Demon Forged Read Free Page A

within her, and she imagined rending a demon’s crimson skin when she placed her mouth to the male’s. The flesh behind his zipper swelled as her tongue slid over his, pulling, sucking.
    He reached for her chest and she stepped back. He panted, his eyes glazed.
    She wiped his taste from her lips with the back of her hand, leaving a sneer. “Not good for much, after all.”
    His face reddened. Rage choked him; she’d turned away and walked half a block before he managed to roar “Stronza!” after her.
    She continued on. The insult did not anger her so much now that a plea lay beneath it. A small-minded man, frustrated by such a small thing.
    He would know true frustration as soon as he sought release for his bladder or his arousal.
    Her good mood was restored and her steps were lively as they carried her to the piazza. The evening was cold and clear; on the tundra, this was the kind of night when only the sharp, freezing air separated the earth from the heavens. A night for hunting. All that this moment lacked was the use of her blades. But if a nephilim or demon had felt her Gift, perhaps bloodshed wasn’t far off. She couldn’t detect any nearby, but they could block their minds and hide from her psychic probes.
    She had expected to find Deacon—a vampire’s mind wasn’t as powerful as a Guardian’s, and his shields weaker—but she didn’t sense him, either. Only humans.
    She rounded the stone blocks at the corner of the monument, her gaze sweeping the piazza. It froze near the monument entrance. A tall male stood in front of the iron gate. His dark eyes met hers.
    Olek. Her step didn’t falter. She didn’t betray her surprise with movement or breath, but her heart became a sledgehammer against her ribs. Did it pound with anger, shame, or need?
    It did not matter. With Olek, they were all the same.
    He was Alejandro to every other Guardian, but always Olek to her. Try as she might—and she had tried—she couldn’t think of him as anything else.
    Olek, the silk-tongued swordsman whose idea of honor was to die for nothing.
    Like Irena, he dressed not in modern clothing, but clothing comfortable to him. A black long-sleeved shirt hugged his torso, loose enough to allow movement but leaving little for an enemy to grab. His fitted trousers were tucked into knee-high boots. She knew their soles were as soft as hers—and as sure-footed. Both she and Alejandro would sacrifice a hardened boot and the damage a heel could inflict in order to feel every aspect of the ground beneath their feet.
    Old-fashioned garb, but it hardly drew a second glance from the humans milling near the monument with cameras in hand. There had been centuries when Guardians had been careful to blend; these days, almost anything was acceptable, if unconventional. For all Irena knew, her leather leggings and the ragged cut of her auburn hair might have even been fashionable.
    Alejandro’s haircut was severe. Gone were the overlong, thick curls that he’d worn when she’d met him. Now his dark hair was short, with edges as sharp as his face. It was not a style that invited a touch.
    And she hated her desire to comb her fingers through it. She refused to clench her fists against the urge.
    Alejandro was as controlled as she was. He held his lean body still and his mouth in a firm, immobile line.
    Her gaze rested on the sharp point of his beard. She had seen his facial hair diminish over time, according to human custom, until it was short and tight. The beard no longer extended past his chin; the mustache curved just past the corners of his wide mouth. A devil goatee, her young friend Charlie had once called it.
    The description was more accurate than Charlie knew.
    Irena pushed away the memory of a silken brush against her inner thigh, of heated lips. Pushed away the anger, shame, need.
    “Alejandro,” she said deliberately.
    Dark and unwavering, his gaze lifted from her mouth. He spoke in French, lightly accented with Spanish. “You tread