Sins of the Flesh

…the male and female fiery serpents, to whom was given a head after it had been cut off. Your head shall not be taken from you afterward, Your head shall not be taken from you forever.

—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Chapter 166

CALLIOPE OPENED HER EYES. Her back was pressed against hard wood, the little bumps of her spine squawking in protest. She noted the familiar—the scent of the pine cleaner she used on her floors—and the unfamiliar—a man’s weight full and heavy on her chest. Mal’s weight.

She could barely breathe, but she tightened her arms around his back. She didn’t want him to move. The warmth of his skin, the lush, heavy sensation of his body on hers and the puff of his breath against the curve of her neck, were wonderful. And terrifying. Had she ever been in this position? Had she ever held a man in her arms, and been held in his, after she had taken what she needed from him?

If she had, she couldn’t pull up the memory.

She lay there, feeling filled and empty, buoyant and bereft, and she couldn’t explain why her emotions were bouncing around like a silver ball in an arcade game, sinking into a hole then popping up again, ready to roll.

Lifting up on his elbows, Mal shifted his weight, and again she tightened her arms around his back.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere, Calli.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I just figured you might need to breathe.” He paused then smiled at her.

“It’s been a while.” She didn’t know why she told him that. It wasn’t important.

Or, maybe it was.

“Define a while,” he said, stroking her hair back from her face, his eyes locked on hers.

“I don’t know.” But she did. She knew down to the day. And the truth was, being with a man had never been like this. “Two years. Maybe two and a half.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then drew her against him and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss so tender it made her senses sway.

“Been a while for me, too,” he murmured.

“Define a while.”

“Two weeks? Maybe two and a half?” He didn’t sound too certain, and there was a tinge of humor in his tone. His answer didn’t surprise her. She’d had no illusions about who he was.

Besides, who was she to judge him when she’d spent decades using men for sex to circumvent the necessity for blood?

Taking his weight on one arm, he drew back and stared down at her, his palm resting against her cheek.

“Calliope,” he said, her name honeyed and rich on his tongue. “Calli…I haven’t wanted anyone else since the second I saw you get out of the cab in front of Kuznetsov’s.”

She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. You couldn’t have even seen my face clearly.”

“I saw your face when you pinned me to the wall like a bug. And I felt the connection when I kissed you before Xaphan’s concubines so rudely interrupted us, and when you let me into your dream and kissed me at the base of the mountain.”

“I didn’t let you in. You arrived uninvited.”

He laughed. “Semantics.” He rolled to his side and drew her against him, pressing his lips to her crown. “I just need you to know…I’m not rushing to anyone else’s bed.”

“Apparently, you aren’t rushing to mine, either,” she said with an arch look at the floor beneath them.

“You want me to say it. Fine. I think we might have something here. You and me.”

Actually, she hadn’t wanted him to say it. She didn’t believe him. Didn’t know why he even made such an outlandish statement. “You’re crazy.”

“No doubt about it.” He paused. “I’m no prize. I lie. I cheat. I steal. Hell, I’d love to pretend I’m charming, to let you skim only the surface, because if you go even an inch deep, you might decide that what’s inside isn’t worth seeing, or knowing.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“What? That I’m not worth knowing?” He offered her that pirate smile. “Nah. I like myself just fine.”

His fingers splayed across her lower back subtly urged her closer.

“And I’m planning to hang around and see if you like me just fine.”

“Fair warning?”

“Something like that.” His hand rounded the curve of her buttock and squeezed. “Except I’m not a play-fair kind of guy.”

Flattening her palm against his chest, she held him off with only that flimsy pressure. “This is absurd. How can you say any of this? You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”

“You’re wrong, Calli. If I’d taken you to dinner a dozen times, would you have told me about that day in Odessa? Would you have told me about your father’s murder.”

“What? No, of course not.”