Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) by Painter, Kristen (best love story novels in english .txt) 📗

like it was connected to a string. Beneath her, he ran with a lethal grace, his muscles moving as oily smooth as a serpent’s.

When he stopped, she had little idea how far they’d gone or in what direction. He hadn’t run for more than a minute, but at that speed, they could be miles away.

He slipped her from his shoulder but kept his body in front of hers as he turned to glance back the way they’d come. Her heart thumped in her chest as she leaned against the building behind her. From what she could see beyond the hulking vampire in front of her, none of the surroundings looked familiar.

She reached for the comfort of her wrist blades. ‘Where are—’

‘Quiet,’ he whispered.

She quelled the urge to punch him in the shoulder. It wouldn’t matter how much or how little noise she made. If that bolt had come from the person she thought it had, there would be small chance of escape. Why hadn’t she told Mal about Creek? Maybe she was stubborn. Determined to do things her way. No time like the present to make things right. She moved to stand beside him. ‘Mal.’

With a stern look, he clamped his hand over her mouth. His cool fingers felt good against her skin, and his scent burrowed into her brain. Neither of which were helping. She turned her head, trying to free herself. His hand didn’t budge. Now who was being stubborn? She did the only thing she could think of that didn’t involve sticking a dagger into him.

She ran the tip of her tongue across the seam of his fingers.

He yanked his hand away like he’d been burned. He glared, then put her behind him again.

‘Listen to me.’ Better to tell him about Creek now than—

‘C’mon out, vampire. There’s no point in hiding or running. Let the comarré go and I won’t kill you.’ The sound of a cross-bow being cocked and loaded echoed from the street, but Creek wasn’t visible. ‘Well, I will kill you, but I’ll make it quick.’

—than to have Mal find out on his own. Which was right now, apparently. She edged out from behind Mal. An unnatural stillness permeated the night. ‘Put your crossbow up,’ she projected toward the street. ‘It’s not what you think.’

A disturbing growl emanated from Mal. His human face was nowhere to be seen. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We have company,’ she answered.

‘I noticed,’ Mal snarled back. ‘Why do you know more about it than I do?’

‘Because … ’ There was no good, short answer. ‘I just do.’

Creek emerged from the darkness to walk toward them, cross-bow aimed at Mal. ‘You’re an ugly cuss, you know that?’ He nodded at her without taking the weapon’s sight off Mal. ‘Walk to me. It’s all right – you’re safe now.’

‘Chrysabelle, stay where you are.’ Mal half stepped in front of her and bared his fangs at Creek. ‘She’s safe right where she is, and she’ll stay that way.’ The faint moonlight revealed he now gripped a jagged-edged black blade in his right hand. She hadn’t even seen him whip it out. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that about you.’

This was going to get ugly. And then uglier. With a gentle shove, she pushed past Mal to stand between the two men, turning her body sideways and raising a hand to each of them. ‘I’m fine. Both of you put your weapons down. No one is killing anyone.’

Neither of them moved except to raise their weapons higher. And Mal thought she was stubborn? ‘Creek, I am with Mal of my own free will. He’s my patron and as such—’

‘What did you say his name was?’ The tip of Creek’s cross-bow dropped a centimeter.

‘Malachi,’ Mal spat as he made determined eye contact with Chrysabelle. Obviously, he didn’t want his real name revealed. She understood, remembering when he’d used that false name with her, but really, Creek wouldn’t know vampire history any more than would a rock on the ground.

‘As I was saying, Malachi is my patron, and as such, you have no right to come between us, but he has every right to fight you should you choose to do so anyway.’ Which she really hoped he didn’t. ‘Leave us be, Creek.’

Mal twirled the knife through his fingers until it was a blur of black. ‘How do you know his name, Chrysabelle?’

Creek answered first. ‘Because we’ve met before, vampire.’

Great. Unsolicited help from the ex-con. She sighed. ‘He’s right. We did.’

‘When?’ Mal moved slightly closer to Creek.

‘The night I saw you at Seven,’ she answered, keeping her gaze on him.

An angry growl came out of Creek. ‘Was he the one who cut your hand?’

She whipped around toward Creek. ‘No.’

Mal responded a second behind her. ‘I would never hurt her.’

Creek came forward a step. ‘And yet I had to save her from getting punctured by a gang of fringe.’

She exhaled and rolled her eyes skyward before shooting Creek a hard glare. ‘Could you let me tell this story?’

‘Is that true?’ Mal asked.

‘Yes,’ Creek answered. ‘Her bleeding hand was drawing them like flies.’

Chrysabelle sighed. ‘I was holding my own.’

Mal reversed his grip on the blade and dropped his arm to his side. ‘Apparently not.’ He looked at Creek. ‘How many did you take out?’

Creek tipped his crossbow up to rest against his shoulder. ‘Five.’

‘Five?’ Mal stared at her. ‘How many were there to begin with?’

‘Okay, enough. I’m glad you two have bonded over my perceived inability to fend for myself, but this’ – she waggled her finger between Mal and Creek – ‘is not why we’re out here.’

Mal took a moment to study Creek. His nostrils flared. ‘Who are you anyway? Your scent’s too sour to be fully human.’

‘Don’t worry about who I am, vampire. Worry about protecting your comarré. If I have to do it again, you’re done with her.’

And just like that, the weapons were back in play.

Mal shook his head, his irises edged in silver. ‘She doesn’t need anyone’s protection. She could take