Edge of Hunger. Rhyannon Byrd

on a small light that shone over the sink, the muted glow too weak to reach the shadowed corners, casting him in a hazy glow of gold.

      Slanting a curious look in her direction, he spoke in a graveled, hesitant rumble. “Why did you scream my name at the end? Did I hurt you?”

      She moved cautiously into the kitchen and collapsed into one of the pine chairs beside a small table, wishing she’d pulled on something heavier. The chill of the air conditioner seeped through her thin shirt, freezing her to the bone, while Ian stood there half-dressed, his body vital and big, covered with a light sheen of sweat, as if impervious to the cold. “No.”

      â€œThen why the scream?” he demanded, taking a long draw off the gleaming cigarette, the details of the room lost beneath the force of his presence. She had the feeling she could have been surrounded by ravenous predators and still have remained oblivious to the danger, her entire focus centered on the hard, beautiful bulk of Ian Buchanan.

      â€œAnswer me.” The harshness of his gritty tone made her flinch. The soft glow of light glinted off the broad width of his shoulders, his skin gleaming like bunched satin, and yet, he was completely untouchable. Like a wild, caged animal. Beautiful, but deadly.

      Molly looked away and drew an unsteady breath. “I didn’t want…”

      â€œWhat?” he snapped, the word lashing with whipcord strength.

      A self-conscious shrug rolled across her shoulders, her eyes still focused on a distant patch of his kitchen floor. “I didn’t want you to…leave me there alone.” The confession slipped from her lips without any direction from her brain, startling and unintended. She wanted to snatch back the telling, vulnerable words, but it was too late. He was already absorbing them, working them over in his mind, that dark blue gaze zeroed in on her with ruthless, uncompromising intensity when she sneaked a quick peek at him from beneath her lashes.

      â€œTell me what you remember.”

      She flushed, keenly aware of the heat suddenly rising up beneath her skin, burning in her cheeks. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, every part of her oversensitized, as if she were experiencing everything too keenly. The coolness of the air. The stuttering speed of her pulse. The press of that beautiful blue gaze, the mesmerizing color probably the envy of every woman he’d ever known.

      â€œMolly!” he snapped again.

      The words jerked from her lips in rapid succession, beyond her control. “We were in a forest. It was night. You were…different.”

      A rough, humorless laugh rumbled up from his throat, and he took another deep pull on the cigarette, his silence making her ramble with the need to fill the uncomfortable space. “We had sex, but you…you didn’t…”

      Her voice faltered, and in a graveled tone, he said, “Come?”

      â€œYes.” She shivered, her body clenching with remembered sensation. It had been unlike anything she’d ever known, being under him, consumed by him.

      â€œBelieve me,” he grimaced, the barest hint of a wry edge to his words, “I know.”

      Her gaze flickered briefly to the immodest bulge in his jeans, and she wanted to ask why—why he hadn’t allowed himself release when inside of her—but couldn’t, suddenly afraid of what he might say. He’d seemed to enjoy what had happened between them, but she knew men were fickle creatures, not to be trusted with emotional issues. His words, if delivered cruelly, could cut her to the quick, and she was already feeling too raw, the defenses she’d spent so many years building suddenly seeming frail and unstable. She didn’t know him well enough to trust him. Hell, she didn’t know him at all.

      And yet, for some inexplicable reason, she felt perfectly safe, alone there with him in the middle of the night, with nothing but the quiet stillness for company. Those storm-dark eyes moved over her face, lingering over her individual features. Then he lowered his head, reaching out toward the ashtray perched on the edge of the kitchen counter. She knew if she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she would have missed it, that bleak shadow of fear that crept over the rugged angles of his profile. He slanted a sharp look in her direction when her breath sucked in on a gasp, and for a single instant, she could have sworn she heard his raspy voice in her head. Heard the unspoken question he was too afraid to ask.

      â€œNo,” she whispered, her body trembling with a low vibration.

      He ground out the cigarette in the stainless steel ashtray and turned toward her, feet braced apart in an aggressive stance, powerful arms crossed over his broad chest. “No what?”

      She rolled her lips together. “You’re not evil.”

      He grunted in response, distracted, and began pacing the width of the room. She watched his bare feet against the faded linoleum, long and dark, but as perfectly proportioned as the rest of him. Her gaze traveled up the length of his body, over the hardness of his thighs, the corrugated stretch of his abdomen, and he raised his arms, shoving his fingers back through the rumpled mass of his hair. She could do nothing but stare at the bulging power of his biceps with wide-eyed fascination. He was so perfectly sculpted, it was as if a master artisan had cut him from marble like David, and the gods had breathed life into him.

      But he was no angel.

      And yet…he wasn’t a devil, either.

      â€œI mean it, Ian. You’re not evil, no matter how… physical your dreams might be.”

      â€œYeah, and how can you be so sure? You don’t know me. Don’t know what I’m capable of. Don’t know what I dream about doing to the women in my bed.” He stopped pacing, turning his head to look at her, eyes sharp and dark, so blue they looked black. “Or maybe you do.”

      She struggled to ignore the surge of lust that poured through her, thick and warm in her veins, but it wasn’t easy. Not with him prowling around, wearing nothing more than those barely buttoned faded Levi’s. She could see the dark silky trail of hair slipping down into the shadowed V of his open fly, and a wave of hunger rolled through her so sharp and sweet and strong that she went light-headed, forced to lean her upper body against the table for support.

      The corner of his mouth twitched—such a slight fraction of movement, she knew she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring so intently.

      Crap. He knew.

      This was bad. She was already in over her head, and getting deeper with every moment she spent up on this damn mountain. But she owed it to Elaina. Dammit, she owed it to herself. She wasn’t going to screw up. Not this time around. She had a chance for redemption, to make a difference, and she was going to grab hold of it, even if it killed her.

      Which seems a likely possibility, her conscience muttered.

      He moved toward her, stalking closer until he stood in front of her knees, his feet braced outside of her own, staring down at her. Leaning forward, he braced his right hand on the table at her side, caging her in. “I can still taste your blood in my mouth,” he rasped, his gaze flicking over her face, lingering on the swell of her lower lip. “This kind of shit isn’t normal.”

      â€œNot for most people, no. But you’re not like others, Ian. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s why I used up my entire savings to buy a plane ticket and come here.”

      â€œI’m a contractor, for God’s sake. Not a fucking vampire.” Impatience cut itself into his features, the shadow of bristle on his cheeks accentuating the hollows of his expression.

      She shook her head, craning her neck as she stared up at him. “I never said you were a vampire.”

      â€œThen why did I…” He jerked his chin toward her throat.

      â€œI