Afterward, they lay on the bed together, tangled and sated. Claire was breathing heavily now, deeply. A healthy flush tinged her cheeks and her body was warm to the touch.

Sex had done the trick. Sex as a reaffirmation of life to counter the taste of death on Claire's tongue.

"You feel better?" he asked, rolling her once again in a position to spoon.

She snuggled against his chest and sighed. "So much better."

"There are strange things about you, Claire. The dreams for one thing." He paused, thinking, his fingers trailing over her skin. "And when we make love, you trigger my magick."

"Make love?"

He opened his mouth and closed it. "Doesn't seem right to say fuck, even though I like to fuck you."

"You think there's a difference between fucking and making love?"

He stroked her upper arm. "Yeah, I do. I've done a lot of fucking in my life and it's been good. I've spent a lot less time making love, but making love is better. Deeper."

"What happened to your wife, Adam?"

He stiffened at the question, his fingers halting the stroke of her soft skin. It was like a punch to his gut when he least expected it.

She rolled to her back. "I mean, how did she die?"

Adam sat up, yanked his jeans on, buttoned them, and pulled a hand through his hair. "She died during a burglary."

"I'm sorry."

He gave a harsh laugh. "Twenty-five brownstones on the block and the guy had to walk into ours."

Adam still remembered it vividly. He always would. He'd just arrived home after his shift. It had been late, around midnight. He'd gone upstairs where Eliza had already been in bed. She'd woken and wanted a bottle of water for her night table. He'd offered to get her one—Gods, he'd offered to go instead of her—but she'd told him to take a shower, go to sleep.

He'd just been unbuttoning his shirt when he'd heard the gunshot.

The rage running through him, hot and thick, had been nothing he could control when he'd raced downstairs to find Eliza lying in a pool of her own blood.

He hadn't hesitated, not for a moment. He'd raised power and blasted it at the middle-aged, scruffy-looking thief. He'd been a warlock with earth abilities. Later he'd found out that the warlock had targeted his house specifically; he'd been targeting lots of witches around Chicago, breaking into their houses. He'd already killed three people.

Adam hadn't known all that at the time, though. All he'd seen was a strung-out low-life warlock who'd just shot his wife and didn't look a fucking bit upset about it.

Adam's fire magick had risen unbidden. He'd been out of control, his rage perfect. The warlock had tried to raise power, but Adam had been ten times stronger and faster with his abilities. He'd burned him alive where he stood. A flash of white-hot flame, then just a charred thing on the carpet, smoke curling up in lazy tendrils.