Scarred

Razorfire.

Not wearing his crimson silken coat, or the rust-blood metal mask that had become the watchword for terror; not even the slate-grey suit and red tie (always red, or plum, or scarlet, jeez, it was like he was telling everyone) that he affected in his day job. Just a crisp black shirt and jeans, but still the vision of him swallowed me, a vortex of time and space, and I couldn't breathe.

He isn't superlatively good-looking, not really. More like a sharp, interesting face. No, what Vincent has is presence. A cool, effortless composure that flirts with elegant and handsome as it sashays by on its way to magnificent. And after so long apart, it hit me with redoubled force.

But always, it's his eyes that get me. Unholy storm-cloud grey, the cleverest and most dangerous eyes you'll ever see. When he's angry, they're black. When he's utterly furious, they burn. Breeze fingered his short bronze hair, wreathed him in mist and dark enchantment. Calm, invincible, untouchable. The perfect picture of power.

They write novels about guys like Vincent, too. The ones featuring mental disintegration and toxic passion that leads to murder.

The awfulicious prospect of his displeasure made me shudder. To be honest, my memory of those heady days was still fuzzy, drunken, trapped in that dark half-world between truth and nightmare. I didn't rightly remember everything that ever happened between us… but I hadn't forgotten his exquisite way with lessons. No, I most certainly hadn't.

Suddenly, I was ultra-aware of the dirt smearing my clothes, the stink in my untidy hair. The scar on my dented cheekbone burned. I should've showered, dressed nicely, fixed myself up for him.

Or not.

I swallowed, parched. "I, er, meant to come sooner. It's just…" Shit. Wrong approach. Never make excuses. Never apologize, firebird. It's always a lie. If you don't mean it, don't do it in the first place…

But he just shrugged, fluid. "I know how it is. Museums to rob, chaos to wreak. The diary's always so full." A weaponized smile, loaded as a demon's promise. You can poison small creatures with Vincent's smile. "Oh, and thieves to humiliate. That was entertaining. Seriously. I'm diverted."

The way his lips shaped the word diverted made me want to fidget and blush, and mentally I kicked myself in the ass. Keep it down, Verity. You're here for information. This is a temporary ceasefire, not a date.

Goddamn it. I'd been doing fine. I'd barely thought of him in weeks, if you could call four or five times an hour barely. Barely dreamed of him, either, unless you count the breathless ones where I shudder in firelit darkness and he… well, never you mind. Point is, I was doing okay. Then the bastard flips me a casual text—one damn text—and I'm all Stockholm Syndrome. Christ on a cracker.

Stubbornly, I took a step back. "That's sweet and everything, Vincent, but what do you want?" His name tasted minty, faintly chemical on my tongue. I wished I hadn't said it. It made me think of flames. But the question lingered: why had he asked me here? He never did anything without a plan. What new trick was this?

"Well, if you insist on making it all about me…" He slid hands into pockets, a cunning caricature of casual. "I'm just dying to hear what you thought of your new friends at the museum. Did you enjoy them?"

My pulse throbbed, a hot warning. I knew those tweens' shenanigans were no accident. Vincent was toying with me. Feeding me lies. I shouldn't play his games…

Then again, I knew them for what they were, didn't I? Lies. Misdirection. If I fell for his bullshit anyway, I'd no one to blame but myself. Right?

Seductive warmth whispered on my skin. I wanted to dive in, revel in the battle, relish his clever traps and gambits. Say to hell with it and go with him right now… but part of me shrank like a kiss from maggots at the thought of listening to his toxic words for a moment longer.

I folded my arms, defensive. Like it could shield me from the memory of his quickflame gaze, his strange mint-fresh warmth, his fingers as they clenched between mine…

Keep it business. Find out what he knows, and leave.

"They were surprising, I'll give 'em that," I offered. "Twin augments. I've never seen the like."

"I know! Delightful, isn't it? I confess, I get bored with the same old tricks."

He leaned his elbows on the railing beside me, sleeves rolled up. He has precise, elegant hands. Artist's hands. Lover's hands. His wrist was arrogantly bare, no augmentium wristwatch to shield him tonight. No disguise at all. He really didn't give a damn.

I brushed aside a tendril of treacherous appreciation. Sure, his courage would be admirable, if he wasn't a genocidal psychopath who rated the rest of the human race lower than maggots, except for a happy few of his augmented Gallery minions, and even they weren't worth speaking to most of the time.

He'd had a power-crazed supervillain BFF (of sorts) named Iceclaw, a chuckling maniac with long greasy hair and saber teeth, who froze people's skin for fun. But Iceclaw was dead. I'd dropped him from a forty-foot ceiling and stabbed him in the throat with a shard of broken glass. I still wasn't certain how Vincent felt about that.

I grinned weakly. "Yours, then, are they?"

Great. More Gallery weirdoes to contend with. But my mind stumbled, lost in the fog. By deploying Sentinels, he was dropping his own gang in the shit. Making them feel betrayed and indignant. What was his game? He was manipulating me, I knew that much for sure. But to what end?

Vincent quirked one neat bronze brow. "I'm offended you'd think so. The building was still standing, last I noticed. Wasting such lovely tricks, just to re-home an overpriced rock? And blue dreadlocks? Must be taking style tips from your glimmery puppy dog." He laughed, a starlit ripple of wrongness. "I assure you, Verity, that girl's no child of mine."

Sickly, I envied him his certainty. The way he knew without a flicker of doubt what was important. I envied him a lot of things, I guess. I could admit that now. Once, I too had worn that unshakeable confidence. The simple way: just jettison your conscience. No more dilemmas. No more problem.

But those days were gone. I was cured now. I hated the Verity I'd been with him… but I hated it more that in the dark before dawn, when I lay restless and sweating in my cold ex-lunatic's cell, I still burned for what he'd meant to me.

I shivered, hugging myself. "Look, it's nice to see you and all, but I really have to—"

"The girl calls herself 'Sophron'." He studied his perfect nails. "The boy goes by 'Flash'. You saw some of what they can do. From the way they work together, I'd say they're old friends." A twist of sarcasm. Like he could possibly understand what old friend meant. "That's enough, I think. It's no fun if I give you all the answers."

Which didn't mean he knew anything. Didn't mean he didn't, either. "Sophron," I mused, intrigued in spite of myself. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"They'll make troublesome enemies, firebird. Dare I suggest caution?"

I snorted, pleased to have caught him in error. "Now why would you use a stupid word like 'caution'? Going soft?"

Fire kindled in his gaze. I didn't see him move, but somehow he was closer, too close, his strange possessive heat mercilessly invading my space and conquering it. Involuntarily, I gasped, and his mint-fire flavor tingled my tongue, sparkling all the way down inside me and resurrecting memories that were better off buried.

"I knew it," he whispered on a smile. "Look me in the eye and make me believe you've changed. I dare you."

Fuck. It wasn't an error. It was bait. And I'd swallowed it whole.

This was what he'd wanted, the reason he'd lured me here. I wanted to punch him and scream get away from me! I wanted to fight, to unleash on him, jeez, what a futile effort that'd be. I'd no defense against him, and he knew it. Fucking damn him.

"Come back to me." Insistent, dark with command. "Tonight. Now. Forget this charade."

"No." A whisper, all the denial I could muster. "I can't."

"You must. You know you belong to me."

"You're wrong, okay? I don't belong to anyone." My sanity stretched thin, a sheet of rubber yanked too tight. Hit him. Kiss him. Kiss him, then hit him. What I couldn't do was back away… because I was too afraid of what he might say.

Even after everything that had happened, I was still terrified he'd think me a coward. That I was a coward, for rejecting him. For rejecting us. And that frightened me most of all.

"I understand that you're scared. I actually thought I was, too, at first." A besotted smile, almost bashful. "Me, afraid. Can you imagine that?"

Actually, I couldn't, but I wasn't about to let him know that. His unshakeable belief in every insane word he uttered made me cringe. But it melted me, too, deep inside, where I'd locked everything delicious and forbidden I'd felt for him into a rusted little box marked DO NOT OPEN.

See, one thing villains always have over the rest of us is the freedom to follow their convictions. Presuming, of course, that those convictions aren't very nice. For Vincent, emotion—like everything else—is about power, and he exerts it ruthlessly. He offers you every dark and despicable thing you've ever secretly longed for, and watches while you struggle to resist.

I knew all that. And still I couldn't say no.

"The way you've gotten to me, Verity, it's… well, it's maddening, really. But we have to face it. We can use it to make us stronger. You can't hide from me forever."

Couldn't I, just? "No, it's over. We're over. I have a different life now. I have friends to look out for me." My lips stung. I couldn't stop staring at his mouth. God, I wanted so badly to kiss him. Just once. Just one more time…

"Your 'friends' despise you. Not the same thing." He drifted close enough to touch—close enough for those impossible flames of his to wrap our fingers together as one. I held my breath, dying for that explosive heat, the revelation of his body against mine. Almost. Not quite. Goddamn it.