Through a Crimson Veil by Patti O'Shea Page B

the government, and freelance work from B-Ops had kept him busy.
    Tensions were high and had been for a while. The Preemptive Defense Initiative against vampires had ended, but the armed truce Crimson City’s inhabitants lived in was tentative. It wouldn’t take much to set off a damn interspecies war.
    As if that weren’t bad enough, word on the street was that the werewolves and vampires had formed an alliance. Conor had no problem believing that. Fangs were snobbish as hell, but they were opportunistic and would realize itwas to their benefit to team up with the dogs. It probably hadn’t been easy to convince the werewolves—not at first—but the packs had no doubt realized if PDI were successful, humans would eliminate their species next.
    Frowning, he reached into one of the kitchen cabinets, pulled out a plastic glass and put it on the table. For a few days, he didn’t have to worry about B-Ops or alliances—he’d just be protecting Mika. A nice, straightforward job.
    He snorted at that thought. It had been maybe fourteen hours since he’d met her, and she’d already turned his life upside down.
    Taking out a carton of orange juice, he filled his cup to the top, then returned it to the fridge before settling in the wooden chair facing the hallway. Something made him freeze—a shift in energy maybe—but as he tried to focus, he heard the bathroom door open and he lost the sense. Had it even been there? He shrugged and raised his glass as Mika made her entrance.
    His hand jerked, causing a wave of juice to slop over his fingers and pool on the wooden surface of the table. Quickly, he put down the cup in order to stare. Mika’s legs looked impossibly long, and he let his eyes trail over every inch of them. By the time his gaze reached the edge of her red, high-cut panties, his jeans had become restrictive. He shifted in his chair seeking relief.
    Her midriff was bare, her skin golden. She was wearing a red tank top that ended above her navel. It clung to her, especially her breasts, and outlined her erect nipples. More blood surged away from Conor’s brain. He wanted his mouth on her, wanted it bad.
    Her dark hair was mussed, her eyes heavy-lidded—probably from sleep, but it made her appear even more sultry. Conor swallowed hard as she started walking toward him. For a moment, he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips. Then he snapped himself out of it.
    “What the hell are you wearing?” His voice was a combinationrasp and growl, but he was relieved he could form a coherent sentence. He slid his chair back from the table far enough to reach the dish towel looped through the oven handle, and wiped the orange juice off his hand.
    “What’s wrong with my pajamas?” she asked. She stopped in front of him and rested her hip lightly against the table. She looked confused, which was bullshit.
    “Pajamas? You’re in underwear. Go put some clothes on.”
    “Everything’s covered,” she agreed. “Besides, women wear less than this at the beach every day.”
    “We’re not at the beach,” he forced himself to say.
    She smiled, and Conor tensed, but although he realized she was up to something, he wasn’t prepared for it. Before he could react, Mika straddled him. It was a bold action except for one thing—she leaned backward, away from him.
    He dropped the towel he held and took her waist, but instead of lifting her off his lap, he drew her tightly against his body until her breasts pressed against his chest. Nothing before in his life had ever felt so good. He managed to stop his groan, but not the shudder. She smiled at his reaction and nipped his chin. He hated that he wasn’t indifferent to it, hated that Mika’s teeth on his skin made him so much hotter, but Conor arched forward anyway.
    Why her? He’d been immune to the few other female demons he’d met, but from the instant he’d sensed Mika, he’d skated on the edge of control. “Stop that,” he said, but she ignored him. Even he could