Chapter 7
The battle ended in a draw several minutes later, after Hugh proved unable to break Kip’s headlock but somehow managed to land a vicious backward kick to his opponent’s—apparently very large, apparently very sensitive—testicles.
It was a surprisingly ungentlemanly move, but it worked.
With a choked whimper, Kip collapsed on the brown grass, curling up like an oversized shrimp and protectively clutching his balls. Hugh celebrated his triumph with a wordless shout, neck tendons taut, fists clenched as his sweat-dampened chest heaved with each harsh breath.
If she didn’t know better, Gwen might even have called the emotion in his roar sincere.
Then he stalked in her direction, all bruises and blood and salty skin. Frozen in bewilderment, she simply stared up at him as he approached. And when he reached down and swept her to her feet with surprising strength, she didn’t resist. Wasn’t even tempted to.
After Kip’s doubled-over surrender, Hugh’s sulfurous stench had faded into a strong but pleasant smoky smell. Gwen’s gasp dragged the scent deep into her lungs as he firmly hauled her against his slim, battered body.
The heat of that body in the battle’s immediate aftermath verged on uncomfortable. Or at least it would have if she weren’t so freaking cold. Under the circumstances, though, she only pressed closer, because he felt astoundingly good wrapped around her—and not just because of his welcome warmth.
One long hand flattened on her lower back, and she instinctively arched to press against it as an electric jolt traveled up her spine.
His other hand carefully gripped her nape under her rumpled braid.
He bent low, as if poised to drag his open mouth up her neck, and spoke a single word—a single question—into her ear.
His voice was a hoarse thread of sound. “Yes?”
Was he asking permission to keep hugging her? To kiss her? To consummate their fictional love in front of assorted onlookers?
If she liked, she could tell herself that her response was prompted solely by the need for a persuasive performance in front of skeptical critics. But she’d forgotten councilors and troops and trolls. If asked, couldn’t have recalled her age or recited her address.
His name, though—that was emblazoned on her every thought. And whatever he wanted from her right now, her answer was the same.
“Hugh.” Instinctively, her fingers buried themselves in his thick, soft hair and curled tight, trapping him close. “Yes.”
With the lightest possible tug on her braid, he tipped her head back.
Then he kissed her.
He tasted like salted caramel on the verge of scorching. All sweetness and saline, with a hint of that telltale smoke. His lips glided and clung softly, beguilingly, to her own, and she willingly opened them for more.
When his tongue slid along her lower lip, an electric bolt of heat detonated between her legs. His mouth captured her small, raw sound of pleasure, drinking it down as he glided his splayed hand slowly up her back and patiently, meticulously destroyed her.
A throat cleared. Very loudly and much too close.
Gwen startled, but Hugh didn’t end the embrace right away. Instead, he rubbed her back soothingly, even as his kiss gentled to a sweet, chaste press of lips. When he finally lifted his head, he looked only at her. Not at his SERC colleagues, who hovered impatiently nearby.
Okay? he mouthed, and she nodded. But if she counted the sorry state of her common sense, that was a damn lie.
She’d cast aside all her foolish dreams at eighteen years old, so she should have no trouble acknowledging the truth: He didn’t want her. He was pretending. Again.
But gods and goddesses above, that kiss had felt real. As real as anything she’d ever experienced. And this wasn’t the best time to indulge silly fantasies, but here she was. Indulging.
When he helped her back down onto the quilt, she accepted his assistance and thanked him for it. Agreed when he urged her to sit and rest while he dealt with the other councilors. Offered to treat his many wounds and accepted his polite refusal in an equally polite fashion.
Then, once he’d turned to address his colleagues, she licked her swollen lips to taste him one more time. Because evidently one foolish, furtive dream had survived the past twenty years, despite her best efforts.
His name was Hugh Blacke. He was now her fake demon boyfriend, and she was far too likely to fall for him when she really, really shouldn’t.
In short, she was screwed. Not in the fun way either.
—
Idle for the moment, Gwen sat on her quilt and shamelessly eavesdropped.
Frankly, there was a lot happening. At the order of their commander—Blair Herka, the military officer with the graying bob who was, in fact, a general—troops had begun to reemerge from inside Wall One, where they evidently hadn’t located any zombies or damning evidence.
They were now fanning out to widen the search and help any Zone residents in need.
Kip was icing his abused testicles with the frozen packs he’d been using to keep his gelato cool.
Eleni Wongel, a vampire councilor who’d eagerly volunteered to interview the bare-chested troll, was providing him succor of the flirting variety between queries.
Lorrie lingered nearby, happily devouring Kip’s gelato as she waited for her own interview.
Her account of events, like Gwen’s, didn’t seem to be a high priority for the gathered officials.
Then there was Hugh.
Hugh, who periodically turned to check on Gwen’s continued well-being while Tanielle Beech, the SERC chair, questioned him.
Hugh, whose crop top had been torn irreparably down the center by Kip’s massive fist. The troops should play “Taps” for that top. Its service to the world had earned the distinction.
Hugh, who’d kissed her. Although she’d recovered her common sense at some point and was doing her best not to think about that.
“When—” He mopped at his bloody nose with the pristine white handkerchief provided by his fellow demon councilor and apparent mentor, Josiah Goodling. “When did you finally hear about the situation inside the Zone? And how?”
He was questioning his colleagues fully as much as they were questioning him.
Their willingness to let him do so, even under these circumstances, told Gwen a great deal about his growing power and pristine reputation on the Council.
She could only hope his tawdry display of fisticuffs and passionate smoochery wouldn’t lessen that power or ruin that enviable reputation.
“An unidentified Zone resident launched a jerry-rigged drone over Wall Four shortly after dawn this morning and managed to alert authorities as to the breach.” Councilor Beech’s pointed ear tips twitched.
“We contacted the common human government, requested military support, and came as soon as we got the news. Far too late to do much good, of course.”
Goodling sighed and dragged a hand through his snowy-white hair, between his horns.
“We’d been told the Zone was experiencing a simple communications and infrastructure glitch, which was being handled by the appropriate authorities.
Now that we know the truth, my people have been hunting for the source of that information.
It was theoretically sent by an official who doesn’t actually exist, from a governmental email address that’s no longer in service.
So far, at least, my investigators have reached a dead end. ”
Gwen chewed thoughtfully on a handful of now-cold popcorn.
Drones had never been permitted in the Zone. Officials had designated the entire area restricted airspace, probably because they didn’t want footage of the zombies to circulate and remind constituents of the continuing threat.
So, had a resident truly snuck drone components through the Zone’s entry checkpoint? Or had one of the conspirators decided to launch the next phase of their plans and made up a fictional resident, complete with a fictional drone?
“That’s the sum of our very limited information.” Goodling’s silver hair ruffled in the wind when he offered Hugh an encouraging nod. “Now tell us what you know, lad.”
Before Hugh could say anything, the SERC chair raised a long, slim, imperious finger.
“You can begin by explaining how you got here, Blacke. We spoke only yesterday at SERC headquarters, and there’s been no access to the Zone for days.
Even if your entry had been freely permitted, I’m struggling to understand why you’d visit a place like this, wearing something like that. ”
She scanned Hugh’s clothing, her lip curled in distaste. To his credit, Hugh didn’t flinch or even fasten his leather jacket to cover his naked chest. Instead, shoulders back, blood still oozing from his nose, he met the fae’s judgmental gaze with his one good eye and…
Yeah. He really wasn’t good at lying. Like, at all.
“Ummm…” He paused. For at least five seconds too long. “Uh, yes, Councilor Beech, I suppose it does seem…out of character, as it were…for me to be here. But I got…well, concerned, I guess…when several days passed and I couldn’t get in touch with my, uh, my…”
He hesitated, his Semper rectior instincts clearly troubling him. But as Caesar himself might have told the demon, it was too late. The moment Hugh threw a punch at Kip in a crop top as various SERC councilors watched, the Rubicon had most definitely been crossed.
And if that hadn’t done the trick, his tongue in Gwen’s mouth definitely had.
“I’m his girlfriend,” she announced for him, because she couldn’t stand it any longer.
Beech and Goodling turned to stare at her with evident surprise, and she couldn’t figure out why.
Did they imagine her incapable of contributing to the discussion?
Or had they truly not understood that she must be the human woman Hugh had been very ostentatiously fighting over, even after he’d swept her into a heated embrace and Frenched her?