The Sinner

I recoiled as if I’d been slapped, tears of frustration pricking my eyes. “And? So? I studied Mesopotamia at NYU, remember?” I inhaled and let it out in a rush. “I think the city was Larsa, you were the warrior, and the woman was…your wife.”

“Probably.”

I stared. “That’s all you have to say? Probably?”

“What do you want me to say?”

His callous dismissal hurt more than I expected. There were a thousand things I wanted him to say. To erase this longing and let me know I wasn’t crazy. That there was something real happening that wasn’t my imagination.

I crossed my arms, trying to keep my lip from trembling. “Why am I having these dreams?”

“We’ve discussed this before. We’re bonded,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “My energy is spilling into your dreams—”

“No! What about Japan and Russia? I had those long before I met you.”

“I can’t speak for how your subconscious works, Lucy Dennings,” he said bitterly, scornfully. “But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say those dreams are manifestations of your romance novels. Romantic interludes with heroes and heroines.”

I shook my head. “You’re lying. Or there’s something you’re not telling me. You’re making me feel stupid. Like…gaslighting. Like I’m holding the truth in my hands and you keep insisting there

’s nothing there.”

“Because there is nothing there,” Cas seethed with sudden fire that flared and then burned out. “There’s nothing there,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing left.”

My voice wavers. “I don’t think that’s true.”

His head bowed for a moment, shoulders slumped. He got off the floor and reached for the Henley.

I jumped to my feet. “Where are you going?”

“Out. Where I always go.”

“No!” I tore the shirt out of his hands, shocking him. Shocking me. “No,” I said, softer. “I don’t want you to go.”

A silence fell, thick and heavy. The TV show played on distantly, but my eyes were on Cas, memorizing him—his eyelashes that were long and thick. A sharp jawline but lips that were full and soft. And the scars on his body where he’d fought for his city. For his woman. I’d miss every part of him when he was gone—all those parts I could see and touch and all those that I could not. The invisible parts of him that I felt like I knew so deeply.

The shirt fell from my hands and I moved closer.

“So many scars.”

He nodded, watching me. “Earned in battle. But for one.”

“This one,” I said, touching the silver dollar over his heart.

“The killing stroke,” he said, his voice gruff. “That night. The last night.”

Without letting myself think, I bent and put a kiss there. His skin was warm, his pulse thundering against my lips, an echo of mine. Up, higher, I moved my mouth to the jagged slash near his throat, my tongue flickering, tasting the salt and spice of him. Up, up to his chin, his mouth…

“Lucy…”

His voice was a growl, and he gripped my hair, hauling my lips away from his. His eyes blazed in the dimness, and for a split second, we hovered in delicious, heart-pounding need, and then something in him relented. Gave in. He kissed me ferociously. Possessively. A little cry escaped me at the pure ecstasy that flooded my senses.

At last. At long last….

My lips fell open, letting him take my mouth. My warrior, invading and plundering. The biting, sucking pull of his kiss drawing me into everything that was him.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him deeper, my tongue sliding against his with a boldness I hadn’t known I was capable of. His taste…I could’ve cried to taste him again. The scent of his skin in my nose, the feel of him beneath my hands was like coming home.

With a growl, he kicked my rickety old coffee table away, and wrapped an arm around my waist, taking me to the floor. Our bodies were like interlocking pieces finally falling into place. He fit perfectly into the V of my legs and my fingers sank into his hair as if I’d done it a hundred times. The weight of him on me…both new and familiar. Fresh lust swept through me, lifetimes’ worth, now unleashed.