She shook her head. Who was this Emerazel he kept talking about? She had no idea where the scar had come from, or what it meant. All she knew was that only stalkers and serial killers followed women home from work.
Her heart raced faster, adrenaline surging. For some reason she wanted to believe him, but he’d trapped her in her own kitchen. If there was one thing she hated, it was being trapped. She balled her hands into fists, overcome by the need to fight.
She pulled back her arm for a punch, but with a lightning-fast motion, he clamped his hand on her wrist, fingers piercing her flesh. Not fingers, she realized with growing terror. Claws. He has claws. What the fuck?
Her blood roared in her ears, and she could feel fire run through her, hot and molten. With her free arm, she grasped his shoulder. Her palm glowed. Somehow, her body knew what it was doing—knew how to burn him—and she waited to hear him cry out in pain.
Instead, he stared deep into her eyes. No longer a bright green, his irises now blazed a deep, smoldering red. Terror ripped her mind apart. What the hell is going on?
His gaze trailed over her body. “Ursula, my dear. There’s no need for fighting. Emerazel’s power won’t burn me,” he purred in a velvety tone. But underneath the softness, there was an edge to his voice—a sharp command. Kester was used to getting what he wanted. “The goddess’s fire runs in my veins just as it does in yours. You can’t fight me.”
His voice was husky, a lethal lullaby. His beautiful gaze hypnotized her, rooting her in place.
A part of her felt tempted to do whatever he wanted just to make him happy. “What do you need me to do?” She rasped, half hating herself as she said it. What was happening to her?
“I’m not here to hurt you.” He leaned in closer and whispered, his breath caressing her ear. “Sign,” he commanded.
He seemed so sure of himself. Her hand relaxed on his shoulder, and she stared into his fiery eyes. She should be terrified of those preternatural flames, but something about his masculine scent and his beautiful lips was intoxicating. But the strange fire in his eyes… Is that magic? Do I care?
His claws retracting, Kester reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a fountain pen the color of bone. Her gaze landed on a tiny symbol carved into the pen—an encircled triangle, just like her scar.
Holding her gaze, Kester popped off the cap, revealing a razor-sharp nib, and gripped her palm. “This will only hurt for a moment,” he said, his voice seducing her, sliding over her skin.
As she stared into his beautiful eyes, he pressed the pen into her hand. A sharp pain pulled her attention down, and she watched as the point depressed her skin. Something in the back of her mind rebelled at this imposition. He pushed the nib further, into her flesh, and she snapped out of the spell he’d woven. What was I thinking, mooning over this posh twat?
“Ow!” She yanked her arm backward, gripping the cut. Blood dripped between her fingers.
“Apologies for that, Ursula.” A seductive smile played over his lips, but she wasn’t falling for his act anymore.
He produced a small, yellowed piece of parchment from his other pocket, pushing it toward her along with the blood-inked pen. “Please. I need you to sign.”
Her hand throbbed, and she shook it, trying to focus her thoughts. Everything about this man was alluring, but right now only one angry thought burned in her mind: This entitled wanker thinks he can get whatever he wants. Just like Rufus.
She blinked, trying to clear her mind. Of course she shouldn’t trust the psycho who’d stalked her into her kitchen. And did he want her soul? She wasn’t signing that away. She had no idea what a soul was for, or even if it was real, but she didn’t want to find out what happened when you gave one away.
She glanced down at the parchment, at the faded beige writing. Only a few words were legible in the candlelight, and though the language wasn’t English, the looping letters looked strangely familiar. She almost had the sense that if she concentrated hard enough, she could read it. In fact, she could translate a few of the words: soul, contract, eternal. The longer she looked at it, the clearer the words became.
“What’s this language?”
“Angelic.”
“What?” She glared up at the towering stranger. “What happens if I sign it?”
“You’ve really never been told this?” He seemed genuinely curious. “How did you come to carve yourself in the first place if you don’t know who Emerazel is?”
“I have no idea.” She nodded at the parchment. “It says something about an eternal contract.”
His brow shot up. “You can read this?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me how. Is this some sort of pact with the devil?”