Sins of the Soul

The woman on the couch moaned, drawing his attention. She was sprawled with one leg hanging off the edge, and one arm extended awkwardly off to the side and down so her fingertips skimmed the floor. The other arm was tucked beneath her at an extremely uncomfortable-looking angle. With a shake of his head, Alastor rearranged her limbs, then shifted her head so her neck wasn’t twisted to one side.

When he looked up, Naphré was watching him, brows delicately arched over dark eyes. He could drown in those eyes. Not because he could read her thoughts there, but because he couldn’t. He couldn’t. It hit him then. He ought to be able to look into mortal eyes and see the shine or the tarnish of their soul. That’s the way it played out with every mortal he’d ever encountered. But with Naphré, all he saw was her. Her secrets and her soul were veiled.

It was as though she wasn’t purely human, though the energy signature he got from her said she was. A puzzle. One that had warning bells clanging.

“You’ve had experience taking care of unconscious women,” she said. Her gaze shifted to the woman on the couch, then back to his face, and he felt inexplicably defensive.

“It was an automatic reaction.”

He did have experience, but not the sort she thought. Unbidden, memories of his adoptive mother flickered through his thoughts, not the way she had been when he was small—which was the way he preferred to remember her—but the way she had looked lying in her bed near the end of her life, feeble, weak, insensate most of the time. He remembered slipping his arm behind her back and lifting her so she could sip a cup of water.

She’d died shortly after Sutekh took him. She’d never had the chance to see him one last time.

He’d never had the chance to say goodbye.

Hell, he hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to any of them. His family had died and turned to dust before he ever made it to Topworld once more.

Resolutely, he thrust the memories aside.

“She’d have a horrible crick if I left her like that,” he muttered as he turned away from the girl on the couch.

Seconds ticked past and Naphré made no reply. Then she offered one of those enigmatic, incredible, close-lipped smiles, more predatory than pretty. And blimey if he didn’t feel like the sun had come out.

She moved past him and rested her fingertips on the girl’s neck, checking her carotid pulse. Apparently satisfied, she turned away and called, “Niko? You here, baby?”

Then she went to the bottom of the stairs and called up, but again, there was no reply.

Niko. The roommate. Something dark uncoiled inside him, something possessive and territorial.

As though she sensed the rising tide, she glanced at him over her shoulder. Too late.





SHE DIDN’T EVEN SEE him move. One second he was five feet away, the next, he was crowding her back against the door, danger and heat, a perfect predator.

“We have a bit of unfinished business, pet.” He flattened his palm against the door by her head and stared down at her. She could see every feathered lash, and the faint gold stubble that told her he’d shaved hours past. “I don’t think so.” But she did. He’d kissed her in the alley. And now he was going to kiss her again. She was going to let him kiss her again.

He leaned in and brushed the side of his nose against hers. She ought to move away. But the part of her that was balking at the danger he presented was far weaker than the part of her that was wildly attracted to it.

Closing her eyes, she let sensation ramp through her as he moved his nose along her cheek and down to the angle of her jaw. The smell of his skin—like sunshine and tropical breezes—lured her, and the feel of his lashes fanning her cheek as he blinked.

She was trapped between the solid contours of his body and the door at her back. And she liked it. Liked the sensation of him looming over her, and the light touch of his lips on her throat.

With a little moan she arched her neck, wanting his mouth on hers. Her lips felt swollen. Her breasts felt swollen. She was aching for his kiss and the touch of his hand.

Lust. Only lust, she told herself.

But then she thought of the strange sense of recognition that she’d experienced the very first time she saw him at the Playhouse Lounge, and she wondered…

He drew back. She almost whimpered.

“So impatient, pet.” His smile was primitive. Bright white. “The tease is part of the pleasure. I like to take my time.” Something flickered in his eyes. Something dark and a little frightening. “Priceless art. Precious gems.” His lashes lowered, lifted. “Fleeting moments of pure joy. These things are meant to be savored, not rushed.”

Her breath caught. Was that what he thought she was? A fleeting moment of pure joy?

He lifted his hand and ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek. His touch made her skin sing.

And then he kissed her. He swooped in and took her, slanting his lips on hers. His tongue pushed inside, tasting her, claiming her. No tentative touch or gentle breach. He took what he wanted, and something deep inside her unfurled and answered.