Sins of the Flesh

She wanted to pretend it was for Roxy that she’d made that call. That she hadn’t wanted her friend to suffer because her mate’s brother was burned to ash.

But a spark of honesty in the deepest part of her heart made her admit it was something else. She simply hadn’t wanted to see Malthus Krayl’s smile, his vitality, snuffed. And she hadn’t wanted him to suffer.

Because he hadn’t made her suffer.

He could have hurt her a million times over. Could have sacrificed her to the fire genies. And he hadn’t. He’d let her get away.

Narrowing his eyes, he studied her, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew much of what was spinning through her thoughts.

“And it’s a little hard to be appreciative of a phone call that cost you nothing,” he continued, “when it’s your fault I needed finding in the first place.”

He crossed to the door and leaned close so his ear rested against it. Apparently satisfied with what he did, or didn’t, hear, he straightened and said, “You’re from Odessa.” His tone was casual, but his attempt to glean information was transparent. “With a name like Calliope, I pegged you for Greek, not Russian.”

His gaze snared hers, mercury gray, and she just stared for an instant. Because he was handsome, with his dark hair falling across his forehead and the day-old stubble shading his jaw. And because she didn’t trust that look. Like he was reading her. Testing her. Seeing far more with a glance than she wanted him to.

Then his comments hit her. He knew about Odessa. Proof that he’d been there in her dream.

Feigning a calm she was far from feeling, she said, “My father was Greek. He was a sailor who came to Odessa, met my mother and stayed. At the time, a chunk of Odessa’s population was Greek.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “If your mother was anything like you, I can understand his choice.”

“Don’t.”

“You’ll have to acknowledge the attraction at some point, Calli.”

“At some point when hell freezes over?” she asked, her voice syrupy sweet.

He laughed softly. “Or at the very least at some point when you dream about wrapping yourself around me and sticking your tongue in my mouth. Or other fun places.” He paused. “I was sorely disappointed that you woke up at precisely that moment. Dreams don’t quite cut it.” His gaze cut to her mouth and lingered. “I’m looking forward to the reality.”

She held on to her serenity, showing him nothing of the turmoil that crashed through her.

“How did you find me?”

He shrugged. “I saw what you saw while we were plastered nice and close up against the hood of your SUV. You narrowed the search parameters nicely when you took a good look at your surroundings.”

Sick horror congealed in her gut. She’d led him here. Put a big, red pushpin in the map. She’d effectively betrayed the entire Asetian Guard.

“You were in my head.”

“Yeah, I was in your head then and again just now when you were back in your past. I saw what you saw. Felt what you felt.”

“Everything?” she asked, amazed that her voice was flat and even.

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. Then he said, “I know I turn you on.”

“You—” She closed her mouth, consciously lowered her shoulders and sought serenity. Unfortunately, it was a commodity in short supply at the moment. The best she could manage was gritting her teeth.

Then she kicked into soldier mode and asked the question she should have asked in the first place. “How did you get through the wards?”

His brows drew together. “Don’t know. Maybe they only ward off an earthly approach. A portal’s a back door, a union and fracture of the energy that surges between Topworld and the Underworld.” He shrugged. “Maybe the wards don’t take that into account.”

“How many other soul reapers have you brought here with you?” she demanded.

“Bossy bit of baggage, aren’t you?” He tipped his head a bit. “I came for you, Calliope. I came alone.”

Alone. How much danger did a solitary soul reaper pose to the entire Guard? She honestly had no idea. Much of what she knew about his kind was based on rumor and supposition.

Then it hit her, what he’d said.

“What do you mean, you came for me?” The wound in her side gave a sharp twinge, and she pressed her hand against it, feeling a warm rush of blood.

The skin at the corners of his eyes tightened. His lips thinned, and he didn’t answer her question. Instead, he moved closer and bent his head, parting the cut edges of her sweatshirt to look at the wound. Then he pulled a knife from his belt—her knife, one of the ones he’d taken from her the night they faced the fire genies.

She watched him warily as, with a decisive slash, he cut his own palm, deep. Blood welled in a thick, red line.

He lifted the hand with the knife and curled his fingers around the back of her neck. She tried to jerk away, but he held her still. The hilt of the knife was trapped between his palm and her neck, and she could smell his blood on the blade.