Crimson Sins

by Madeline Pryce

  While he still had an ounce of self-restraint, he forced himself to stop. Channeling his magic, he used the tip of his tongue to seal the wound. He let go of her arm, her hip, and struggled to open his heavy lids. When he looked at her, he almost came in his jeans. Her eyes were closed. A sweet flush colored her cheeks, and between her teeth, she bit on her lower lip.

  “Wow,” she breathed. Her hand slipped down his shoulder to his chest, inadvertently caressing a line of fire down his abdomen. “That was more intimate than I imagined it would be.”

  The hard, pulsing length of his cock agreed. “About that.” He cleared his throat. When did he turn into such a pussy? Instead of apologizing, he said, “I didn’t mean to cross any lines with you. It won’t happen again.”

  He needed to stay far, far away from Morgan Cross.

  Still in a daze and seemingly oblivious to his raging hard-on, she fingered the smooth pink scar on her wrist. She gazed at it in wonder. Morgan looked to him. Surely he imagined the shy, almost embarrassed way she didn’t quite meet his gaze.

  “I can see why vampires in the romance books get all the chicks. That was really, really hot.”

  A rusty bark sounded, and it took Bastian a moment to realize he was the one laughing. Struggling to his feet, he held a hand out to her. Their palms met. The zap of awareness between them was less a tingle and more a fucking bolt of electricity. He pulled on her hand and hefted her up.

  They stared at each other, both of them silent. Neither seemed willing to break the contact. He’d promised to keep her safe. Apparently that promise included protection from him as well. He dropped her hand and stepped back.

  Bastian bent, picked up the razor, and dropped it in the sink. Under his breath, he muttered, “Yeah, well, zombies never get the girl.”

  He started the faucet and splashed water on his face. He looked up into the mirror. The haggard reflection of a man stared back at him. His hair was skewed, sticky with dried blood, and speckled with drywall.

  “I need a shower. Why don’t you take the bedroom? I’ll bunk in the living room with Rory.”

  Panic flashed in her eyes. Morgan drew her lower lip into her mouth and curled her arms around her stomach. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” She blew out a breath. “Can I stay, in here, with you? I promise I won’t look. I just…don’t want to be alone.”

  He could see that the admission that she might need someone other than herself had cost her. The crack in her tightly contained composure melted him. Damn it. He willed his cock to deflate, and reluctantly nodded.

  “It’ll get easier to be alone.” Without looking at her, he turned on the shower and peeled off his wet jeans.

  He stepped under the warm spray and tried to forget there was a woman not two feet away. A woman whose breasts were small yet firm. A woman who, despite her slender frame, had a curved backside.

  Get. A. Grip.

  Black water swirled down the drain, and it took him a good ten minutes to scrub his skin clean. He glanced out the glass door. Morgan leaned against the wall with her arms crossed on drawn-up knees and her turned cheek on her forearm. True to her word, she wasn’t peeking.

  He rinsed, lathered, and repeated until the last of the night’s adventures no longer clung to his body. Shutting off the water, Bastian then opened the door and stepped out into a cloud of steam. Water ran down his chest and legs, pooled at his feet. Humid air stole over his naked body and tightened his skin. He reached for a towel at the same moment Morgan turned her head.

  She glanced at his face; then her gaze flicked over his crude tattoo. She looked lower. Down a little farther. Almost comically, her eyes widened when she took in his partially erect cock. She swallowed, jerked her gaze up to his, and licked her lower lip. His penis twitched in response.

  “Sorry,” she squeaked, the cherry-red shine on her cheeks alluring.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist without bothering to dry off. He slid a hand through his hair and shook off the excess water. She looked at everything except him.

  “And now that we’ve seen each other naked,” he said. “I’d say we’re even. Come on; let’s get you into bed.”

  Poor word choice. Alone in bed. Tucked in by herself. Away from him.

  Morgan followed behind him and stopped uneasily at the edge of the bed. From the corner of his eye, he watched her as he pulled on a clean white T-shirt and a loose pair of running shorts. She trailed a finger over the wool blanket but didn’t climb in.

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

  Idiot.

  Yet what could he do? She looked so tired, so afraid. He remembered those feelings all too well. He’d always had Nolan and Rory. Morgan had no one.

  That wasn’t true, not anymore.

  Her face brightened. “Really?”

  He nodded.

  She crawled onto the bed, under the covers, and settled on the left side. Bastian knew she was of legal age, but compared to his two hundred years…she was a babe. Tucked in and fiddling with a stray thread, she looked so very young. He felt so very much like a pervert. Awkwardly he folded himself onto the small space of unoccupied bed. No matter how hard he tried, there was no way to adjust his body so he wasn’t touching her. Why had he gotten such a small mattress?

  She curled onto her side and peered at him through eyes already drifting closed. “Can I ask you a question?” She let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

  He adjusted himself more comfortably on the bed, used the hand under his head as a pillow. He tucked up his knees, and when they brushed her legs, he had no strength to pull away. “Sure.”

  Under the blanket, she shifted and nestled a little closer to his thigh, which somehow found its way between her knees.

  “When you fed from me, I could feel my…magic…moving inside you like we were connected.” She closed her eyes as if she couldn’t admit the next part while looking at him. “I’ve never felt anything as comforting. Is that normal, or am I suffering the effects of a serious dose of hero worship?”

  He was no one’s hero. “It’s the necromancy. You attract the dead. Naturally seek it out without even thinking about it. Your magic was drawn to the part of me that isn’t alive.” He wouldn’t tell her he feared he was drawn to her for the opposite reasons—his death to her life.

  “Okay, then.” Another yawn. Her eyes closed. Two seconds later she was asleep.

  He brushed her hair from her face and frowned. The minutes ticked by. Light spilled into the bedroom as the door cracked open. Bastian tore his gaze from Morgan. Guilt surged in the pit of his stomach, and he fought not to jump out of bed like he was doing something wrong.

  Nolan leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Did the healing go okay?”

  Bastian sat up and shrugged. “Ronan hurt her, but she isn’t broken. She’s stubborn as hell.”

  His brother glanced at Morgan and rubbed a hand through his hair in a habit they both shared. “She has no idea what she’s capable of, does she?”

  “Fortunately for us, not a clue,” Bastian agreed.

  Nolan drew in a breath. “Can I give you some advice?”

  He snorted. “Since when have you ever asked?”

  “I’ll cut through the bullshit. She’s a necromancer, Bastian, and you’re right, fortunately she doesn’t know what in the hell kind of power she could hold over us. Her magic was all over the zombies at her apartment. She has an affinity for them. Tread carefully, because this whole house reeks of magic from whatever in the hell you two were doing in here. She should smell of your magic, not the other way around.”

  Bastian inhaled, tasted cinnamon, and nodded. Her blood raced through his veins. Even unconscious, her magic sought the death inside of him. She had the innate ability to enslave him, just as Ronan had. “I’ve already come to that conclusion. I’ll keep my guard up. Don’t worry.”

  “You see.” Nolan clucked his tongue. “I am worried. You look at her,
and its stars dancing in your eyes, not fear. Think of her as a baby tiger. Very cute and cuddly, even I can admit that. But one day, that tiger will grow up with razor-sharp claws and fangs. She’ll tear your head off and feed the rest to her cubs.”

  Bastian shook his head. “Did you just compare her to a cat?”

  “Pussy is pussy, right? Get whatever it is out of your system, then get rid of her. She isn’t safe.”

  Anger sped Bastian’s pulse. He rose to his feet. “Fuck off, Nolan. I’m a big boy.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” Without another word, Nolan backed out of the room. The front door opened and shut. Bastian sat back down on the edge of the bed and stared out into the hallway. Rory’s soft snoring drifted through the open door. If his brother was snoring, that meant he was breathing. Good. Bastian lay back on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at the ceiling and decided to give himself one more minute before he got up. Thirty seconds later, sleep sneaked in and handed him over to the nightmares.

  Le diable waited. At his side, a rotted corpse stood. Gray flesh fell from bone. Sun-fire amber eyes stared, sightless. Auri opened her arms and beckoned Bastian home.

  “Come give Mommy a kiss,” his mother whispered through cracked, bloodstained lips.

  Chapter Eight

  In the quiet darkness of his bedroom, Bastian drifted in and out of sleep. He was warm, comfortable, and relaxed. Blissful lethargy weighed his limbs. Cinnamon filled his nose with every breath. His only desire was to trail his fingers along the canvas of silk beneath his palm, the decadent heat beneath his hand addictive. Craving more, he stroked up the indent of a spine, veered left to caress the curve of a shoulder.

  “Mmmm, that feels good. Let’s sleep forever,” a husky female voice purred against his neck.

  His half-coherent murmur echoed in the silence. “Agreed.”

  The slight weight on top of his chest snuggled closer. Where skin touched skin, heat spread. Two heartbeats pounded in one sated rhythm. He clung to the sensations and brought the warmth even closer.

  Wait a second. Why was there a woman on top of him?

  Bastian’s eyes snapped open. He waited for the sickness to hit—a side effect of the nightmares he normally had. Yet he hadn’t woken to a bad dream. He was in fucking heaven. For the first time in decades, he woke without ice-cold sweat pouring from his skin. No scream lodged in his throat. The torturous images of his past were a distant memory.

  He’d slept without pain or fear, only…comfort.

  Morgan, he now realized, wiggled on top of him as if trying to nestle closer. She buried her face between his shoulder and neck. Every soft breath moistened his skin. Each time she moved, the strands of her hair tickled his face. He inhaled and drew in a breath laden with cinnamon.

  Damn, he must have fallen asleep next to her.

  Acutely aware of the naked flesh beneath his fingers, he carefully drew his hands out from under her shirt and shorts, where he’d been cupping her ass. Just as he was figuring out how best to extract himself without waking her, she tightened around him.

  “Don’t go.” Her words were sleepy.

  She rotated her hips in a rolling stretch against his morning erection. Through the thin layers of their clothes, she was hot, wet, and apparently as aroused as he was. Under his shirt, her fingers spread against his sternum and curled into his chest hair. Her moist lips brushed the pounding pulse at his jugular. Anxiety warred with want. She was touching him. A lot of him. Electricity danced under his skin, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. The excited jerking of his erection made up his mind for him. Desire overrode the panic he felt when others, including his brothers, touched him.

  When she moved over him again, riding him, he grabbed her hips and held her motionless. “Stay still a minute.”

  He gritted his teeth and willed his impending climax away. How long had they been dry humping each other in their sleep?

  “Don’t wanna,” she protested, and it was obvious from her slurred words she was only half-awake.

  Despite his hold, she shifted her hips as if she was searching for the perfect position he’d so obviously ruined.

  Fuck, he really was going to come. Three. Two. No. No. No.

  “Stop wiggling,” he growled.

  Something in his tone penetrated her sleep fog. Morgan lifted her head from his neck, and a confused “Huh?” fell from her parted lips. Her lids opened, and she looked down at him through sleep-hazed eyes. Her brows knitted. She blinked. Ever so slowly, the realization sank in.

  He knew the exact moment Morgan realized she straddled his hard, ready-to-fucking-explode cock. She froze. Her eyes widened. Mortification dispelled all lingering signs of her desire.

  “Stop wiggling,” she repeated. “Please tell me I wasn’t…um. Oh, God. I was. I totally molested you in your sleep!”

  She moved back on his thighs until her sex no longer pressed against his erection. He was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Morgan pulled her hands from where they rested under his shirt. When she lifted to get off him, his hands shot to her hips to hold her in place.

  “I’m the one who fell asleep, so it’s not entirely your fault. Besides, it’s a small bed. On top of each other was probably the only way we were going to fit. If it makes you feel any better, I woke up with my hand on your ass.”

  A stubborn sweep of bangs fell across one of her eyes, and she pushed the crimson strands behind her ear. When her arm dropped, the angry red gash in the center of her palm caught his attention. The arousal he’d woken to vanished in light of everything she’d suffered the night before.

  Bastian sat up and pressed a hand to the small of her back to keep her in his lap. He told himself looking at her injury in this position would be easier. Bullshit. Cupping her palm, he brought her hand up to inspect the damage. Around the wound, teeth marks bruised the skin.

  He looked from the wound into her eyes and was determined not to dwell on how close their heads were or how intimately their bodies tangled. Figures the first woman he’d ever actually slept with was the one person he couldn’t fuck.

  “How are you coping with everything?” he asked, hoping to distract himself from thoughts of sex.

  She shrugged but made no move to get off his lap. “It’s easy to pretend last night was a nightmare. None of it feels real. I’m not dead. Not in any real pain. Hell, I’m not even afraid. I feel like I should be traumatized or in hysterics. But I’m not. I can’t remember the last time I slept so soundly.” Her gaze strayed to the gash on her palm. “Then, I look at this cut, and it makes me realize last night happened. I’m counting down the minutes until my nervous breakdown kicks in.”

  “Don’t keep it locked inside.” He knew from experience how detrimental a festering emotional wound could be.

  “I called you last night,” she said, changing the subject. “Before I found Ronan in my apartment.”

  He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

  “On my way home from work, two guys tried to pick me up. There was this young girl in the backseat. She was dead, just a little silhouette of a thing with tears streaming down her face. She told me how badly these men had hurt her. Jesus, she couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Her name was Lana. I left you a message at the station and thought about that time a few weeks ago when you’d asked to meet me face-to-face.”

  He trailed a finger down her cheek and smiled. He wondered what her lips would taste like. “You’ve got a really great phone voice.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “Right. I bet I was wanted for questioning.”

  “My captain wanted you in for questioning. I didn’t really care how you got the information. When I go back to work, I’ll take care of Lana.”

  “Thank you.” Her gaze drifted over his face before she looked away. “He enjoyed hurting me, you know? More than enjoyed. His laughter still echoes inside my head. When will it go away?”

  Bastian didn’t need to ask who “he” was. Bastian brought
her to him until her cheek rested against his chest. Skin to skin. It felt strange to hold someone without automatically remembering the decades of torture and torment. “I wish I could tell you that will fade, but it won’t. Even in my worst memories it’s his laughter that sickens me the most.”

  She spoke against chest. “Is it true that once you get bitten by a zombie, you’ll turn into one?”

  Maybe one day he’d get used to how frequently she changed topics. Pressing his nose into her hair, he closed his eyes and inhaled. He could still smell his shampoo on her. “No. Is that what the teeth marks on your palm are?”

  “Yes. I let one of the dead that Ronan had with him bite me. Okay, ‘let’ is the wrong word. I encouraged him to, I guess.”

  Bastian recalled the headless corpse and then the other body with the hole in the middle of its chest. His father had said he had needed to teach her a lesson on etiquette. She’d stolen his zombies with nothing more than blood and a thought. No training. The untapped power inside her was more than scary. Not that he’d ever tell Nolan, but his brother had a point about her being a kitten ready to grow into a tiger.

  He pulled her from his chest so he could look into her eyes. “Not the ‘dead.’ Those two men you ‘encouraged’ were Ronan’s blood slaves.”

  She looked at him in confusion. “What’s the difference?”

  “Both are reanimated corpses, but think of a blood slave as being a deluxe, long-term model. With a human sacrifice, a skilled necromancer can gather enough death magic to make the zombie being raised look remarkably lifelike. They can give it purpose and the strength to follow orders, to speak. Ronan has the ability to make his blood slaves appear human if he wants. For shits and giggles he even gives them a parody of a heartbeat.”

  “That’s really creepy. How long do they last?”

  He thought of his mother and lost himself for a moment. Gray, shriveled skin fell from bone. Bloodstained lips. Her once-bright amber eyes dulled. The one thing that had not changed was the riot of black and sapphire curls hanging down her back.