Sins of the Soul

“Do I?” He offered no explanation, just kept looking his fill.

She appeared confused for a second, and then—smart girl—her eyes widened and she took a long, slow breath. She knew he was looking at her, knew he liked what he saw. Hell, he figured she knew he wanted her.

There was an answering flicker of awareness in her gaze, a widening and darkening of her eyes, a parting of her lips.

He almost went to her, pulled her against him, the urge was that strong. He wanted to taste her, to push her, to make her give up a measure of control. No, not a measure. All. He wanted her to give up all.

He glanced at her bed, and pictured her there, her dark, straight hair spread on the white pillow. Her hands grasping the bars of the headboard. Better yet, her wrists tied there with dark-red ribbons, pulled taut as he licked and kissed and bit his way down her body.

In that instant, he was glad for the length of his suit jacket.

Her eyes widened even more. Her breath caught.

He wanted her naked. He wanted her willing.

If she took even one step, he would kiss her.

Then her gaze slid away, over his left shoulder, toward the door.

“Niko,” she breathed, looking past him.

Niko. Jealousy swelled, a dark, ugly tide, and he felt his control slipping away. He tightened the chains, holding it in check.

“There you are, my sweet girl,” Naphré cooed.

Girl. Alastor pivoted on his heel. Two enormous green eyes peered at him from the top of the armoire on the opposite wall. Then a sleek, black cat leaped down and sauntered out the door and into the hall.

For an instant, he said nothing at all, then, “I was picturing someone larger. Someone Greek. And male.”

“Excuse me?”

“Niko. Your roommate. I was expecting a man.”

She blinked. “N-E-K-O. Neko. Her name is Neko. It’s Japanese—” she shook her head and turned away “—for cat.”

Of course. What would Naphré Kurata call her cat, other than cat?

The dresser drawer was still open, and she’d knocked over the pile of folded items when she’d spun to face him. He walked over and lifted a scrap of cloth. Panties.

“White cotton?” he asked, rubbing them between his thumb and index finger. “Sensible. You wearing a pair like these right now?”

Her shoulders tensed. She turned very slowly, eyes narrowed, lips taut. “No.”

“Take down your pants, pet, and let me see,” he ordered softly.

For a second, he thought she’d come at him, hackles raised, claws bared. When she turned away, reaching for another garment, he realized that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to decimate her control while he kept his intact.

So he caved to instinct and stepped toward her.





CHAPTER TWELVE



ALASTOR STALKED HER, one step forward for each step back. Naphré crossed her arms over her chest and contemplated avenues of escape. Not because she was afraid that Alastor would come even closer. Because she was afraid that she wanted him to.

A strand of hair curved along his cheek, the color of pale ale. She drank in his features, clean and strong, and then he snared her gaze and she was drowning. Lost. The moment spun and stretched.

He took another step forward. She took another step back.

The wood of the dresser pressed against her and she froze, pulse kicking up a notch as she realized there was nowhere left to go.

She stared at him as he shucked his jacket and tossed it on the bed. Naphré noticed the fit of his shirt. Made to measure. As he moved, it accented his shoulders and chest.

Then she noticed the blood. On his sleeve and at the side of his waist.

“Kuso,” she hissed, reaching out to touch him, freezing with the tips of her fingers only millimeters away. He’d been shot in the alley. How could she have forgotten that? “You’re bleeding.” And this close, she could smell it, so wonderfully delicious.

Pure temptation for one such as she. Never had she been more aware of what she was, and what she had chosen not to become. His blood was a dark flower against the pristine white of his shirt.

“Are—” The word caught, and she tried again. “Are you okay?”

“I am.” His lips curved at the corners, his smile predatory, knowing. “Are you?”

No. She stared at the blood on his sleeve, tempted, so tempted, then slowly dragged her eyes back to his. Her heart was racing. Her legs felt wobbly.

It wasn’t just his blood that lured her.

Attraction. So inconvenient. So dangerous.

He leaned closer and rested his hands on the dresser, one on either side of her, trapping her, but not touching her.

She looked first at his right hand, then at his left, then she raised her head and met his gaze once more. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Common sense told her to push him away. But she seemed to have lost her grasp on common sense. Instead, she stood exactly where she was, feeling the heat of his body across the space between them.

“What about…?” She offered the only protest she could think of.