Sins of the Soul

She opened her mouth to press, but he pinned her with a look and said firmly, “Nothing.”


Bending, he scooped up her discarded clothes. The movement cast shadows on his features, and she saw the new lines of fatigue, the exhaustion that etched his mouth and eyes. Her fault. She’d taken what he could little afford to share.

And she had to admit, she felt pretty damned good, all things considered. Thirsty, hungry, sore, but more in the way of an inconvenience than a major liability.

“Do you have more sugar?” she asked.

He reached down again and snared his coat and fished through a pocket. He came up with a mint, held it out to her, his expression solemn.

“Not for me! For you.”

He just stood there, holding the candy out to her.

Bounding to her feet, she took it. His eyes dipped to her breasts as they bounced and swayed. She laughed.

“What?”

“I’m thinking that tired as you are…no, more than tired…drained, you still look at me as though you want to tumble me on my back and—” She broke off as he grabbed her wrists and yanked her hard against him.

He lowered his face to her neck, traced his tongue along her pulse. “I do. I want to tumble you back and take my time making love to you. Hours upon hours. But I don’t have that luxury right now. Later, I promise.”

The paper crinkled as he unwrapped the mint and held it to her mouth.

“Not for me,” she protested again, but he pressed it against her lips.

But she’d learned from the master. Why argue, when agreement would suit as well or better? She opened her mouth and let him slide the candy inside.

Then, coming up on her toes, she twined her arms around his neck and brought her mouth to his. When he opened for her tongue, she slipped him the candy and danced away.

He watched her through narrowed eyes. “You’ll pay for that.”

“Promises, promises.”

There was a lightness to her mood that didn’t match their situation. They were still stranded in the Underworld, still uncertain of how to move forward or how to get out.

When she said as much, Alastor replied, “We’re together. You’ll watch my back. I’ll watch yours. We’ll figure it out.”

She stared at him, his words leaving her all warm and glowy.

“What?” he asked again, exasperated now.

“You said ‘we,’ not ‘I.’ You said ‘We’ll figure it out.’”

His lips twitched. “I wouldn’t put much faith in that, love. I’m merely pandering to your need for equality in a relationship. Catch.” He tossed her her clothes.

She pulled on her pants while he pulled on his slacks, but her shirt posed a problem. He’d torn it up the middle.

Lifting her head, she found him watching her with a hungry expression, his gaze fixed on her naked breasts. He was shirtless, wearing his slacks and shoes.

Without a word, he held his shirt out to her. There was a tear in the arm, stained dark rust with his blood, and a hole halfway down the back, also ringed in a circle of dried blood. She glanced at him and saw that those wounds had healed. Not even a faint scar remained. Then she looked back at the shirt. The holes weren’t the problem. The problem was that his shirt was white and when she put it on, the dark rings of her areolas were clearly visible through the cloth.

“Too distracting,” Alastor said. “Take it off.”

“And that will be less distracting how?” But she slid the shirt off her shoulders and handed it to him.

He snagged her knife and trimmed off the bottom half, folded it double, then cut two holes. She had no idea what he was about until he came up behind her, slid a hole up each arm, wrapped the cloth around to the front, crossed it over, and brought it to the back.

“There’s just enough for a knot.” His breath brushed the back of her neck and she shivered.

She looked down and realized he’d created a sort of wrapped, cropped top that offered modesty when she slid the remains of his shirt over it.

“Innovative.”

He smiled. “When I have to be.”

“But you prefer not to be.”

“I dislike the unexpected.”

She tiptoed up and pressed a brief kiss to his lips. “I’m getting that impression.”

He picked up his jacket and held it up before him. She expected him to put it on. Instead, he turned it end over end, and seemed to be measuring length. She watched him from the corner of her eye as she laced up her boots. He cut long strips from the back of the jacket, tied them together, then yanked on the ends to test the strength of the knots.

Apparently satisfied with his handiwork, he looped his makeshift rope around his waist, then hers. “The river tore us apart once. I’m not losing you again, love.”

And she wasn’t planning on arguing that.

Taking her hand, he drew her to the edge of the water.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

He nodded, then jumped, dragging her with him.