Lure of the Wicked Part 40

He knew it wasn't true the instant he said it, but that wasn't the point. Juliet had always been too soft. Everyone had known it.

Her sister had known it.

Promise me.

The knife at his throat jerked. A thin, slick line of fire told him how sharp the d.a.m.n blade was. It'd make a b.l.o.o.d.y mess of his flesh faster than he could get it away from her.

"You could only be so lucky," she spat. "I want to know why, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Why?"

Why? She wasn't asking why he wasn't dead. He didn't have that answer, anyway. No, he knew what she asked in the single, strained syllable, and closed his eyes.

Why had he betrayed the coven?

Not precisely.

More like, why the h.e.l.l had he wrapped her body around him like silk and rain? Lost himself in her, pulled her apart with anger and need and mind-scorching heat and then betrayed everything she'd ever believed in?

The fact that he'd murdered her sister was something she didn't know to ask. f.u.c.k.

And you promised!

G.o.d, he wished he hadn't. "Why what?" he asked, and because he already knew the answer, added, "Why didn't I say no when you threw yourself at me or-"

The fingers in his hair tightened, wrenching his head back on an angle that threatened to pop his neck. She leaned over him, body pushed forward to thrust her face over his. Her eyes were wide, too wide, s.h.i.+mmering with tears that crawled deep inside his chest and twisted. Bloodier than the knife at his throat.

Darker than the rage that beat at the iron chains of his self-control.

"You know!" The words broke on a ragged sound. "Why did you kill them? Why? When we-"

"We," he said flatly, cutting her off with barely leashed scorn. "There never was a we."

She blanched. Recovered so quickly that he wasn't sure he'd seen the blood his verbal dagger had drawn. "We," she repeated through gritted teeth, "as in the Coven of the Unbinding. We as in your friends!"

"Liar." Her knee dug into the hollow beneath his left shoulder blade. Neon flashed, and only part of it was the monotonous color outside the seedy motel. The rest popped and sparkled behind his eyes, accompaniment to the ruined skin she pushed on.

"They were your family-"

"Bulls.h.i.+t," he rasped, all but a growl under the pressure. "They were users. Curio only kept you for your magic." And, rumor had it, for her body.

He didn't ask. Even as the words leaped to his lips, he didn't want to know.

He'd had that body, too.

One of many things he'd shared with the late coven leader.

The knife lowered, a fraction. "You killed them. All of them," she accused, a sharp whisper. "They gathered because they trusted you-"

f.u.c.k. They'd gathered because they had intended to sacrifice Caleb and his sister for their power-hungry cause.

"-and you just . . . killed them." Her voice trembled.

"Most of them," he agreed. Some, like her, he'd managed to distract. Some he'd gotten free.

Her eyes flickered, her face upside-down but still so fragile, it stole the breath from his body. Black hair dye wouldn't make her tough. "Why?"

His jaw locked. Ticked hard. "Because I could."

He hated himself for doing it. He hated that it had to be done. But Caleb was a lot of things, and gentle wasn't one. Reversing her flimsy position of power was easy-just reaching up, seizing the back of her jacket, and hauling her bodily over his head.

His scars stretched, felt as if they split from the root to the skin, and the angry buzzing in his ears almost drowned out her howl of rage and surprise as she hit the ground on her back. The knife went flying, and Caleb rolled off the mattress seconds before it embedded itself into the wall beside them.

Plaster drifted lazily on the air as Caleb knocked her fist away, seized both hands, and pinned them above her head. The motion barked his knuckles on the rusted bed frame, and he grunted a curse as her knee found his gut. Twisting, he pinned her legs, clamped his thighs around hers, and locked her down.

She strained, but succeeded only in turning herself red with the effort. Dust puffed languidly around them. Sweat dripped from his nose as he stared down at the face he'd hoped to h.e.l.l to never see again.

Love. G.o.d d.a.m.n it, it had never been his to feel.

"Stop it," he ordered roughly as she twisted her hips.

"You traitorous son of-!"

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h. Yes, I know." He transferred her wrists to one hand, dropping his forearm to her throat. He shoved hard, forcing her head to lie still against the dirty green carpet, and met her eyes exactly because he didn't want to.

The accusation in them didn't quite hide the helplessness she struggled to bury. The grief.

Guilt had a punch like a prize fighter.

What the h.e.l.l could he say? He'd done so much more to her than even she knew.

He knew, though. It was enough. His mouth thinned. "Let's get this straight, girl. Yes, I turned on your coven. Yes, I killed Curio-" He pushed hard as her back arched, fury snapping through her like a conduit. "I killed Curio," he repeated curtly, "and probably about two dozen other witches who didn't know when to get out. If I had to do it all over again, I'd make the same choices."

But he wouldn't, he thought as tears s.h.i.+mmered in her narrowed glare, choose to touch her again. He wouldn't commit his body and soul in a single moment of mind-blowing weakness, and he d.a.m.n well wouldn't promise the impossible to Cordelia Carpenter before he killed her.

Life gave only one chance. His bed was made; he d.a.m.n well was going to lie in it.

Alone.

"We can play this all day, Jules," he said, thrusting his face so close to hers that she flinched. "You're on your own, and I'm stronger than you."

Her lips twisted, teeth baring as if she would try to bite him. Under the strained pressure of his forearm, her skin flushed nearly purple. It colored her cheeks, her lips. Her eyes flashed, hatred and fear.

Protect her. s.h.i.+t. Just s.h.i.+t.

Caleb relented. Loosened enough so she could breathe.

She coughed, choking. "I hate-I hate you," she managed between rough spasms. "I'm going to kill you!"

He stared at her. Then, his smile a grim slash, he reached over her head and drew the serrated knife out of the wall. She flinched as plaster crumbled around them. "Fine," he said, and put the metal hilt in her hands.

Her lashes widened, and he noticed the smudge of mascara that made them thicker. Darker.

He didn't know what color her hair was naturally, but it sure as h.e.l.l had never been black.

Caleb forced her fingers to close on the knife and rolled off her, a fluid motion that belied the torturous effort it took to make it. His left side was rapidly going numb. Blood slid down his arm from the flesh wound she'd already inflicted, and he watched her eyes trace the wet gleam as she clambered to her feet.

She wouldn't have a chance.

He spread his arms. "Do it."

Juliet's full upper lip curled under her teeth, her tongue sliding along it in that way she did when she was nervous.

Just thinking it made him clench his fists. Not his to know, d.a.m.n it. But the unfamiliar memories wouldn't fade. Not for as long as he lived.

Not for as long as Cordelia's lifeblood mingled with his.

"Come on," he said flatly, his voice rough. Impatient. "You want to kill me so badly, do it."

Conflict. Determination. Uncertainty. He read it all in the trembling of her hands, her white-knuckled grip around the hilt. The way she studied the bare expanse of his scarred chest.

And the flash of empathy she couldn't hide. Not from him.

Exactly the point.

He took a step forward, seizing her shoulder, relief and fury entangling together to grate across his nerves. "Then for Christ's sake," he began roughly, and she moved. Sudden. Erratic. The knife flashed once in red neon, sketched an upward arc.

Agony snagged on four inches of sawlike steel.

About the Author.

Born from the genetic mash-up of lesser royalty, storytellers, wanderers, and dreamers, KARINA COOPER was destined to be a creative genius. As a child, she moved all over the country like some kind of waifish blond gypsy and learned how to adapt to the new cultures her family settled in. When she (finally) grew up, she skipped the whole genius part and fell in love with writing paranormal romance because, really, who doesn't love hot men and a happy ending?

When she isn't writing about things that go b.u.mp in the night, Karina designs Steampunk and neo-Victorian couture for gentlemen hobbyists and ladies of questionable reputation. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with a husband, three cats, one rabbit, and a pa.s.sel of adopted gamer geeks.

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By Karina Cooper.

Lure of the Wicked.

Blood of the Wicked.

Coming Soon.

All Things Wicked.