A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (12 page)

“You’re bleeding.”

Suddenly she was off her feet. He swung her into his arms as if she were nothing more than a feather. He lowered her onto his bed, which only made her more uncomfortable. She was drowned in the scent of him, awash in a sea of sheets still warm from his body. His gaze skimmed over him.
His amazing body.

Her mouth watered and she forced her gaze away from the ridged muscles of his belly.

“I’ll clean it.” He moved toward the bathroom. She heard running water.

“It’s hardly going to kill me,” she muttered when he returned with a wet washcloth.

His lips twisted into the semblance of a grin. He propped her legs across his lap, her foot on his thigh. His fingers on her ankle sent shock waves up her leg and she squirmed. As the seconds passed, she grew more and more tense beneath his careful attention.

The washcloth stilled against the soles of her feet. His silver eyes fastened on her face, peering at her in that intent way of his, impossible to read.

And yet there was something different in those eyes. His eyes glowed brightly… more potent than usual.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice velvet deep.

He thought he’d hurt her? She wasn’t even aware of her injuries anymore. There could be thorns embedded in her flesh and she wouldn’t feel it. She only felt his hand on her ankle, heard the steadiness of his breath, smelled the scent of him.

“Does that hurt?” He probed a particularly tender area of her foot.

“No.”

His fingers skimmed the bottom of her foot, rounding over the top. “What about here?”

“No.” Her breath caught, her chest lifting sharply.

His hand roamed on, fingertips dancing up her calf, gliding over her knee. His touch stopped, brushing the sensitive inside of her knee. “Here?”

She shook her head, beyond words, afraid that if she made the slightest sound he would hear his effect on her. That she wanted him. Desire pumped hot and heavy through her, making her limbs feel heavy as lead.

He inched closer, his gaze hot on her. His warm breath fanned the side of her face. Helpless, she lifted her face to his, seeking, yearning. His nose brushed her cheek. She knew his lips were there, close, but she couldn’t feel them.

His fingers stroked the sensitive skin beneath her knee. “So nothing hurts?” His voice teased the tiny hairs near her ear. “But you’re shaking.”

Everything inside her trembled. She wanted to turn into his arms, to curl up against him. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and feel all that warm male skin against her, and remember what it was to be a desirable woman.

He brushed the hair off her neck.

“I’m not shaking.” She leaned forward to get up, desperate to put some space between them.

His fingers closed around her arm and
pulled her back down on the bed, then he leaned over her.

Everything inside her seized, tightened with expectation, with dread, hope.
Want
.

But his lips didn’t so much as graze hers. His face hovered directly over hers. Their eyes locked and she could practically count each one of his dark eyelashes fanning out from the brilliant silver.

“Liar,” he finally announced. “You’re trembling.”

A breath shuddered past her mouth, and he swallowed it, finally claiming her lips, diving into the kiss.

They savored it, sampling each other’s lips with a thoroughness, a leisure that made her chest ache from the unexpected tenderness, the seductive slide of his tongue against her own.

He drank in her moan, his hand on her thigh now, the callused pads of his fingers an exciting rasp on her skin. He could have her now. She knew it. The way she fell into the kiss, the way her thighs parted for his drifting hand…

He knew it, too. Which was why she gasped, reaching for him with groping hands when he pulled away. She choked out his name, quickly sitting up.

He wiped a hand over the back of his mouth
as though he needed to wipe the taste of her from him. The gesture stung.

Everything inside her wanted to call him back, wanted to pull him to her so that she could feel warm again—
alive
. She’d forgotten the wonder of it all. The closeness of another, a kiss so obliterating, so consuming that it washed away all numbness.

He glanced at her and then looked away. Grabbing his shirt, he hurriedly pulled it over his head. She watched, her throat tightening.

“I’ll be back in a while,” he muttered and fled the room.

Alone, in the center of the bed, she wondered what had just happened. How had she allowed a lycan bent on destroying her to kiss her? How had she liked it? Wanted it?

How could she want him still?

* * *

D
ARIUS WALKED WITHOUT DIRECTION,
but with purpose. If he moved fast enough, maybe he could outrun his feelings, his desires. The sight of Tresa as he’d left her, warm and welcoming on that bed, her eyes clouded with desire, filled his head. He walked faster.

He left the hotel behind, losing himself in the night’s darkness, moving too quickly for anyone to process, becoming nothing more than
wind. Briefly, his mind touched on Balthazar, another shadow winding through the night.

No
. He wasn’t like that. Nothing like that.

He slowed to a stop and looked around. He was in a high-end shopping center, the stores all closed for the night. The lights of a wine bar spilled out on the sidewalk. Two laughing women tripped out the doors as he strode past, one almost bumping into him.

He steadied the blonde, stopping her from colliding into him. Her perfume surrounded him.

“Oh, hello there.” She blinked large blue eyes up at him. A slow smile curved her wine-stained lips. She moved lightly on her feet, brushing against him. “Aren’t you the gallant gentleman?” Her eyes gleamed at him in invitation, looking him up and down appreciatively. Her friend giggled.

For a moment, his hand lingered on her arm as he toyed with the idea of finishing with this female what he’d started with Tresa.

As soon as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. It wouldn’t be right.

She wouldn’t be Tresa.

Disgusted with himself, he stepped around the woman and continued on, wondering when she had come to consume his thoughts… when she had come to mean so much?

T
WELVE

T
he Salty Bean was a coffee shop a few miles from the college. Following the memorial service, they decided to check it out, since Shannan had worked there. It was a popular campus hangout, so in Tresa’s mind it was a wise use of their time.

If her hunch was right about Balthazar’s witch being a student, maybe she frequented the place, too. Tresa winced. Or maybe it was safe to assume she would be there because
she
was. The witch had now proved herself to be aware of Tresa’s movements.

A vase full of white lilies sat on a back counter, surrounded with snapshots of all the victims. Jason was wearing a rugby uniform, a ball tucked under his arm. Even from where she sat, his smile was blinding, infectious. Hard to equate him with the young man from her nightmare.

She brought her latte to her lips and sipped
the hot brew. “I’m thinking it’s not much of an assumption to say she’s a college student, too.” Tresa nodded to the shrine. For some reason, it was easier to look at that than at Darius. After he had run out following their kiss last night, she hadn’t wanted to meet his gaze. “Just like the other victims.”

From the corner of her eye, she observed him lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, I’d say she’s affiliated with the school. She could be a professor, though, or someone on staff. Administration.”

“Possibly,” she agreed before falling silent to absorb everything inside the cozy coffee shop, eavesdropping on the conversations around her. Several times, the topic turned to the murders.

She scanned faces. They were afraid, but titillated, too. They either knew one of the victims, or someone they knew knew a victim. It was gossip—plain and simple.

“She’s the one who worked here.” Tresa nodded to Shannan’s photo.

Darius followed her gaze to the photo before looking back at her. “So. When she died, what did—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Her gaze skittered off him again.

He set his coffee cup down with a clink. “I’m only asking because it might shed some light on who it is we’re looking for. I wouldn’t have thought you so squeamish. Not after all you’ve done… all you’ve seen.”

He would always throw that in her face. He would never see anything else when he looked at her.

She angled her head sharply and forced her attention back on him. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

He cupped his coffee with both hands and leaned forward, closer, across the small black-topped table. “I guess not.”

His ready admission startled her. Maybe it startled him, too. Or at least left him uncomfortable. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, his cheeks flushed a bit, and then abruptly rose, moving to the back counter, scanning the memorial shrine and the bulletin board on the wall behind it.

She couldn’t help noticing the college girls checking him out, their gazes sliding over the long length of him in admiration. He was either oblivious to their glances or indifferent. It would be hard not to notice the way they gawked.

“Hey.” A girl stretched over from her chair
to tug on the hem of Tresa’s shirt. “Is that your boyfriend?” She nodded to Darius.

Appallingly, she felt tempted to say he was. To claim him, to pretend last night had been real and had meant something.

“No,” she said.

“Excellent.” The girl gave a catlike smile and rose from her chair. Smoothing her snug tunic top down her hips, she sauntered over to where Darius stood.

Tresa watched the roll of her hips, an uncomfortable knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Not very subtle, is she?” a voice asked, drawing Tresa’s attention to the guy sharing the table with the girl who was stalking Darius like a jungle cat.

She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, plucking at the cardboard sleeve around her cup.

The guy continued, “She’s shameless that way. And he’s a good-looking guy.” He shrugged again, implying that the girl couldn’t be held accountable.

“Yeah.” Tresa didn’t know what else to say. “He is.”

“Yeah,” he echoed. “And she’s the sluttiest girl I know.”

Tresa blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grinned and shoved his dark-rimmed glasses up his nose. He managed to look stylish and cute in them. They complemented the handsome roundedness of his features. “She’s my cousin, so I can say it. It’s nothing I wouldn’t say to her face.” He extended a hand for Tresa to shake as he picked up his cup and dropped down into the chair across from her. “Name’s Carson.”

She shook his hand. “Tresa.”

“Ooh, exotic. Where are you from? I hear an accent.”

She blinked again, taken aback by his openness. She stared at him, wondering how he had come to sit at her table with her saying so few words, and why she felt so comfortable with him. “Luxembourg.” That was the relative area where she had been born.

“Cool.” He nodded slowly, his bottle-bleached hair so stiff it didn’t move in the slightest. “So what brings you here? You a student?”

“Just visiting.”

“San Vista? Really? Why would you want to visit here? There are so many cooler places to be.”

A shadow fell over them. “Tre.”

She looked up to find Darius staring down
at Carson, his glittering eyes intense and disapproving. She scowled back at him. Wasn’t she doing what they’d set out to do? Talking to people and gathering information.

“This is Carson.” Tresa’s gaze skimmed the brunette who stood close to Darius. She motioned at her. “And you’ve met his cousin already…”

“Erin,” the girl quickly supplied, looking pleased that Carson had infiltrated their table. She grabbed her half-eaten chocolate muffin and cold drink—some coffee-colored concoction piled high with whipped cream and chocolate drizzle—and dropped down into one of the remaining chairs.

She took a bite of her muffin and smiled up at Darius. Tresa snorted, positive he had that effect on the female population in general. And only partly because he was a lycan and had that whole ability-to-mesmerize thing going for him. He was gorgeous. Plain and simple. Plus, he had that that mysterious edge that drew females like bees to the honeypot. The wounded-warrior type, seeking something, someone, to save him. Somehow she thought that was
him
and had nothing to do with his lycan nature.

In truth, she supposed he
was
all of that.
A man seeking his soul, his redemption. She started with a sudden realization: not that different from her.

Darius looked at Tresa questioningly.

She shrugged, too rattled in her thoughts to consider these two students taking over their table. But she should pay attention. They seemed like regulars here, the very place Shannan had worked. Maybe they’d even known her… or the other victims.

Darius lowered his large frame into a wooden chair. He lifted his coffee and took a cautious sip, observing the two cousins who had barged into their midst.

“So I’m guessing you’re not a student, either?” Carson asked him, crossing his legs.

Darius glanced at Tresa, clearly wondering what she had shared.

Deciding they weren’t going to get anywhere without more directness, Tresa plunged ahead. “We’re looking into the murders.”

Carson leaned forward, his eyes alight with intrigue. “Are you cops?”

“No.”

Erin looked her over, her gaze more skeptical. “Then what are you?”

Tresa hesitated only a moment, considering her next words. “I’m a psychic.” Why not?
It was how she’d represented herself to the police, after all.

Erin’s and Carson’s eyes widened and they exchanged looks. “Cool,” Carson breathed.

Erin tossed a lock of brown hair over her shoulder. “So, what… you talk to the dead or something? Like in that TV show?”

“No.” Tresa took a slow sip, not about to elaborate. Let the little twit wonder.