Sins of the Soul

“Fuck,” he snarled. “Fuck.”


If he did this, the choice would be his, not hers. If he did this he would be in control. If he did this he could bind her to him, because if he gave her his blood, her physiology would be altered. She would forever be a pranic feeder. She would need to regularly take the blood of another to survive. A human? He thought not. Once she’d sipped from his life force—a soul reaper’s life force—he doubted a mere mortal would satisfy.

Would she want this? Would she choose it?

No. She didn’t want this. She’d chosen a different life than this.

He would be forcing an existence on her that she had walked away from. She had the dark mark of the Asetian Guard in her skin, cut there by her own hand, but she had chosen not to complete her transition. She wasn’t blooded. She’d specifically told him she didn’t want to be.

Did the choice she’d made six years ago reflect the way she felt now?

What the bloody, sodding hell did he care? He wanted her alive. He wanted her with him. His blood would ensure that.

He thrust his hand in his pocket, closed his fingers on one of the hard, oval mints he’d taken from the crystal dish in her flat. Only two left. He unwrapped one, stuck it in his mouth, closed his eyes as the sugar melted on his tongue. Precious seconds ticked past. Then the glucose hit his stomach and was absorbed into his blood.

It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t last. He needed to work fast.

Reaching down, he slid her knife from the sheath in her boot. It caught the light of the crimson sky and reflected it back, making the honed edge look like it was already dipped in blood.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. They were glacier cold, unyielding, unmoving.

Horror closed its fist around his heart, squeezing, choking. She wasn’t breathing. He was too late.

He would not be too late.

With a snarl, he yanked up his sleeve and slashed the blade across his forearm, deep. Blood welled in a neat red line, then ran in rivulets down his wrist to his palm before dripping down his fingers.

He brought his hand toward her, brought his blood to her lips.

She was breathing. Barely. The faint huff of her breath touched his skin.

Panting, he froze, blood dripping from his fingertips to splash her cheek.

She didn’t want this. She hadn’t chosen this. She’d run from it, denied it.

“Bloody, fucking hell.”

He had no right. His pain, his loss weren’t justifications. He couldn’t take her choice the way Sutekh had taken his. The fact that, in the end, he liked being a soul reaper didn’t change what his father had done, forced him to take on a role whether he wanted it or not.

The way he felt about Naphré meant he couldn’t do that to her, not even to save her life. Love didn’t give him that right.

With a roar, he buried the blade in the rock-hard ground, all the way to the hilt.

Dropping his face into the hollow where Naphré’s neck met her shoulder, Alastor fought to rein in his raging emotions. But they were free, flowing through him, the pain terrible and sharp, mixing with the agony of his starving cells.

All he could think was that he would lose her. That she would be gone and he would know the agony of that loss. That he would have to live with the eternal circle of guilt and might-have-beens.

But living with the knowledge that he had stolen her humanity without her permission, that he had robbed her of the life she had expected would be hers the way Sutekh had done to him, was worse. He would not perpetrate such evil on Naphré.

“Alastor.” His name was no more than a breath.

He jerked back and stared down at her. Her eyes were open but unfocused, her lips parted. Slowly, she glanced to the side, her gaze locking on his hand where he balanced his weight against the ground.

His blood dripped from the deep gash to the parched earth. Where each drop fell, a dark stain spread.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. Her nostrils flared and he realized she could smell it.

Her gaze locked on his, hot, frenzied.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Hope unfurled, and he didn’t trust it, didn’t want to feel it. Couldn’t bear to be crushed when it died.

“Do you understand what you’re asking? What it will mean?” he rasped. He didn’t want to offer her the choice. He wanted to grab her and squeeze his blood into her mouth and force her swallow. He wanted to make this decision for her. And he had no right.

“I…understand.”

An eternity passed in a millisecond, and he didn’t dare examine the emotions that surged inside him, primitive, dark. Outside his control.

Cupping one hand behind her head, he lifted her and brought his slashed forearm to her lips. She clamped on the lacerated flesh, sucking, pulling.