The malachai in him hissed at the scrape of nail on its skin. It didn't hurt, not at all, but it created a response within him: an immediate need to act, to unsheath claws and scratch back until flesh was laid bare to bone and...

...and then she stepped away and the loss of her warm body against his acted like a bucket of ice dumped over the blaze of rage. Nick's eyelids blinked once, twice, until the bright yellow faded to swirling silver. He took another step backward and jammed his, thankfully, still human hands into his pockets.

He managed two words. He spoke them in the demon's language first, then in English, and he ran like hell, right out of the ball room.

"Forgive me."