His gaze dipped to her mouth—full lips, lush and plump—and dipped lower to follow the thick silver chain that snaked beneath the neckline of her dirt-smeared tank top to disappear between the generous swell of her breasts. The room was like a meat locker, and the distinct outline of her nipples left no doubt that she was cold. He was in no hurry to look away; he couldn't help but appreciate the view.
I could warm her, ease her fear.
The uncharacteristic thought held distinct appeal.
Her breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath. He dragged his gaze away, let it rake her at a more leisurely pace, and he felt a distinct unease as he noticed things he'd missed the first time around. Things like incredibly smooth, taut skin. Not a wrinkle. Not a line. Not a single flaw.
Hell. He had no business staring at her breasts, her nipples. He saw now that she wasn't a woman at all. Barely more than a kid. Nineteen, maybe twenty.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen." She frowned. "And a half."
And a half. That sealed the deal. Too young. She was far too young for him. And mortal, to boot. He generally didn't bother with mortals. They were too…human. There were more than enough female genies and demigods in the Underworld to choose from if he needed to scratch an itch.
But he'd pulled his gaze away too late. She'd seen exactly where his attention had strayed.
"Old enough to put up a fight." Her voice was low and fierce. "You won't get any without a fight, white boy."
His gaze flicked to the yellow ropes that bound her. "I'm not in the habit of tying my lovers up." A slow smile curved his lips. "Unless they ask."
"I'm not asking."
She stared at him, her posture and expression putting him in mind of a cornered cat. Ready to fight. Claws. Teeth. Whatever it took.
Guts and grit. And beauty. He found the combination
appealing. Nineteen. And a half.
"Fuck." He was here to harvest a darksoul, not think about getting laid, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the faster he got done and got going, the better. He set his teeth against the lollipop, sheared off a shard of candy and ground it between his molars.
"Fuck," she echoed. "Yeah, that about sums it up, vanilla bean."
He didn't surprise easily, but that did the trick. She'd been beaten, bound and left to stew in her own terror, but she had the brass balls left to call him vanilla bean.
And white boy.
He'd been called worse. With reason.
"You in this with him?" Despite the show of bravado, the question held a telltale tremble.
He took the lollipop from his mouth, studied her for a second, then popped the candy back in and used his tongue to push it off to one side. She held perfectly still, only her eyes moving as she tracked his actions. "By him, I assume you mean your captor." At her
sharp nod, he finished, "No, I'm not in it with him."
Hope flickered to life in her eyes. "You here to free me?"
"Free you?" He almost laughed. "No." If she were looking for a savior, she was in for disappointment. No one was coming. No one but him. Which was unfortunate for her.
At his answer, her cheeks paled, but her chin kicked up a little higher. "You gonna kill me, then?" Her eyes narrowed. "'Cause if y'are, get in line. I think the asshole who tied me up will call dibs."
Not tonight, he wouldn't. Dagan had no intention of letting the bastard touch her.
The second the thought formed, he ground it to dust beneath his boot. He wasn't here to protect this oddly alluring girl. He was here to kill and take what he needed—a darksoul to feed Sutekh's power.
But not from her. Her soul was bright as a xenon arc lamp. Sutekh would cough it up like a hairball.
"This isn't your night to die."
"Real talk?" She tipped her head and thrust one shoulder back in a cocky pose. Almost made him believe it. More bravado. And still no tears.
Interesting.
"Real talk?" he echoed, floundering. Then he realized she was asking if he was telling the truth. "I'm not here for you. I came for a darksoul."
She frowned at the term but didn't ask for an explanation. She had other things on her mind. "Good for you. Maybe you could help me with this little inconvenience first?" Her voice dripped sarcasm. Jerking her bound hands up, she separated them by the quarter
inch the rope allowed and winced as it rubbed her already chaffed skin. "You got a knife?"
As he stared at the red, inflamed marks that braceletted her wrists, something odd and unfamiliar raised its head and uncoiled deep inside him. He'd seen thousands of wounds, caused most of them himself. But the sight of her beautiful brown skin, abraded and bloody, was…unsettling. He felt a second's disorientation. He had no reason to care about her pain.
"A knife?" she prompted. And he heard asshole implied in her tone. Or maybe dickhead.
"No knife." He didn't need one. In three strides he closed the space between them. He took the rolled paper lollipop stick from between his lips, tucked it away in his pocket then hunkered down and caught the rope in his fist. Her pupils dilated and she gasped. Every muscle in her sleek frame tensed. But she didn't jerk away. Only watched him with those incredible eyes.
A sound carried from the hallway. Footsteps.
"Cut me loose!" she hissed.