Sins of the Soul

“Not just yet.” She blocked his way.

He could push her aside, but he didn’t dare touch her. If he touched her, he would kiss her. If he kissed her, he wouldn’t stop. The taste he’d had of her had been a morsel, an appetizer, whetting his appetite for the meal. He wanted her to be his meal. Bloody hell.

“You don’t make my decisions for me, Alastor. And before I make one for myself, I need more information. Why would I have a free pass to Izanami’s realm? Tell me exactly what the Shikome said to you.”

“She told me to bring you. That you were my ticket in. That without you accompanying me, I’d be shit out of luck.”

Naphré tipped her head a bit to the side and the corners of her mouth twitched. “Those were her exact words?”

“I’m paraphrasing.”

“But I’m the key?”

“So she said.”

“And you don’t find that odd?”

Oh, he found it exceedingly odd. Just as he found it odd that Naphré’s name was in Sutekh’s book of debts, though she claimed to have had no dealings with him. And he found it odd that she’d been summoning a demon that didn’t exist, when she was indentured to a god. And odd that she was a bloody Topworld assassin. Everything about her, about them, about this situation, was bleeding, sodding odd.

“Odd or not, the circumstances are what they are.”

“Then I’m going with you—”

“Too dangerous.” He spoke so quickly he drowned out her declaration.

Her lips curved, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How is that your call to make?” The softness of her tone only accented her anger. He’d stepped on her toes. Hard.

“Do you understand nothing? I’m trying to protect you, and I’m bloody well sacrificing a great deal in order to do it.” Possibly sacrificing his entree into Izanami’s realm, his chance at Butcher’s darksoul, his chance to gain information about his brother. Of course, if he couldn’t get in legitimately, he could always find a back door. Sutekh wouldn’t be pleased because it would set Izanami solidly against him, but Alastor would deal with that difficulty when the time came.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.”

“And I didn’t ask to feel this urgent drive to do so,” he snarled. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since the night I saw you at the Playhouse Lounge.”

She inhaled sharply. “What are you talking about? You barely glanced at me.”

He wanted to shake her. Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her against him. Her head fell back as she held his gaze.

“Black jeans,” he rasped. “Bomber-style black jacket. Black sweater. Black hiking boots. No necklace. No earrings. No rings. You tried to make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. And your round, sweet, delectable arse made that bloody impossible.”

For endless seconds, he just stared at her, waiting for her to rail at him, hit him, pull away.

“My arse?” She frowned and shook her head. Then, “I forgot about the boots.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t forget a bleeding thing.”

He ought to let her go.

Instead, he lowered his head and kissed her, lips and tongue and teeth. A kiss of claiming and taking and need.

She kissed him back, her lips clinging to his when he pulled away.

“You’re staying here, pet.”

“She’ll just come for me again.” She was breathless, her lips wet from his kiss. But she didn’t give an inch. “The fact that you want to fuck me…oh, sorry, I mean shag me…gives you the right to decide my actions? I don’t think so.”

She stood toe-to-toe with him, glaring up at him, daring him to try and make her submit to his will.

Shag her? He wanted to do far more than that. He wanted to claim her. Own her. Some uncivilized thing inside him was screaming for him to mark her as his and let no one dare trespass. He shook his head, kept his tone cool and even. “This has nothing to do with wanting to shag you.”

“Then what does it have to do with?”

“With…” He raked his fingers back through his hair, caught himself halfway through the uncharacteristic action, froze, then dropped his hand. “It has to do with needing to know you are safe. That you’re here—”

“Waiting for you barefoot in the kitchen?”

“Yes. No. Bloody hell.” How was he supposed to explain this to her when he didn’t understand it himself?

She huffed out a short breath, pressed her palms against his cheeks and rose up on her toes so her mouth was inches from his. “I won’t wait here for you, Alastor, pacing and wringing my hands. Another girl, maybe, but not me,” she whispered, her breath fanning his lips. “I won’t take orders from you—” she caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit down, hard enough for him to feel it, not hard enough to break skin “—except, maybe, in bed.”