Mercy Burns (Myth and Magic 2)

He glanced up from the confines of the trunk, the glimmer of amusement evident in his eyes. “At least you have rather small breasts, so they’re not going to be a problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with small breasts,” I said, a little defensively.

“I didn’t say there was.”

“You didn’t say there wasn’t, either.”

He began pulling clothes out of a bag. “Your breasts are perfect, just like the rest of you.”

“It’d be more believable if you didn’t say it in such a sardonic tone,” I said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t believe I meant it no matter what tone I used.”

He had a point. I wouldn’t. I had a good figure, a reasonable face, brown hair, and brown eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make anyone look twice. But in a clique where the shimmering golds and fiery reds of a sunset dominated, being born a boring brown had meant I’d stood out in an altogether unwelcome way.

At least it had taught me to fight.

Damon tossed me a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and the scent of smoke and musky male teased my nostrils. It wasn’t his scent, though.

“They’re a friend’s brother’s,” he said, obviously noting my expression, “He’s smaller than me, so they should fit you.”

I slipped on the gray sweatshirt and wished it smelled more of him than of a stranger—though I guess a stranger’s scent made more sense if dragons did have such keen senses. The sleeves covered my hands and the shoulders slid halfway down my arms, and it was even bulky enough to hide the fact that I had breasts. The jeans had similar problems in length and were a little tight in the butt, but otherwise they fit okay.

I began rolling up the sleeves as he pulled out a small backpack and transferred the netbook and the other bits and pieces from the red handbag to it before handing it to me. He dumped the now-empty handbag into the trunk and slammed down the lid.

“Why are you carrying his clothes around?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t have a chance to return his effects to his parents before I was kidnapped.” He walked around and opened the passenger side door for me.

“So this friend’s brother—he’s the victim you mentioned before?”

“Yes.” His answer was controlled, but I felt the anger in him regardless.

“I’m sorry—”

“So will they be, trust me.” He handed me a multicolored woolen cap. “Tuck your hair up in that.”

Once I’d done it, he brushed my back lightly, guiding me into the car. I was still so attuned to him that I couldn’t help a tremor of delight.

But the casualness of his threat against those men seemed to hang in the air, sending another shiver through my soul. And while half of me questioned the wisdom of hanging around such a man, the other half—undoubtedly the insane part that was so attracted to him—knew he was still my best chance of getting the answers I so desperately needed.

I waited until he climbed into the driver’s seat and had reversed out of the parking bay before asking, “So, did they kill him because he was too close to finding answers?”

“No, he was a victim of one of the cleansings.”

I raised my eyebrows. “He was draman? I thought you didn’t like draman.”

“I never said that,” he replied, his voice holding an edge. “What I said was that draman cause us a lot of problems.”

“Well, your tone certainly didn’t imply affection, so what else am I to think? And you never did bother to explain how we cause you problems.”

The lo

ok he gave me was wintry, to say the least. “Most draman are stronger and faster than ordinary humans, and there are many who seem to delight in using this advantage.”

“History is full of the strong taking advantage of the weak. It’s not just a draman trait.” And I had the scars to prove it.

“True. But it is the draman who seem to most delight in risking exposure to us all.”