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said.
    He didn’t answer, just looked at her with those dark gray eyes of his, as dark and foreboding as the ink on his body.
    “What do they represent?”
    “Assignments.”
    He didn’t bother to elaborate, and she didn’t ask. The explanation was clear enough. The ink sprawling over his skin told the stories of the people he had rescued. People he had helped.
    “What happens when you run out of skin? Will you stop getting tattoos?”
    “I don’t get them in the ordinary way. Not from a tattoo parlor or a tattoo artist.”
    “Where do they come from, then?”
    Looking into his gray eyes was like looking into the depths of the ocean. “They just appear. Each one appears after I’ve finished an assignment.”
    “And if you don’t finish?”
    He shrugged, the taut muscles of his shoulders contracting. “Hasn’t happened.”
    “Were you sent to get rid of me?” she blurted, almost hysterical, wondering exactly what would appear on the canvas of his skin after he had dealt with her.
    “Like I said, I was sent to collect you. That’s all,” Brandon said. “Violence isn’t my preferred working method.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” she asked quietly.
    “It means I have no present intention of harming you,” he said, equally quiet. “If you cooperate, you’ll spare yourself further injury.”
    He moved around the room, unpacking his duffel bag. She could not help but gawk at his tattoos, her eyes flickering furtively over the intricate maze of ink and flesh, reading the story marked on his body, the symbols that proclaimed who and what he was.
    That was when she realized there was no point in fighting him.
    She would have to use other means to get what she wanted.
    * * *
     
    He pulled a clean shirt over his head, grateful he’d sent his bag here from the airport. He felt Luciana’s gaze travel along the lines of his body. Gave her a long, hard stare just to warn her. She sat at the top of the bed looking ever the princess who had been captured.
    She’s a demoness, he reminded himself. It doesn’t matter how beautiful she is. She is evil. She is extremely dangerous.
    “Whatever Arielle told you about me is completely untrue,” the demoness said smoothly. Something in her tone had shifted, as though an idea had clicked in her head. He turned to glance casually at her, and he saw it in her eyes, too. The wheels were turning in that dangerous mind of hers. “Especially if she’s getting her information from Julian Ascher these days. I heard he’s one of you now.”
    “Why are you so hell-bent on revenge against Julian?” he asked.
    “Haven’t you ever wanted revenge on someone who hurt you? I injured you,” she said softly. Her entire demeanor had shifted now, her tone placating with a vulnerability that must be calculated. “Don’t you want vengeance?”
    Brandon gave her a hard look. “You ask a lot of questions. I already told you, I’m just here to do my job. There’s nothing personal about it. So, no, I don’t want to avenge myself.”
    “Everything is personal. You can’t haul me into a room, lock me to a bed and say there’s nothing personal about it.”
    “Absolutely. Given those cuts on your back, I wouldn’t say you got off easy. Let’s call it even.”
    She gave a vicious yank on the cuffs, her temper flaring again. “We are far from even. You will unlock these vile things. You will let me go. Then we will be even.”
    He said nothing, but turned his attention to her back.
    “We should get this broken glass out of you.”
    “It will heal,” she ground out.
    They both knew that was true. Immortal bodies of angels and demons healed quickly, but not instantaneously.
    “If we don’t take care of it now, the wounds will take longer to heal,” he said.
    He unlocked the cuffs, readjusting her hands so that they were bound in front of her.
    He dug in his shaving kit, got out a pair of tweezers. Poured vodka over them.
    When he eased away the fabric of her dress, the