Sins of the Flesh

His next move depended on hers, and he was no mind reader. He mentally calculated the options she could choose from, using that as a template to chart his own course. She’d need to get to the elevator or the stairs, get Kuznetsov to ground level and get him out of the building. All Mal needed to do was make certain he was there ahead of her, waiting. With open arms. His lips curved in a dark smile.

He could leap out the window after her, but while that might have appealed were he not bleeding like a gutted boar, it didn’t appeal given that he was.

Crimson drops dripped off the edge of his fist. He thought of the way she’d licked his blood from the back of her hand. And why the fuck that made him feel the first stirrings of a hard-on, he had no idea.

Maybe because she was one hell of an adrenaline high.

Looked like this wasn’t his week when it came to the ladies.

On a sharp exhale, he snagged Kuznetsov’s discarded towel from the floor, folded it into a bulky square and pressed hard on his chest. He’d heal. He’d hurt, but he’d heal. He always did.

He ought to be pissed. And he was. But there was something else in the mix. A bubbling stew of admiration and attraction that he didn’t want to look at too carefully.

Females were fun. Even the deadly ones were fun, given the right set of circumstances, along with a set of clean sheets. Sometimes, they weren’t even that finicky about the sheets.

Handle a woman right and even a succubus or a fire genie could be stroked into submission.

His encounter with Calliope Kane hadn’t been fun. She definitely hadn’t been remotely submissive. The events of the last two nights had left him with a flicker of doubt about his ability to cajole, caress or charm a female into acquiescence.

But only a flicker. He was nothing if not innovative. Yeah, given the right set of circumstances, and possibly a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, Ms. Kane might be brought under his hand.

The image was far too appealing.

He crossed to Pyotr’s walk-in closet, sifted through the contents and paused at a black silk robe. He laughed—talk about cliché—then winced at the pain. But the robe was perfect for his purposes. He dragged it off the hanger.

As he turned, the built-in storage caught his eye. The top had open shelves and the bottom a set of six narrow drawers. He went through them quickly. One for underwear. One for socks. One for silk handkerchiefs in a rainbow of colors. He pulled the top drawer open to find an array of neatly aligned watches on the velvet lining. Movado. Piaget. Tag Heuer.

Mal gave a low whistle. Looked like the High Reverend business was lucrative.

He helped himself to the Rolex. Shiny.

As he settled it on his wrist, he couldn’t help but wonder what the good Reverend would lock away in a wall safe behind a picture when he left such treasures out in a drawer. He wondered if the contents of that safe had monetary value or some other importance. He had time to find out. It would take him less than a minute to take the stairs to the ground floor and head off Ms. Kane before she left the building with Kuznetsov. It would take her a good deal longer than that to figure a way to get the naked Reverend downstairs.

Mal had the benefit of being able to pass unseen by human eyes. She didn’t.

Tossing the silk robe on the bed, he then went to the painting, swung it back and stood contemplating the safe. The High Reverend had sprung for the more expensive electronic locking system over combination or key, but he hadn’t gone all out for fingerprint identification. In less than a minute, Mal was in.

And he had his answer as to what Kuznetsov would deem worthy of locking away.

Pulling out his cell, he dialed Alastor. After several rings, his brother answered with a snarled, “What the bloody, fecking hell do you want?”

“I had Kuznetsov.”

Alastor was silent for a second, then, “Had? Past tense?”

“Yeah.”

“But have him no longer?”

Pulling the towel away, Mal stared at his blood where it flowered dark crimson on the off-white terry cloth. He pushed the towel back against the wound. “That’d be a yes.”

“And you’re calling me instead of haring off after him because…”

“I need you to come pick something up.” His gaze flicked to the safe.

“Bloody hell.” Alastor heaved a sigh.

He could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice and the sounds of Alastor shifting on something that had springs. A couch? A bed? Shit.

“Bad timing?” Mal asked, fairly certain that the woman was his brother’s mate, Naphré, and that the springs belonged to a bed.

“Incredibly,” came Alastor’s clipped reply. “Naphré and I just had a rather harrowing but successful adventure, the details of which will be of interest to you.”

“Yeah? I’m having a bit of an adventure myself. The details of which will be of similar interest to you and Dae.”

“But not on the phone.”

“No.”

“What exactly do you need me to do?” Alastor asked.

“That video Dagan got his hands on… You remember the blades?” Rhetorical question. They’d all watched that video enough times that they’d memorized every frame as they searched for clues.