The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 10

Tristan reached out a hand to the devastatingly beautiful mortal woman kneeling before him.

A word speared from his subconscious, a beacon flashing from her blue-gray eyes.

Birdman.

He had no idea what it meant, so he simply let it float away into the recesses of his mind.

“You must be the most reckless woman in the colonies to bait a Deathstalker like that,” Tristan said. “Especially that one. Do you know who he works for?”

“Funny, it didn’t come up during the seduction,” the woman scowled, placing her delicate hand in his and yanking herself to her feet with an enticingly firm grip. He forced himself to keep his eyes glued to her face and not run his gaze down her body, a work of art surely crafted by Amatu, the Goddess of Love herself. A body that a male of either species would beg on his knees to touch—pleasantly curved hips, a nipped-in waist, and generous breasts threatening to escape the low-cut neckline of her dress.

“You call that a seduction? You are playing with the wrong males.”

“The right ones understand sarcasm.”

“Touché,” he chuckled. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Thank you for that,” she said, gesturing to the unconscious but breathing Deathstalker lying crumpled in the street.

“Just doing my job. Pagonis needs to keep his beasts on a tighter leash.” Her eyes widened at the name. “That one, Opheron, has been wreaking havoc for weeks. You’re not the first mortal I’ve rescued from his clutches this evening. Though your reaction to him was certainly the most entertaining.”

“Glad to have given you a laugh,” she bristled, brushing tangled sable locks out of her face and revealing a maroon, U-shaped bruise blooming on her chin.

Eyes narrowing, his anger became a living thing, threatening to burst through his skin and tear the piece of shit apart. To damage a masterpiece like that? Unacceptable.

Though the bruise only enhanced the woman’s beauty. The ugliness contrasting with her exquisite features was striking, in a way. Not that he found bruises on women anything other than repellent.

Where had his thoughts drifted?

Realizing he was standing in the street staring at this woman like a fool, he stepped forward and tipped her chin up with his fingertip. She sucked in a breath, and he scented something musky in the response, something beneath the pain. He pretended not to notice as he examined the bruise.

“I’m afraid that’s going to get worse before it gets better. You should put some ice on it. Do you have ice where you live? If not, I know the owner of a tavern close to here who could give you some.”

“I’m not in the mood for another disappointing encounter with a Fae male tonight, thanks,” she said, knocking his hand from her chin and turning away.

He grabbed her upper arm. “That wasn’t a come-on.” It was; he couldn’t help himself. “There are much more dangerous creatures than me on these streets, Mistress.”

“Oh, are there?” she purred with the slinky confidence of a lioness. “How do you know I’m not one of them?”

She pressed against him, supple curves short-circuiting his senses as she reached across and—

“Nice try,” he bit out, removing her hand from his dagger. “You’ll need to move quicker than that if you want to disarm me.”

Her lips twitched, either at the challenge or the innuendo, and she was about to respond before he caught a flicker of movement to his right.

“Oh shit,” he croaked out before scooping her into his arms and launching into the sky, narrowly evading Opheron as he lunged for them. The Deathstalker’s fangs tore a small chunk out of the sole of his boot.

The woman screamed as they cleared the uneven rooftops jutting from the landscape like the jagged teeth of a fallen giant.

But it wasn’t a scream of terror.

It was a scream of unbridled joy that transformed into boisterous laughter, her body shaking in his arms as she drank in the sparkling city.

The woman gathered her soft waves into her hands—to keep them from whipping into his face and distracting him, he supposed. She didn’t realize that exposing the creamy expanse of her long neck mere inches from his mouth was far more distracting. As was her scent: sweet and floral and earthy like honey and rosewood.

And oddly familiar.

He breathed it in, trying not to be too obvious. Difficult with her body pressed so tightly against him.

“Incredible,” she whispered, straining against his grip to look down without a hint of trepidation. Like she wanted to see how high up they were. This was not the typical reaction of a human flying in his arms.

“First time?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She winked. “Go faster.”

He was happy to oblige, pulling her in tighter as he folded his wings and aimed toward a crooked street just beyond the wide avenue that ringed Dienses Square. They plummeted in a free fall and the wind pulled salty tears from her eyes that pelted his face. She whooped with abandon, and he could feel her pulse racing, could scent her exhilaration. His own pulse started racing as well. And it wasn’t due to the speed of their flight.

Just as they reached the rooftops, he snapped out his wings and glided down slowly, landing on the cobblestones in front of a dingy red awning.

The Fang and Claw, a Fae-and-mortal-friendly tavern on the outskirts of Dienses Square, was packed tonight. Mixed-species groups of inebriated patrons spilled into the street, leaning against the black brick walls. Several Fae were sucking down glowing silver bottles of Delirium.

“Put me down,” she whispered, slamming a hand against his chest. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m your plaything.”

His wings and cock twitched at the filthy images conjured by the word plaything, especially with his hands clasped around her thigh and ribs. Her mood swings were making his head spin, though not necessarily in a bad way. The High Gods knew he had been tempted by mortal women before, but never this quickly. And there was something so familiar about her.

Had he seen her in a dream?

Unfortunately for her, Tristan was a master at this game. He promptly dropped her, and she squeaked as her ass hit the cobblestones. Though he did throw a gust of air beneath her to cushion the fall. He wasn’t a complete asshole.

A few of the Delirium-ingesting Fae aimed hooded gazes their way and snickered.

“As you wish,” he said, smiling down at her with a lascivious grin—the one that brought out the dimple in his right cheek and had led many a female, both mortal and Fae, to drop her guard and more around him over the years. “There are plenty of females inside who would beg to be my plaything. Why would I waste my time on a mortal with a death wish?”

She pushed up off the grimy stones, glaring adorably, and wiped her hands on the back of her dress. “You shouldn’t,” she said, unfazed by his smolder.

Well, maybe not completely. He could scent his effect on her, no matter how much she was trying to hide it.

She brushed past, knocking her shoulder into him with surprising force. “I’ve already told you I’m not interested. Take a hint, Birdman.”

He threw his head back and laughed. The word was a nickname for him? He had met this woman before, he was sure of it.

Had he propositioned her during his Delirium stupor the other night? High Gods, he hoped not. Though he wouldn’t put it past himself.

But if they had met before and he’d forgotten about her—she was so stunning he couldn’t imagine anyone forgetting her, Delirium or no—she would’ve called him out already, right?

If she wasn’t going to bring it up, he wasn’t stupid enough to ask.

“Please,” he said, grabbing her wrist before she could walk away. “I swear by the High Gods that I have nothing but innocent intentions.” He begged the High Gods not to punish him for lying. “Technically, I’m still on patrol and as it’s my duty to serve and protect, I need to make sure you get the proper care to heal that nasty bruise on your chin.”

She exhaled a sharp, incredulous laugh. “So you bring me to a tavern?”

He shrugged. “No healers are practicing at this hour. Besides, at this point, a little ice will do just as much good as a healer. Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I do bite, but rarely on a first date.” He licked his pointed canines, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin beneath her glove.

She chuckled, then stopped herself and plastered on a frown, yanking her wrist away. “Fine,” she said. “But only to get ice. Then I need to go home.”

He opened his mouth to offer to accompany her.

“Alone,” she spat before he could respond. “And this isn’t a date.”

“Fine,” he agreed as he took several long strides toward the tavern’s faded red door. He scanned the crowd through the iron scrollwork covering the window, spying plenty of Fae he recognized, but none of his fellow Guards.

Despite what he’d told the woman, he was shirking his responsibilities. For the second time this week.

He held the door open and ushered her inside. “Let’s get that pretty face of yours fixed up.”