I ran to the office and took the belt off Dixie’s spare coat, a trench she kept there for emergencies. Hurrying back as though worried he’d change his mind, I stormed through the swinging door to find him still seated. He’d dropped his hands to his sides and gripped the back of the chair.

I walked over, my approach wary, and pulled his thick wrists together behind his back. Threading the canvas belt around them, I tied it as tight as I dared. I wanted his hands to receive a regular supply of blood, but I wanted more to survive the evening. My gaze raked over every inch of him as I worked. His muscles contracted. Ripples of light and shadow swept over his arms. His breathing, slow, methodical, lifted his wide shoulders ever so slightly.

When I was certain he was secure, I walked to the grill, took the timer off the shelf, and set it for fifteen minutes. Then I stepped forward. He looked up at me, his appraisal was filled with a dubious curiosity.

I straddled him and plunged my fingers into his thick hair. It was softer than I thought it would be. Silky. I tightened my hold and tilted his head back.

His breaths started coming quicker as blood rushed through his veins, spurred by anticipation.

I pressed my body into his, tilted my hips, felt his erection through my jeans. His solid form was like nourishment, as though I’d been starving to death and didn’t know it. My energy leapt with need. Just like the fire that rose off him, that need reached out to caress. To stroke. To inflame.

When I spoke, my voice was hoarse. Distant. I was already at the place I’d wanted to be for a long time: on top of the world with Reyes Farrow succumbing to my will. But to do what I was about to do was almost unforgivable, and I doubted someone like the dark entity beneath me was the forgiving sort.

“I have to do this now. Once I’m finished, you’ll never speak to me again.”

“And why wouldn’t I speak to you?”

“Because you are about to be a very angry man.”

“I’m about to be a lot of things, love. Angry is not one of them.” It was not a threat. It was a promise.

But I knew better. He was wrong.

I bent my head to his while I still could, hovered my mouth over his, our lips barely a centimeter apart. Then I kissed him. His mouth was like the rest of his body: blisteringly hot. He opened to me immediately, and I pushed my tongue inside. My hands curled into fists, entangling his hair further, holding on for dear life as his tongue grazed over my teeth.

A warmth coiled inside me. Pooled in my abdomen. Tightened my skin until it felt too small for my body.

After what might be the only action I’ll have for decades, I broke the kiss to examine him. To assess his emotional state. He was so startlingly handsome, I lost precious seconds just staring at him. He stared back. Slightly drunk, he watched me with his jaguar-like intensity, on the verge of pouncing.

He was going to want to pounce even more in a moment, but for a very different reason.

I leaned my head back, took in a sip of cool air, then asked, “Who are you?”

“Whoever you want me to be,” he answered without hesitation.

This was not going to be easy. “No,” I said, inching off him. “What kind of being are you? Because you damned sure aren’t human.”

He stilled, but it didn’t take him long to realize what I was doing. Once he caught on, the fire that danced across his skin grew brighter. Hotter. He lowered his head. Monitored me from beneath his dark lashes as the predator in him took over. I could only pray my knots held.

When he said nothing, I moved on to phase two. I found the biggest knife I could, dared to enter into his circle of reach should he break free, and held it to his throat. He had no way of knowing I’d never really hurt him, but I still had to convince him I gladly would.

I slid the razor-sharp edge under his chin and raised his face to mine. “Who are you?”

Anger glittered bright and hot in his eyes.

“Fine,” I said. “Who am I?”

“You’re wasting precious time, Dutch.” He looked at the timer. “In twelve minutes these restraints are coming off one way or another.”

“You stopped that woman from telling me who I was. Somehow, you’re the smoke. It cascades off you in waves. You’re fire and darkness and dusk.”

“Eleven.”

“And today you heard me. When time froze, you still heard me. You stopped that angel from killing me. Why would an angel, a heavenly being, want me dead?”

“Ten.”

“I can see things others can’t. I know a dozen languages. I can talk to dead people.”

“Dutch,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And you keep calling me Dutch. Is that my name?”

“Nine.”

It wasn’t working. He didn’t buy it. Not for a minute. Either that, or he wasn’t concerned for his own safety. Perhaps he’d be more concerned about mine.

Growing more desperate by the second, I stepped back and held the knife to my own throat.

He fought the restraints, but I’d tied the belt to it so he couldn’t get up. Not without great difficulty.

And suddenly I didn’t care. I almost welcomed the excuse to join the departed. They didn’t have it so bad. Unless I’d been a horrible person in my previous life, I would either go up or stay put. I was good with either. And I was getting answers tonight if it killed me.

“You’ll have two minutes to untie your restraint and get me to a hospital. Last chance.” I pressed the serrated edge into my throat. Flinched when it broke the skin. This was going to suck on all kinds of levels. “Who am I?”

“Eight.”

I closed my eyes, took a slow, steadying breath, tightened my grip, and pulled the knife across my throat.

14

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance…

The five stages of waking up.

—BUMPER STICKER

Before I got even a quarter inch in, I was pinned against the refrigeration unit, my airway cut off by a steely grip. Though not by a human. Smoke surrounded me, and I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel the hand around my neck, the body pressed to mine.

Then the smoke dissipated and Reyes Farrow materialized. He had one hand, the one holding the knife, pinned at my side. His other hand was busy making sure I’d never breathe again.

With his face a mere inch from mine, I could see into the incredible depths of his eyes. Mixed in with the deep bourbon brown were flecks of gold and green. They glittered, and the old saying “All that glitters is not gold” came to mind. Just because something glittered did not mean it was good. And Reyes defined that line between the two.

He bit down. I could see the muscles in his jaw flex as he worked them. But I was mainly having a hard time getting past the smoke thing.

Who could do that? What in this dimension or the next was capable of dematerializing into another state of matter?

With a final shove of frustration, Reyes let me go. I fell to my knees and coughed so hard I almost threw up. I still had the knife. I tightened my grip even though it would clearly do me no good.

He’d turned his back to me, and I took the opportunity to scramble to my feet and bolt. I hit the swinging doors to the hallway and didn’t look back. He could have caught me. Easily. Yet he didn’t. Either he didn’t care what I did, who I would tell about him, or he was afraid he would really hurt me. I was leaning toward the latter.