Pyromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 1)

He threw the bag at her. She caught it in a reflex reaction, staring daggers at him before extracting linen that smelled of laundry detergent.

“I washed and dried them while you were knocked out,” he said.

The act seemed oddly out of character for Joss. He opened another bag and handed her a new pillow. While she moved around the bed to pull the sheets straight, he watched her with crossed arms and an unreadable expression.

When she’d finished, he said, “Thank you. Lie down.”

She sucked in a breath, her heart doing a summersault in her chest. “Why?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, sweetness,” he said with sarcasm. “I’m not going to repeat last night.”

She balled her hands into fists, feeling like punching him. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah.” He closed the short distance between them. “That shouldn’t be news to you. You’ve known me for long enough.”

“You make me regret knowing you at all,” she said through the knot tying in her throat.

He grinned, a cold and heartless gesture. “That’s nothing new either. At least you’re finally seeing me without the rose-colored glasses.”

“Yes,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Thanks for that.”

His grin turned flat. “You’re welcome. Now do as I say and lie down.”

Was he going to drug her again? Her bravado slipped a little. “I need to go home.”

He took a step toward her. “Lie down, Cle.”

She backed away, stumbling and flopping down on the bed in her haste to put distance between them.

“Look,” he said with a sigh, his tone turning placating. “I don’t want to hurt you. We have to talk, but there are things I need to take care of first.”

Grabbing her shoulders, he pushed her down onto her back. She stared at him with her heart thundering in her chest as he dragged his palms over her arms to her wrists, intertwining their fingers before lifting her arms above her head.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her breath catching when her body heated without her consent.

Something cold and hard wrapped around her wrist. A click sounded. She looked up. The bastard had handcuffed her to the bed. She yanked her arm, flinching at the bite of the metal on her skin.

“Don’t pull.” He straightened. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry.”

Shit. He was leaving her here, wherever the hell they were.

Wait.

Then it hit her.

Oh, God. She knew where they were. The circular room could only be one place. If her mind hadn’t been so foggy with the drugs he’d injected her with, she would’ve realized it sooner. Dread filled her veins.

“You can’t leave me here.” Begging was not beneath her. “Please.”

Without another word, he turned and did exactly that. He left her alone in his childhood house, a haunted house, handcuffed to a bed, powerless to protect herself.Chapter 9A string of cusswords flew from Joss’s lips as he made his way down the creaky stairs. What a big, fucking mess. He was furious with Clelia for valuing herself so little that she gave away something so precious in a dirty field of thorns to a drunken man who couldn’t even grace her with the honor of remembering it. But that was nothing compared to the rage he felt toward himself. She was right. He’d wanted it. He was a skilled seducer. The inexperienced Clelia wouldn’t have stood a chance. He only had himself to blame, and God knew, he did.

Now she was his problem. Under different circumstances, he would’ve jumped on the opportunity, but he was a forbidden arts hunter, and she may very well be the prey. The way things stood right now, she was the enemy. Only, when he’d laid his hands on her, he’d staken his claim. He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t without honor. That was the least he owed the delectable little witch.

If Cain found out, he’d send him back to New York without a second thought. He could argue it had been just a fuck, but Cain knew better than anyone emotions and honor always got in the way when sex entered the equation.

If Clelia was guilty, her execution was a foregone conclusion. He wasn’t going to let anyone else drive a blade through her heart, but could he do it after last night? The guilt eating at him muddled his reason. It fucked with his mind. Who the hell was he kidding? Would he ever have been able to kill her?

When he’d gotten the mission details, his gut had twisted in ten different ways, and it wasn’t only because he had to return to the past that still haunted him. It was because Clelia felt personal. They had a history, an innocent but undeniable connection. If he was honest, he’d admit it wasn’t as one-sided as he liked to pretend. He’d been aware of her, all right. He had imagined things—dark, forbidden, and shameful things—in the darkness of the night when he’d fisted his cock and came in his hand. No, Clelia was his. He wasn’t going to let anyone else deal with her.