He found himself smiling at her teasing. He never smiled. Not for six hundred years or more. All of those things. He waited for her laughter again, needing it with the same craving an addict felt for a drug.
When it came, it was low and amused, as caressing as the touch of fingers on his skin. I’m an American. Oil and water, don’t you think?
He had a fix on her now, a direction. She would not get away from him. American women can be trained with the right methods. He drawled it deliberately, anticipating her reaction.
You really are arrogant. He loved the sound of her laughter, savored it, took it into his body. He felt her drowsiness, her yawn. So much the better. He sent her a light mental push, very delicate, wanting her to sleep so he could examine her.
Knock it off! Her reaction was quick withdrawal, hurt, suspicion. She retreated, slamming up a mind block so swiftly, he was astonished at how adept she was, how strong for one so young, strong for a human. And she was human. He was certain of it. He knew without looking that he had exactly five hours till sunrise. Not that he couldn’t take the early or late sunlight. He tested her block, careful not to alarm her. A faint smile touched his well-cut mouth. She was strong, but not nearly strong enough.
His body, hard-corded muscle and superhuman strength, shimmered, dissolved, became a faint crystal mist seeping beneath the door, streaming into the night air. Droplets beaded, collected, connected, formed a large winged bird. It dipped, circled, and swept across the darkened sky, silent, lethal, beautiful.
Mikhail reveled in the power of flight, the wind rushing against his body, the night air speaking to him, whispering secrets, carrying the scent of game, of man. He followed the faint psychic trail unerringly. So simple. Yet his blood was surging hotly. A human, young, full of life and laughter, a human with a psychic connection to him. A human filled with compassion, intellect, and strength. Death and damnation could wait another day while he satisfied his curiosity.
The inn was small, at the edge of the forest where the mountain met the timberline. The interior was dark, with only a few lights glowing softly in one or two rooms and perhaps a hallway, while the humans took their rest. He settled on the balcony outside her second-story window and became still, a part of the night. Her bedchamber was one of the rooms with a light proclaiming that she was unable to sleep. His dark, burning eyes found her through the clear glass, found her and claimed her.
She was small-boned, curvy, with a tiny waist and a wealth of raven hair tumbling down her back to draw attention to her rounded bottom. His breath caught in his throat. She was exquisite, beautiful, her skin like satin, her eyes incredibly large, intensely blue, fringed with thick, long lashes. Not a detail escaped him. A white lace gown clung to her skin, hugged her high, full breasts, and bared the line of her throat, her creamy shoulders. Her feet were small, like her hands. So much strength in so small a package.
She brushed her hair, standing at the window, looking out with unseeing eyes. Her face held a faraway expression; there were lines of strain around her full, sensuous mouth. He could feel pain in her, and the need for sleep that refused to come. He found himself following every stroke of the brush. Her movements were innocent, erotic. Imprisoned within the bird’s form, his body stirred. He reverently turned up his face to the heavens in thanks. The sheer joy of feeling after centuries of enduring no emotion was beyond measure.
Every action with the brush lifted her breasts invitingly, emphasized her narrow rib cage and small waist. The lace clung to her body, revealing the dark vee at the juncture of her legs. Talons dug deeply into the railing, left long scars in the soft wood. Still Mikhail watched. She was graceful, enticing. He found his hot gaze dwelling on her soft throat, the pulse beating steadily in her neck. His. Abruptly, he pulled away from the thought, shook his head.