I nodded. I understood. Killing Ro would have soldered shut a weeping wound inside me, but as a teen I’d stayed my hand for one reason alone: the other sidhe-seers would have ostracized me, and I’d wanted to be with them. When you’re young, people don’t believe you can think straight and have good reasons for things. Mac could have gotten away with killing her because an adult’s word carries weight. Mine didn’t. I wouldn’t have felt one ounce of regret. I would have felt that a rabid dog had been put down and that was what you had to do with rabid dogs. I wouldn’t have tortured or drawn it out. I never do. And yes, it would have made my anger go away. Especially after I’d learned the extent of her involvement with my mother. I would have felt that justice had been served.

“I wanted to kill Rowena more than you know,” he said. “But I wanted you to do it more.”

I inclined my head in a wordless thank-you.

“Get Dancer,” he said. “I’ll take you through and help you free Shazam. But then the three of you will leave that world for a new one and never look back. Seize life, Dani. For fuck’s sake, I saw your mother’s plaque.”

“Right, and who’s the snoop now?” I said with a strained, wry smile, but sobered instantly. “Mac told me a few weeks ago that you’re bound to this planet, reborn here, so if the planet is destroyed, you’ll die, too.” Although she’d said she wasn’t certain if the Nine would die instantly or continue living until they were killed, then not be able to be reborn. Regardless, it would be the end of their immortality: instantly or within a normal life span.

“Mac’s talking too much.”

“The world’s ending. Get over it.” I reached up and touched his hair, traced the planes of his hard, chiseled face. I was touching Ryodan. And he was just standing there, letting me do it, looking as surprised as I felt. This touching stuff was addictive now that I’d begun doing it. It freaked me out. I didn’t know the rules. Part of me wanted to hug everyone and see how they all felt. Part of me never wanted to hug again. I resented the intensity of all the emotions I was feeling. Things had been so clear as Jada. Nothing was clear anymore. Except that Ryodan was strong and electrifying and so bloody alive. And in a week, give or take a few days, whether I went through to Shazam or went where a superhero should go—to lead the colonists on another world, relinquishing my personal desires because that’s what superheroes did and you never saw a happy superhero—he might be dead. I’d never get to see him again. I’d lose my archnemesis and my mentor and the man that felt so much joy you could almost catch in your hands when he laughed. I didn’t want him dead. I wanted him to be immortal and always out there, with something to tell me, doing something to challenge me. I wanted to know he was alive somewhere, always.

I didn’t think before I did it.

I stretched to my full height and kissed him. Like I kissed Dancer. Soft, sensual butterfly wings against his lips. Unlike the last kiss I gave Ryodan, this wasn’t one to provoke or challenge or say “Fuck you—can’t touch this.” It was a kiss that said simply, “I see you and admire you and want you to live.”

He froze, and just when I was realizing what an idiotic thing I’d done and began to pull away, the temperature in the office ratcheted up fifty degrees like the air was on fire, and I was on fire and so was he, and he was kissing me back in a way I didn’t know a kiss could be.

It was so different than kissing Dancer. Dancer’s kiss was sweet and dreamy and exciting. Ryodan’s kiss had razor edges, sharp and dangerous as the man. Being in Dancer’s arms was like living on the edible planet. Being in Ryodan’s was like stepping into the eye of a cyclone. Dancer was easy laughter and a normal future (sans abrupt death). Ryodan was endless challenge and a future that was impossible to imagine.

Dancer accepted me any way I wanted to be without question. Ryodan made me question myself and pushed me to be the most I could be.

Then my hair was loose and his hands were buried in it, and he was kissing me so deeply his fangs grazed my teeth and I tasted blood. I was acutely aware of every inch of my body that was touching every inch of his: his forearm grazing the side of my neck, his hands cradling my skull, his mouth so soft yet hard, his powerful chest against the only part of me that wasn’t muscle, one of his thighs slipping between my legs, making my knees tremble and nearly buckle.

He kissed like he did everything, with exquisite skill, passion, and one hundred percent focus. Here was where Ryodan shed his aloof businessman attire, his cool facade, and came to life with the heat and intensity of a thousand suns. And I realized that was what had so entranced me on Level 4—I’d seen him drop all his guards and fuck like a man on fire, with nothing held back. Open, unguarded, just like he’d been when we’d talked.

Ryodan, controlled, is formidably fascinating.

Ryodan, open, is indescribably addictive.

He kissed me like I was the empire he was sworn to protect and would die a thousand deaths to keep secure. He kissed me like I was a woman with a deep dark wildness that needed to be fed and he knew just how to do it. He kissed me like he was dying and this was the last kiss he would ever taste. Then his kiss changed and his tongue was velvet and silk as he kissed me like I was fine bone china that needed exacting care and gentleness. Then the storm built in both of us and I ground myself against him, and he was searching with his kiss and his hands sliding down to my ass for the part of me that was a savage animal and so was he and we were going to forget the world and become two primal, uncomplicated beasts fucking as if the universe depended on our passion to fuel it. And I was pretty sure we could. I felt something building in me, a hunger that was exhilarated to be alive and knew it could come out and play as hard as it wanted, because I could never break this man. Not even with all my superpowers. I could dump every bit of myself on him and never have to worry about giving him a heart attack or breaking a bone or giving him a black eye by accident. He could handle anything. My high temper, my need for adventure and stimulation, my intellect, rages, and rants, my sheer physical strength, even the darkness of my shadow-self. He was a broad-shouldered beast. He was hard and capable and permanent and had an immortal heart. A frenzy of lust exploded inside me and I met the savagery of his kiss with all the savagery in my soul, and there is one fuck of a lot of it. With a distant part of my brain, I thought about Dancer and wondered if he could handle perhaps a small portion of this part of me and if maybe I was holding back not just because I was afraid to be so damned fucking vulnerable but also because I was afraid I might hurt him and—