Sins of the Flesh

“I’m guessing you can. I’m guessing the terrace was your backup plan all along. Before you knew I was there. Before you fed from me.” He paused. “You can contribute to the conversation any time, darlin’.”


She skirted a puddle on the sidewalk, her pace set slow and easy so as not to attract attention. As though walking down the street with a rolled-up carpet sometime near midnight was the most normal thing in the world.

But she didn’t say a word.

“I’ll just keep talking, then,” he said. “Those first-date silences are so…uncomfortable.”

Was that a slight tension creeping into her shoulders? A stiffening of her spine?

Flashing lights appeared at the far end of the street. He shook his head. There were Topworld grunts in the lobby, mortal cops on the street, and with the way this night was shaping up, Calliope Kane had reinforcements on the way. What should have been a straightforward hit-and-grab was turning into one big clusterfuck.

And he’d be a liar if he tried to pretend he wasn’t enjoying the chaos.

“You don’t strike me as the type to leave anything to chance,” he continued as the police car sped past. “I’d say you’re a planner. So I doubt that it was just a lucky break that the terrace happened to be there, four stories below the penthouse. You planned that escape route well in advance, and you knew exactly how far you’d be falling if circumstances demanded you use it.”

Another set of flashing lights appeared at the far end of the street.

“In my mind,” he continued, “that means a three-or four-story leap is something you can usually handle, even when you’re not hyped on my blood.”

She stopped dead and turned her head toward him, her expression unreadable.

“Your mouth is extremely attractive—” she said, her tone devoid of inflection “—when it’s shut.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. She turned and resumed walking, but her reaction told him he’d hit the nail on the head as he’d speculated about the scope of her power.

Nice to know. He stored the information for future reference. Next time he ran into her, he’d make sure they were at least five stories up, and he’d make sure she didn’t snack on him.

He preferred to have the upper hand.

The cop car slowed. Made sense. They were jogging through the night with a rug.

“Turn here,” he ordered, and Calliope surprised him by following his instructions, ducking into a shadowed niche as the police cruiser crawled past.

“Can you simply make us disappear?” No sarcasm in her tone. She meant that as a sincere question. Her voice was modulated, beautiful. Like a song.

Damn, her voice did things to him.

“No.”

The car moved along. She started walking again. He glanced to the left and watched her reflection in a glass-fronted building. The way she moved was a thing of beauty, all grace and sinew. And legs and boobs and ass.

And icy-cold control.

How long would that last if he started at the bottom and licked his way to the top?

He wanted to make her shatter.

On some level, he knew that his fascination made no sense. He never lacked for female companionship. Each one was beautiful. Each one was special. For a night. Then, the next one was special. That was just the way he rolled. He rarely encountered a woman who said “no,” and when he did, he simply turned to the one beside her who invariably said “yes.”

But something about Calliope Kane was extraordinary. What?

Damned if he knew. But he meant to figure it out.

“Why not?” she asked, and it took him a second to remember what they’d been talking about. If one-word answers could be considered a conversation.

“Thought you preferred my mouth shut…”

“I’ll make an exception for a coherent and concise explanation.”

“I’ll trade an answer for an answer. Take a look at this.”

She paused and glanced back at him over her shoulder.

He pulled the gold cartouche from his pocket and turned it so it caught the light of the streetlamp. But he kept his gaze locked on her face.

She was good. He’d give her that. Her eyes didn’t widen. She didn’t gasp. But while she might consciously control any overt reaction, she couldn’t stop the color from draining from her cheeks.

“Belong to anyone you know?” he asked.

“No.”

Reaching behind his neck, he undid his chain, slid the cartouche on, then refastened the clasp. She watched his every move, and he was careful to keep one arm looped around his end of the rug where it rested on his shoulder. He didn’t want to offer her even the whisper of an opportunity to take off on him.

“See—” he scrubbed his palm along his jaw “—I’m a very good liar. I’m even better at spotting other liars.”