A fist banged on my apartment door.

I frowned. According to the clock on the wall, I should have been in bed, sound asleep; instead I'd spent the last few hours staring sulkily at the television, watching whatever autoplay decided to put on next. The only thing I'd really been focused on was the tumbler of gin, enhanced with a splash of clear soda and lime juice, which I'd already filled and emptied three times.

The fist banged again, more insistent.

With a sigh, I pushed off the couch and ambled towards the door. I wasn't exactly dressed for company in a tank top (red, no frills) and a pair of pajama pants (black, covered with pink and yellow paw prints), but I hadn't yet decided if I was going to open the door, either. I rose up onto my tiptoes to line my eye up with the peephole.

Brendan stood outside.

Fuck. My bare feet landed a little too hard on the linoleum floor as I dropped back down. What the hell was Brendan doing outside my door?

After a second, I reached up to twist the deadbolt open, then unhooked the chain lock as well. I didn't think Brendan would take well to me keeping the door chained and talking to him through a two-inch gap. Besides, a chain lock wasn't much of a defense against a mage. After a deep breath to steady myself, I pulled the door open. "Brendan?"

Blue eyes bore into me, a broad grin pasted across his face. "Severine, my dear. May I come in?"

I hesitated. Brendan being polite was… strange. Still, I stepped back, opening the door wider.

Brendan walked inside, glancing around my apartment. Nothing he hadn't seen before. Despite his last visit being more than a year ago, little had changed. Maybe I'd gotten a new blanket for the couch, a new lamp on a side table. Yet his eyes were moving slowly over my furniture, lingering on all the flat surfaces — tables, bookshelves, countertops. Looking for something. Signs of another guest, perhaps?

I pushed the door closed behind him, making sure it settled firmly back into its frame. "Is there something I can help you with, Brendan?"

As if I didn't know. There had only ever been one reason he'd come to my apartment, especially at this hour of the night. And it had nothing to do with my meager abilities as a Catalyst, or his role as my Wielder.

He turned to face me, eyes narrowing. "He kissed you, didn't he?"

Double fuck. I froze. Was he guessing, or had Juhan told him?

Brendan didn't wait for my answer. He stepped forward, reaching for my face. I managed not to flinch — but he only put a single finger on me, trailing it feather-light along the slope of my cheek. "Another mage got a taste of those sweet lips." His voice dropped, darkened, shifted to something closer to a snarl. "I should peel his face from his skull for defiling my Catalyst."

I blinked, trying to keep the shock out of my eyes. Had Brendan done something to Juhan? I knew he could; no matter how accomplished he might be, Juhan wasn't Brendan, wasn't the Shadowmage, and he didn't have his Catalyst with him. The question was more if Brendan would risk putting a potential alliance at risk over a mere kiss?

If my expression gave anything away, Brendan didn't react. Instead he watched his own finger as it drifted toward my mouth, traced the swell of my lower lip. "Unfortunately I've sworn to his safety for the duration of his stay in my city, so his pretty little head will have to stay intact. This time."

Which meant Juhan was safe — except now I was starting to worry that I was the one in danger. Brendan had already threatened me once tonight.

"But you…" Brendan leaned in closer, and I felt my heart speed. "I can at least cleanse your lips, remind you of your place." His hand moved down to cup my chin as he drew closer still, almost eliminating the gap between our bodies — and chasing out what remaining breath still lingered in my lungs. Even without his magic, Brendan outweighed me, outmuscled me. He didn't need magic to hurt me. With magic, he could hurt me, heal me, hurt me again, over and over, leave my body whole but my mind broken.

Those blue eyes gleamed like the honed edge of a dagger as his face drew closer to mine, taking up my entire field of vision. Closer and closer, until he was kissing me—

Oh. His mouth was firm against mine, and lower down his free hand clasped my waist.

The problem with Brendan was that he'd had a thousand years to learn how to kiss a woman, and he had not wasted any of them. Where Juhan might have had heat, Brendan had skill. So much skill. Being kissed by him was like downing a bottle of wine in one go: suddenly I was drunk on it, my head swimming, my skin flush with tingling warmth, my limbs relaxing under some velvety weight.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I felt my hands rise to rest against his broad chest, fingers splayed to feel the hard muscle beneath his dress shirt, as my lips kissed him back.

It was probably a bad idea. No, it was definitely a bad idea. Brendan was here because he was mad, or jealous, or possessive, or all of the above, not because he gave a damn about me. Not because he actually wanted me, but because he could have me. But the way he kissed… He was a drug, he was an addiction, he was a compulsion. And I was weak. Weak from the memory of Juhan's kiss still tingling on my lips, weak from the wild fantasy of finally being with Kasimir, weak from months spent starved for another's touch. The last two days had provoked the desire, but never allowed the chance to satisfy it. Yet Brendan I could have, for tonight anyway; Brendan I could kiss and touch and fuck without consequences.

I wanted no consequences. I wanted to be able to close my eyes and give in, to let my body carry me forward, to stop thinking about the rules, about what was and wasn't allowed for me, about where I had to draw the line. Tonight, I wanted to just feel.

The kiss ended with a low, amused chuckle. "How did I forget? The way you… melt."

I gazed up at blue eyes that seemed as endless as summer skies. How long had it been since he'd looked at me like that?

How long would it be before he looked at me like that again — before any man had the opportunity to look at me like that again?

"Brendan…" My voice came out huskier than I'd intended.

"Let me remind you where you belong," he offered.

I should say no. I could say no. I had done so before, when I'd been too stung, too sore, too irritated by his casual indifference. When I hadn't yet been quite so eaten away by the hunger for another's touch. He'd left, then, left with a shrug and smirk, never to mention it again. Despite everything else that was wrong with the man, he knew how to respect a woman's "no." One simple syllable and he'd be back out that door, and I'd be alone in my apartment again.

"Yes," I said.

Brendan grinned. Hands clasped my hips, walked me back until my shoulders bumped against the wall.

Lips found mine again. This time he kissed me as if I were the wine, something rich and rare to be savored, a delicacy worth a slow, deep, thorough exploration. It was the kind of kiss where it felt like the tongue inside my mouth was licking something lower, more intimate; things deep between my thighs tightened with need as I leaned up into him, gave myself over to his embrace. If Brendan were always like this… fuck, I might have loved him, truly, if I could have this version of Brendan every night.

For this one night, I could let myself have the illusion.

A hand reached down to cup my thigh, pull my leg up, tug me close enough that I could feel the hard line of his desire against my body. That wasn't an illusion. He might be feigning other things, but his lust was real.

"How do you want it, my lovely?" The kiss was broken; his words steamed against my skin as he nuzzled his face against the side of my throat. "Brendan or Shadowmage?"

I knew what he was offering. Gooseflesh pricked at my skin at the thought. Human Brendan… or inhuman Shadowmage.

"Shadowmage," I whispered.

He laughed against my neck, the sound so utterly masculine and pleased. The answer he'd wanted, apparently. The hand at my hip left, reaching for the wall. At the edge of my peripheral vision, I saw him tracing shapes on the flat surface: runes to call his magic. The Shadowmage spell was not a short one, but it was his personal sigil, so practiced he could have formed it blind. A shimmer of prismatic light danced over the wall as the spell activated, power humming over my skin.

In the shadows beneath us, tendrils formed — reached up. One wrapped around my ankle, its tip sneaking beneath the cuff of my pajama pants.

There was always that initial flinch at its touch, at the sensation of something so alien crawling up inside my pajama leg, but anticipation chased close after, fueled by the intimate knowledge of what came next.

"Severine." Brendan said my name like a command as he lifted his head, piercing blue eyes staring down into my black-brown ones.

Obediently, I raised both hands above my head, crossing wrist over wrist. The hand gripping my thigh held tight; his other hand left the runes iridescing upon the wall and reached up, grabbing my wrists and pinning them in place. Below, the shadow tendril was stretching up, coiling around my leg as it traveled higher and higher.

The grin he offered was too toothy, too predatory. It made me weak in the knees — not that it mattered, now. The tendril had reached my hip; its spiral around my leg might as well have been a steel cage. Brendan's hands were iron bands at my wrists and thigh, chaining them in place. I could have gone limp and he — and the tendril — would have still held me upright.

That was part of the appeal. Being trapped — being helpless — flipped a certain switch for me. Faulty wiring, perhaps. He'd barely touched me, and yet I could already feel the desire building between my thighs.

And he seemed to know it.

"If only I could have your submissiveness, with Odyssa's loyalty and Aeliana's power, I would have the perfect woman," he murmured, watching me. "There are men who would kill for just one night with a creature as exquisite as you, Severine. That look on your face just now… I've burnt kingdoms to ash for less."

I gasped. The tendril had crept between my legs. Shadow shouldn't have texture, shouldn't have weight, but it did, hot and velvety against my skin, like the hide of some great beast. "Brendan…"

"Shhh," he hushed, even as I shuddered at the shadow’s touch. Brendan could use those tendrils to tear apart human bodies, rend them limb from limb. But he could also use them for finer tasks: stitching together a wound or measuring out potions. Or making me throb with pleasure.

"I know what you want, precious, and I will give it to you. All of it, and more."