The Mech Who Loved Me (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy #2)(11)

She never wanted to see it again.

A sob caught in her throat. I never asked for this. But before she had time to try and choke it down, she found her face buried in Kincaid's chest, those strong arms wrapping around her, one hand cupping the base of her skull.

"You're not a monster," Kincaid said, gently stroking the back of her neck. "That man wasn't thinking clearly. He was seeing what he wanted to see—an enemy, someone to blame for the hellish way his life has probably turned out. And it's easier to see your pale skin and blame you than it is for him to take some responsibility for his own damned bad luck."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that man was me several years back."

Ava looked up, meeting his eyes. There was so much she didn't know about this man, though his body bore scars of a rough life. He hated blue bloods. Hated them. And people just didn't hate for no reason—even that man in the street had a reason for the rage that filled him the instant he realized what she was. Empathy filled her, and she realized her thumb was rubbing against Kincaid's side. Back and forth. Back and forth. The brush of his shirt was almost hypnotic.

"Careful, kitten," Kincaid whispered, his lashes lowering almost sleepily.

She didn't want to be careful.

She... she didn't know what she wanted. But something hollow ached within her. And he was so warm, so virile and full of life.

Frustrating, yes. Impossible, yes. But safe too, in a way she wasn't sure she wanted to explore. It was like having a tiger in her chambers, and wondering if she dared pet it.

"If you keep looking at me like that, then I'm going to have a hard time pretending to be a gentleman," Kincaid warned.

"You are a gentleman," she protested, for despite his roguish demeanor, he was very careful with her at times.

"I'm really not," he insisted, and his head lowered toward her, just the faintest of fractions.

Ava sucked in a short breath.

As she filled her lungs, the scent of him stole through her. Sweat and cologne, and everything male. Her vision went dark, the predator within her surging to the surface. Yes, it whispered, and her mouth watered as the stupidest urge filled her, one that wanted her to rub her face against that chest, to lick his throat and perhaps sink her teeth into the vein there.

Ava panicked, and shoved away from him. "I'm sorry."

Kincaid staggered, one eyebrow arching at her strength. They stared at each other and Ava swallowed, trying to lower her no-doubt-black eyes. The kitchen suddenly seemed far too small. What was she doing? What was she thinking? This was Kincaid. The man who despised blue bloods. The one who thought marriage was a trap, and who seemed to know every young woman in the neighborhood.

The one who roused that shiver of heat deep within her abdomen every damned time she looked at him.

"It's all right, kitten." His voice sounded like honeyed gravel. Amused. "Neither of us was thinking straight. And you've had a hard time, what with that man throwing blood at you, rousing the—"

"I wasn't thinking about...." She couldn't say it.

"Blood?" He scraped a hand through his unruly black hair. "I know."

The words jolted her. The craving virus unleashed so many foreign feelings within her, including a desire for blood or for... other things. Things that involved the heated stroke of his hand on her body, the trace of his lips against her skin.... "You do?"

"I told you. I'm not a gentleman. I know what was going through your head right then."

There was a wealth of meaning in those words, but before she had a chance to process them, footsteps echoed above and they both looked up.

All the heat seemed to evaporate off Kincaid, and tension rode through his shoulders. "There she is." He raised his voice. "Orla, do you need a hand?"

Ava's hearing was exceptional, but she couldn't tell whether it was a man or woman. A slight crinkle drew between her brows.

"Liam? Is that you?" a woman called.

"Aye. Don't worry about fetching your pistol."

Liam? Ava silently mouthed the word, looking at him for confirmation. He'd never mentioned a first name. He scowled back at her, then lifted his voice, "Want me to put the kettle on?"

"Oh, that'd be dear." Whoever she was, she sounded tired. Soft murmurs echoed. "There's a pot of soup in the icebox. Could you set that to heat too? Ian's ready for lunch."

"Aye." He moved around the place as though he knew it well, gathering a teapot and setting it on the stove, then locating the icebox.

"Liam?" she repeated quietly.

Kincaid knelt in front of the heavy ceramic stove and stoked it. "Could we please pretend none of what you hear while you're in this house is going to make it to the ears of the rest of the Rogues?"

"It's just... I've only ever known you as Kincaid." She frowned. "Doesn't anybody else know your name?"

"No. And I'd like to keep it that way."

She folded her hands in her lap. "It's a lovely name—"

"Ava." A growl.

"I don't know why it bothers you so much, but I promise I won't reveal your dirty little secret."

"I've got dirtier ones than that, luv."

Heat thrilled through her. Ava swallowed. "I'll bet."