Dark mission 04 - Sacrifice the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  She flattened a hand on his shoulder, pushed hard enough that his knees buckled. “Want to bet?”

  He sat before his balance gave out. Touch him? Touch his wound?

  He studied the obstinate angle of her chin. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Try me.”

  Parker Adams didn’t like blood. He’d figured that out already—her skin turned green when she saw the stuff. Her forehead and hands went clammy. Classic signs. How she managed to function in a society that demanded blood on a daily basis intrigued him.

  One more fact he found captivating about the strangely compelling director.

  The day she’d tended to his wounds, he’d known. And the fact she offered now only ratcheted up the tension, the clash of needs and wants and questions scrabbling for dominance inside him.

  He wanted her. He didn’t want her to want him.

  Didn’t want to keep her. Didn’t want to leave her.

  What the fuck was wrong with him?

  “Fine,” he said evenly, conceding a battle he already realized he’d lost. “You can help me with that.”

  Just her and his blood.

  An object lesson involving her own limitations.

  Simon dropped his hands to the thick bandages wrapped around his stomach and sides. Finding the edge, he jerked it loose, ignored the stretching, shifting burn as every move pulled his torn flesh.

  Her gaze dropped to the unraveling cloth.

  Widened as it revealed the first blotches of brown. It’d get redder as the layers peeled away. Bloodier. Messier.

  The color in her cheeks faded, but she took a deep breath.

  Go away. Why did she have to be so stubborn?

  She didn’t leave him. Didn’t faint, didn’t even take a step back. Despite everything he knew, everything he’d hoped—even as her lips flattened into a white line and that bloom of sweat appeared on her forehead—she stepped closer. Reached out.

  His breath locked in his chest as she caught his hands in hers, stilling his rapid, wrenching efforts with only a touch. A gentle grip, so at odds with the cold sweat gathered in her palms.

  She met his gaze. Her own all but screamed her revulsion.

  And her resolve.

  “Let me,” she said, her husky voice strained.

  Simon couldn’t bring himself to make this worse.

  Couldn’t bring himself to admit that he wanted her hands on him, no matter how he got it.

  He let her take the bandage end. Held his arms away from his sides and watched her face as she unwound yards of stained bandages. Every layer revealed another swath of blood. Another vibrant stain where he’d left the old bandages in place to soak into the new.

  Silence settled into the bedroom. Broken only by the rustle of fabric, by the hammering pulse in his ears and his determinedly aroused erection.

  By her breath, a little too fast.

  And by her sympathy as the no-longer-white material peeled away. “Oh, Simon,” she whispered. Did she know what she did to him as she curved one hand over his ribs? Did she feel the way his heart thudded within the cage of his chest?

  He stared down at the crown of her head, the lamplight picking out glints of gold in her copper hair, and he wanted to tear that fucking rubber band from the end of her braid. To sink his fingers into that cool mass of silk and flame and bury himself in everything that she was.

  Her taste, her texture. The sound she’d make when he filled her.

  The way she’d gasp his name.

  He flinched as Parker gingerly grasped the corner of a blood-soaked square. “Just pull it,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s kinder.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Bracing her hand against his shoulder, she peeled the crusted pad from his side. Pins and fire radiated through his hip. Up into his ribs.

  Simon hissed out a curse, stiffening. His hands fisted behind his back.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She dropped the bloody square like it burned.

  But even as her throat worked, as he heard her swallow hard enough to hurt, she flattened both hands on either side of his shoulder, just over his seal and the bar code beneath it. Steadying him. Reassurance?

  He didn’t need her support. Yeah, he did. “Don’t move. I’m going to get some water to clean this up.”

  She flitted away like a creature made of fire and light—too fast for him to stop. Too bright for Simon to do anything but stare, bemused at her contrariness. At her stubborn refusal to give in to her own phobia and make something in this whole thing go right for him.

  It was that same core of tenacity that had her angling to get back to the Mission. Right the wrongs being done to her crew, no matter his certainty that she’d already lost them all.

  Did she even consider the dangers to herself?

  He breathed through the pain, his mind cataloging it, storing it away where it wouldn’t impede his ability to function. He’d always been good at that. Good at compartmentalizing all the things that weighed on his shoulders—the labs, the witches he killed. And Mattie, whose last act still haunted him.

  Now Parker. What was it about her? Why did he feel so . . . so fucking at peace around her?

  Why did he let her tend him?

  Because it pleased her?

  Because it pleased him.

  Motherfucker.

  She returned quickly, carrying a bowl of water and towels from somewhere in the apartment. Tendrils of hair around her ears clung damply to her cheeks, as if she’d splashed water on her face, but her eyes remained steady, her hands sure as she dipped a cloth into the water. “Bear with me,” she said, professional briskness so out of place in this bedroom. “This might hurt.”

  Not any worse than anything else Simon had handled lately.

  He forced himself to be still. To lock every muscle down, clamp down on every urge to touch her as she dragged the soft towel over his skin.

  “The edges are too ragged,” Parker said, copper eyebrows knitting as she cleaned the blood away. Her voice, unlike her hands, wasn’t steady. “You’ll need stitches.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “It’ll scar.”

  Simon gritted his teeth. Scars didn’t bother him. Not nearly as much as the feel of her soft hands on him.

  The wound had stopped seeping, anyway.

  She dropped the soiled cloth, picked up another, and renewed her efforts until the second cloth turned pink. The cold cloth skimmed over his side, around his back, wiping away the blood smear.

  Sending shock waves of ice and fire through his body.

  “Your bullet wound looks like it healed okay,” she said. As the cold cloth skimmed over his lower back, as she braced one hand between his shoulder blades, Simon’s fingers curled into fists. “Was that from Parrish?”

  He jerked. Her hand fell from his back as he rose from the edge of the bed, stepped away from her. All but ran. “It was just a witch,” he said flatly.

  Another towel hit the floor. “Simon.”

  “Leave it alone, Parker.” He didn’t dare turn.

  Couldn’t stop himself as she laughed, a husky sound that stroked a velvet line over his senses. “Every time you tell me to leave it alone,” she said, amusement warring with the strained remnants of fear in her voice, “it always comes back to bite me.”

  He frowned at her, all too aware of the cool air against his damp skin. Of his shirt discarded on the floor by pink- and red-stained towels.

  Of her stare. Forthright. Challenging.

  “This one won’t.” And because he wanted her on the defensive, he smiled. A curve, a flash of teeth that had nothing to do with humor, and he knew it. “It’s a last-ditch effort from a dead woman.”

  Parker’s amusement drained, as clear as if he’d pulled a plug. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  Her mouth twisted. “You really aren’t, are you?”

  Just one more lie he’d fed her.

  H
e was sorry as fuck.

  Sorry that Mattie hadn’t lived to see her plans—whatever they’d been—come to fruition. Sorry that she’d never see what became of her machinations.

  Sorry as hell he’d been the one to find her, to watch her die from the poison she’d drunk so he wouldn’t have to go back to Lauderdale and get caught in a lie.

  Simon looked up at the ceiling. The elegantly wrought light fixture flickered faintly, a subtle glimmer.

  No answers there. Only the insistent pressure locked up in his gut. The faint headache he couldn’t shake and the awareness of her. In the same room.

  In reach. It’d be so goddamned easy.

  When his gaze met hers, he didn’t even try to hide the animal need riding him. He stripped away the thin veneer of propriety, let her see exactly how much torture it was to stand here and let her touch him.

  To let her think she had any say at all in what he did.

  “Go away, Director,” he warned softly.

  Parker took a step back. Her red toenails gleamed in the golden lamplight; just one more shaft of heat spiraling in his gut. Lust red. Blood red.

  Her cheeks flushed. “I’m not some kid—”

  “Stop.” Her mouth closed under his low, forceful command. “Don’t . . . do that. None of that. Don’t come in here and be brave for me, don’t try to sympathize.”

  She licked her lips, and his eyes dropped to the motion.

  His dick hardened to near pain.

  “Don’t even be in here,” he finished roughly. “Turn around and leave right now, Director, or I will make good on every threat I’ve ever made you.”

  “Parker.”

  His eyebrows climbed. Slow. Incredulous.

  Her palms slid along her thighs, wiping the damp traces of her sweat, his watered-down blood, against her jeans. Nervous and restless. “It’s Parker.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “You’re doing it again,” she replied, squaring her shoulders. “You can’t even trust me to know what I want to do.” Her tongue darted out again, as if she couldn’t help it. As if she didn’t know what that pink swipe across her lower lip did to him.

  His laugh twisted to something near pain in his chest. Came out half a growl. “You don’t want to waste your time with me.”

  She couldn’t hide her trembling as she raised both hands to the first button of her blouse. “Try me.”

  His mouth dried as the first button slid free. Bared an inch of skin, the line of her collarbone. And every . . . nerve . . . detonated.

  Simon closed the gap between them, all but pounced on her before she could do more than take another step back. The backs of her knees slammed into the bed frame, sent her sprawling over the mattress. He followed her down. Crowded her, trapped her between his splayed hands on either side of her head. His knees framed her legs.

  She stared up at him, her eyes bottomless and wild. Her lips parted.

  Simon ignored the ache in his head, his side. Ignored the exhaustion hammering at him. Every cell in his body shuddered with the intensity of his need.

  “One chance,” he said, voice lashed to a taut, strained effort. It was all he could manage. “Order me to go. Tell me you don’t want me here, right now. Treat me like your missionary. Director.” But it wasn’t a taunt this time. He wielded her title like a shield; like a lifeline leading her back to safety.

  All she had to do was take it.

  Parker stared at him. Met his eyes and didn’t flinch.

  She should have.

  “It hasn’t worked before,” she said huskily.

  Holy God. “Only because I’m an asshole,” he said roughly. He’d make it work. He’d have to; this couldn’t happen. Not like this. Not with him. He wanted to— Christ almighty, he wanted to. That was the problem.

  “Simon.” Raising one trembling hand, the very tips of two fingers stroked over his bottom lip. “You told me I’d scream.”

  He groaned, shifting his weight to capture that hand. Deliberately, he yanked it away from him, pinned her wrist to the mattress. “You brought this on yourself,” he whispered, and seized her mouth in a kiss that tasted of anger as much as it felt like finding home.

  This was it. No turning back.

  As Simon’s lips covered hers, brushed across them and set every nerve ending she possessed on fire, Parker raised her only free hand and threaded her fingers through his short hair. As he so often did to her, she cradled his head, held him while her mouth strained to meet his passion, match his intensity.

  He kissed like a man drowning. Starved for air, for the touch of someone—anyone.

  Parker shuddered beneath his onslaught, nowhere near gentle but determined, sweetly savage, only barely restrained by the thinnest control.

  Her body arched as heat swept from her forehead to heels. With just a kiss, he started something in her that Parker didn’t know how to describe. Like heat lightning and laughter all at once; like the most insidious drug swirling through her stomach, between her legs.

  And all this with just a kiss.

  As his mouth slid to her cheek, lowered to her jaw, she sucked in a shaking breath, throwing her head back to give him easier access to the sensitive skin of her throat. He moved over her, sliding a knee between hers, his powerful shoulders flexing as he lowered his mouth to her neck. Every stroke of his lips, every flick from his teasing, tasting tongue dragged another portion of her self-control to hell.

  No. It wasn’t about his future. Their future. Maybe they didn’t have one; Parker didn’t dare assume this was anything but sex between two adults, physical and wild. Giving in to the want and the temptation.

  There was too much at stake to be anything else.

  The stucco ceiling offered her no answers, only a formless glow of lamplight that painted his face in harsh lines of gold and shadow. It dipped into the hollows beneath his cheekbones as his lips traced her skin to the top of her blouse. His tongue flicked out, a brief caress that pulled at her swirling insides, before his teeth closed over her flesh. A nip. Just hard enough to curl her toes.

  Parker gasped, her back arching, hips raising in shameless delight and meeting only the powerful muscles of his thigh between her legs. Grinding herself against it shot fireworks through her body, too hot, too fast. Not nearly enough. She groaned on a shuddering exhale, laughed when Simon’s chuckle ghosted over her sensitized skin.

  Shifting his weight to his knees, deliberately pushing his thigh into the juncture of hers, he pulled her fingers away from his head and turned them palm up. His eyes gleamed, wicked green and gold as his gaze met hers. Held it.

  When he pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, something in Parker’s chest tightened. It stole her breath, her voice.

  His tongue flicked out. So soft compared to the solid muscle of his thigh, tight against her body. Insistent pressure where she wanted it most. He transferred her hand to the same easy shackle that held her right wrist captive and pinned her flat against the bed.

  Thrilling. His strength, his needs fueled hers. His fingers at her wrists, callused, forceful enough to leave marks, warned her that he wasn’t playing. Not this time.

  Was he ever?

  She hoped not. Arousal so sweet, molten hot, stole every inhibition she had left.

  She wanted him to take her. Take her, God, like . . . like some kind of prize or possession. Use her, make her scream. Just like he’d promised.

  Was that wrong?

  Did she care?

  “Earth to Parker,” Simon said, his voice husky with arousal mirrored starkly in his angled features. Firm and apparent behind his zipper. His smile flashed, rueful. Edged. “You along for this ride?”

  Parker opened her mouth and swallowed her words as he hooked his finger at the collar of her blouse. Too easily, he flicked a button open with thumb and forefinger.

  “Because I think I know what you like.” His words fell over like silk, feathered delight and embarrassment through
her. “But you need to be clear with me, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you.” Another button popped open, and another. “Okay?”

  She nodded, once. “So . . . so far, so good,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Again, he smiled. Mind-alteringly sexy. Slowly, as if savoring every inch of her skin each button revealed, he worked his way down her shirt.

  Parker bit her lip as the last button slid free.

  Would he see her as she saw herself? Attractive enough in clothes, nothing special outside of them, Parker wasn’t a woman who took to admiring herself in mirrors.

  But the look in Simon’s eyes—awe and appreciation and raw, visceral lust—told her she didn’t have to bother. As he pulled away one flap of her shirt, baring the lacy edge of her beige bra, his smile crept into his eyes. Crinkled them.

  His fingers settled over her ribs. “Your skin is so smooth.” Slowly, he traced her ribs, a feather-light touch. Parker squeezed her eyes shut, all too aware of the fluttering way her stomach jumped beneath his so-slow exploration. “You smell like what I always imagined the desert would smell like.”

  She huffed out a laughing groan as the second half of her shirt fell aside. “It’s my perfume.” She flexed her arms, pulled at his grasp, but it only tightened around her wrists. More erotic than imprisonment had any right to be.

  “I know. That perfume I told you to wear again.” She jerked, gasping as his mouth settled just over her navel. A kiss, slow. Deliberate. “That was the day I decided to get you here.”

  Heat climbed her cheeks, not all of it simple passion. “I just— It’s my perfume, I always—”

  Simon nipped at the soft flesh just over her hip. She cried out, half in pain that didn’t really hurt, half in shock. All desire. “Don’t lie to me, Parker,” he said roughly against her skin.

  “I’m not,” she gasped.

  “Yes, you are.” With no more warning than that, he shifted his grip on her hands and yanked her upright. He didn’t let her go to do it, forcing her arms straight, baring her bra to him. Parker’s eyes flew open.

  And then she wished she’d kept them closed.