The walls of her sheath clung to him, measured him, fought him even as they called for him to go deeper.

“Aisling,” he said, unable to stop himself from leaning over and kissing the delicate line of her spine.

She answered him by thrusting backward, by taking more of his cock and whispering his name. His hips bucked once, twice. It was enough to drive him all the way in, so close to her womb that his seed boiled with the need to escape and flow into her.

Zurael closed his eyes as her internal muscles rippled over his shaft in nearly unbearable ecstasy. His chest heaved with the effort it required to stay still. He wanted to linger in the first moment of being fully inside her. He wanted to capture it and hold on to it forever.

She was exquisite, innocent sensuality and a frailty that hid her strength. She was sweet temptation and deadly fascination.

Except for those moments in the ghostlands when he’d been a shadow in her mind, she was an enigma to him, an unexpected contradiction to long-held beliefs. He shouldn’t want her but he did.

“Please,” she said, moving, drowning his penis in slick arousal, searing him with a heat to rival the molten world that gave birth to the Djinn—flooding him with potent lust and an inescapable need to thrust.

Zurael’s hand slid from her hip to the downy nest of pubic hair. His fingers found her clit.

Her hips jerked with the contact. Her cry matched his as her sheath tightened on him.

“Please,” she said again, and this time he couldn’t resist her plea. He couldn’t fight the desire that ensnared them both.

He pulled his cock almost completely out of her slit and felt a savage pleasure when she cried at its loss, then welcomed it back with a shudder. In and out he thrust, slowly at first, then faster, harder. His reality became the hot, wet fist of her channel. His reason for existence narrowed to pleasing her, to making her scream as orgasm slammed through her, to filling her with his seed in an uncontrollable wash of lust.

When she cried out and her sheath tightened on him, Zurael followed her over the edge. He poured into her, died a little death because of her, and would willingly do it all over again.

Aisling felt sated, protected. Soft waves of pleasure rippled through her. Her cunt continued to spasm and grip Zurael’s still-embedded cock as if it couldn’t bear the emptiness that would come with releasing him.

Her heart warned against getting used to the feel of his strong arms around her and his warm chest at her back. He was temporary—in her life for reasons of his own or because he’d been maneuvered into guarding her. At the moment she was too grateful for his presence, too needy to question it.

The thoughts and memories she’d hoped to keep at bay crowded in. The guilt followed. “Those men died because I was there.”

Zurael’s arms tightened. He shifted position so his cheek touched hers. “They brought death on themselves.”

Aisling shivered when his soft lips found the shell of her ear. His warm breath made her nipples bead. The arm resting under her bent and his palm covered her breast. She whimpered when his other hand stroked her belly before its fingers combed through her pubic down and found her clit.

“You were the only human in the club worth saving,” he whispered.

His hips rocked in a gentle motion, timed to the subtle circle of his palm against her nipple, to the light press and rub of his fingers over her swollen clit, to the decadent hot swirl of his tongue in her ear.

Aisling closed her eyes. She let him chase away her guilt.

She met his thrusts and loved the feel of his hardness filling her, reaching deep inside her. He anchored her in a world where the only thing that mattered was the pleasure they shared, the panting murmured sounds as they climbed, the sharp cries as they found release.

Zurael kissed Aisling’s shoulder as she drifted off to sleep. Tenderness filled him, a deep possessive satisfaction he’d never known before. It lasted until his cheek touched the leather string and his thoughts shifted to the pouch containing the bloodred fetishes and inscribed pentacle.

A cold knot formed in his chest and grew larger when Aisling’s pet climbed onto the bed, its golden eyes boring into his. He worried over how he was going to keep her safe, not only from human and spirit enemies, but from the Djinn.