"Do what?" It was said absently as I eyed the building in front of us. Dark Soul matched its name. It might not be a vampire-only hangout, but with blacked-out windows and smoke drifting out through the gothic metal gates guarding the doorway, it certainly gave off a dangerous vibe. Or maybe that was merely the haunting, ethereal melodies drifting from the shadowed interior.
"Ride your bike. It makes your soul glow."
I stopped abruptly and swung around to face him. "Damn it, Azriel, you're going to have to stop doing that."
Confusion briefly crossed his features. "Stop what? Complimenting you?"
"Yes." I shoved my hands in my pockets and forced my feet onward again, feeling suddenly foolish.
He was beside me in an instant. "Why is this suddenly a problem?"
"Because," I muttered. "It just makes me want you more."
"Ah." Amusement laced his tones. "I see."
"No, I'm betting you don't."
"Then you would be wrong, Risa Jones."
I glanced up, saw that flare in his eyes again, and my breath caught briefly in my throat. Because it wasn't just need. Wasn't just desire. It was far deeper—far scarier—than that. Something that should not—could not—be, if only because we were two very different beings from two very different worlds. We might have made a decision to pursue this thing between us, but he was not of my world and never could be. What I'd just seen could not be anything more than an echo of my own emotions. It was an illusion—one that would turn to ash and totally destroy me once all this was over.
But maybe it was already far too late to start worrying about that happening.
I swallowed heavily. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?"
"No. And more than likely not the last."
Sadly, a truer statement had never been made. The doorman opened the metal gates for us, and Azriel lightly cupped my elbow and guided me into the interior. It was, as the name suggested, a dark place, and it took a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust. There was little noise in the room, even though it was full. Everyone's attention seemed to be trained on the stage at the far end of the room, their expressions one of rapture as they listened to the dark-skinned woman who played a pan flute. The music was haunting and beautiful and definitely not something you'd hear on the radio. I wasn't sure it was worthy of the rapture that seemed evident around us, but then, a pan flute, however nice the sound, wasn't really my cup of coffee.