Sins of the Flesh

“Rescue me?” That startled a laugh out of her. “Why?”


“Because I can—” he held up a hand to still her protest “—even though you don’t need me to.” He dipped his chin toward the blonde on the floor. “I know that if I didn’t show up, she’d still be lying on the floor regardless, only you’d have been the one putting her there. It’s one of the things I like about you—” he let his gaze drift to her lips, her breasts, then back to her eyes “—among others.”

“Silly—”

“Little. Boy,” he finished for her. “Yeah. Silly for you.” He waggled his brows. “But not so little.”

She looked as if she was going to react, and he found himself anticipating it, only to be disappointed when she schooled her features and made no reply.

Catching her hand, he drew her a step closer as he summoned a portal. He made a circling gesture, as though he was turning a doorknob. A great, gaping black hole appeared in the corner. It seemed to pull in on itself then bulge out toward them, tendrils of dark smoke reaching out like fingers. Incredible cold radiated through the room.

“You don’t need to trust me,” he said softly. “But you can’t trust the Guard, either.” Again, he dipped his chin toward the unconscious woman on the floor.

Her nostrils flared as she drew a sharp breath.

“And one small thing, Calli,” he continued, his tone growing softer still, his hold on her tightening because he had a feeling that what he was about to tell her just might be the thing that made her bolt. “Those men who killed your father? The ones you thought were like demons from your grandmother’s Russian folktales?”

She wet her lips, then rolled them in and pressed them together.

“They were.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, serene, calm, betraying none of the unease that he was certain coiled just beneath the surface, a breath away from erupting. “Were what?”

“Demons. My guess would be incorporeal. They slid into those bodies and wore them like suits.”

Beneath his fingers where they circled her wrist, he felt her pulse ramp up.

She cocked a brow. “Reapers can do that? Take over human bodies?”

“No.”

“Then what are you talking about, soul reaper?” The question came out on a whisper.

“I think you might use my name. Mal. Soul reaper seems so…impersonal.”

Her jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

The moment of truth had arrived, and he was going to offer it to her. The question was, would she be glad to hear it?

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he muttered. Then, “You watched your father get his heart ripped out. Soul reapers do that, no question. The hearts we take are a peace offering for Osiris to keep the cease-fire intact. The darksouls we harvest go to Sutekh.”

“I saw them—”

“Yeah, you did. And thanks to you stealing my blood, I saw them right along with you.” He stepped toward her until he was close enough to smell the scent of her skin, see each individual dark lash that framed her amazing eyes. “Soul reapers don’t drink human blood. We don’t eat human hearts. Your father’s killers did both.”

She stared at him, her breath coming in short pants, her lips parted.

He pulled her to him as he dipped his head and spoke against her ear.

“It wasn’t a soul reaper that killed your father, Calli. You’ve spent your life sporting a hate-on for the wrong fucking monsters.”

He knew she heard him. He knew she understood. But she didn’t give a damned thing away. Seconds ticked past, agonizingly slow, and she offered no reaction. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t flinch. Nothing at all.

Finally he leaned back in a languid arc. Those incredible eyes were fixed on his, and then slowly, slowly, her gaze slid to his mouth.

An invitation.

One he wasn’t inclined to refuse, even though on some level, he knew it made no sense.

Lowering his head, he kissed her.

She didn’t just let him, she met him, coming up on her toes and angling her head so he had better access to feed off her mouth. She was lush and warm and so damned sexy, her lips opening under his, her tongue twining, thrusting and parrying with his own.

A swell of satisfaction surged. He was back on familiar turf. He knew nothing of emotional connection. But this surge of lust, the blood rushing to his dick and a woman pliant and willing in his arms…this he knew.

And he didn’t want to examine too closely the part of him that threw back its head and howled. Because she was in his arms. Because she was turning to him for comfort. Because she was his.

Skimming his palm along her back, the indent of her waist, the swell of her hip, he learned the feel of her, kissing her deeper.

In the part of his brain that could actually think, he was aware that this was a piss-poor idea. They were in a cell in the bowels of a compound of hostile supernaturals. The timing couldn’t be worse.

And he kissed her anyway.