Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

  Sokach stared at the paper in his hand, not really seeing the letters and numbers scrawled on it. If Dragić was going to make a play, it would at this party. It gave him the best opportunity.

  Little did the bastard know, he would be the one surprised.

  “If you’re going to go after Morana and Tonći, you better go now.”

  Sokach blinked as Blue’s voice pulled him back. “I don’t think anything is going to happen today.” He waved the paper in his hand. “When Dragić strikes, it’s going to be big, public. He’ll want to make a statement, show his power to those he will rule.”

  She was nodding before he finished. “He’ll do it at the party.” Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “So, what do we do between now and then?”

  A smile curled its way on to his lips. If tonight might be his last night alive, he wasn’t going to waste it.

  While Blue parke d and stored away The Sugar Bean, Sokach made a quick trip for supplies, then shimmered into her apartment. By the time she walked in, he had dinner started – chicken stir fry.

  She paused half way into the room, looking around, uncertain. “What is this?”

  “A real dinner.” He said, over his shoulder as he continued cubing the meat. “What you eat isn’t food.”

  She parried the insult with a lift of her chin, then joined him in the kitchen.

  “Pour the wine?” he said, indicating the bottle of Cabernet on the counter and the two glasses beside it with the point of his knife.

  With a hesitation that he felt rather than saw, she complied, but left her own glass empty and took up a perch on the counter.

  The chicken sizzled in the wok, sounding like tiny fireworks in the quiet that settled between them.

  It was strange, this companionable silence. Even more so, the odd calm in his heart. Tomorrow, Death might very well dance off into Oblivion with him, yet he did not fear that rendezvous. What twisted his gut was the thought of disappearing without this woman ever knowing him, of remaining nameless in the truest sense of that word.

  “You know what I like about cooking?” he asked.

  Blue shook her head.

  “It is endless creation. The possibilities, infinite. In a kitchen, everyone is a god.”

  Tucking her hands under her knees, Blue’s feet took up a bouncing rhythm. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “Think of a dish. I can guarantee you, every race and culture will have their own version of it.”

  “I like…” Her voice drifted off with a self-conscious shrug.

  “What?”

  Her cheeks ripened, and she cleared her throat. “I like when I can take ingredients that don’t seem like they should be in a dessert or mixed with sweets and come up with something new.”

  “Then you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “To endless possibilities.”

  She chuckled at that. “So, just how long have you been cooking?”

  He scraped the veggies from the cutting board to the pan. “Not long. A few centuries, give or take a decade or two.”

  “Oh.”

  Though her tone was light, the syllable was weighted down, snagged by the human mind’s inability to comprehend the infiniteness of his existence. He changed the subject. “What made you take up baking?”

  One side of her mouth curled up. “My Home Economics teacher. She encouraged me. Said I had talent.” The last word dripped with mockery. The tentative smile wavered, then slipped. “After high school, it was a way to forget…other things.”

  The urge to ask, to learn who had hurt her pushed hard to be free, to let the killer in him return that kindness ten-fold. But sorrow and vengeance had no place here tonight. The first belonged to yesterday and the latter to tomorrow. “Your teacher was right. Talent like yours is rare.”

  Her luminous eyes glowed. “Thank you.”

  He turned back to the wok, adding veggies and more ginger from the cutting board. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her reach for the wine and the empty glass and knew he’d crossed an invisible threshold, letting him one step closer to her.

  Wine in hand, Blue hopped down from the counter and headed into the living space. Music filled the apartment. Light rock with a hint of disco. Sokach could almost picture the large lapel, polyester-suited crooner asking his woman to “rock him gently.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, standing in front of the stereo at the far end of the room. She swayed, the beat rippling through her. The most relaxed he’d ever seen her.

  After spooning out portions onto plates, he carried them to her tiny two-seater table, and she joined him. He waited for her to take the first bite, watching to see if he’d caught the right amount of soy and ginger.

  Her eyes closed, her shoulders curled in. “Mmm. This is so good.”

  “Most real food is.”

  She answered his sarcasm with a droll look, then piledrove her fork into the mound of rice, crowned with veggies and chicken, on her plate.

  “Can I ask a question?” she said after a few bites.

  Mouth full, he nodded.

  “If Morana is the Goddess of the Underworld, what is she doing,” Blue drew a circle in the air with her fork, “here?”

  Sokach wiped his lips with a napkin, took a sip of wine. “You could say we’re refugees of war.” He set the glass down with care, holding tight the fury that always came when talking of the past. “The Christian God and his winged bastards invaded our realm, drove us out.”

  She swallowed, eyes going wide as though the bite was too big. “Winged bastards? You mean angels?”

  “Angels.” He spat the word out. “They aren’t the gentle creatures in your picture books, surrounded by heavenly light, watching over you, smiling. They’re soldiers. Merciless butchers.” He stabbed into a hunk of chicken, spearing it. “They slaughtered my brothers.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  He shrugged, went back to pushing rice onto his fork with his knife. “It was a long time ago. I don’t think on it much. Anymore.”

  “Still, it must have been terrible.”

  “Imagine all the conflicts and battles humans have ever waged against one another throughout all the centuries – they’re school yard squabbles in comparison.”

  Blue set her utensils to the side, interwove her fingers inward, tapped their tips together. “Tomorrow. At the party. If Dragić attacks, it could be pretty bad, right?”

  It was not a matter of could, he was sure. It would be bad. He nodded.

  “And you might be killed.”

  Sokach laid down his own fork and knife. “Yes.”

  Blue looked up from her hands, an unreadable expression paining her face. “You would die for Morana.”

  It was a statement and question in one.

  “It is what I was made for. She is my queen. I would die for her because I love her.”

  As though unable to comprehend or reconcile that devotion, she gave her head a tiny shake. Incredible sadness welled in her eyes before they broke away from his, looked off to some distant place on the floor by her chair.

  He stared at the crown of her bent head.

  Tomorrow he might die, probably would.

  Tonight was a night for chances, for throwing the dice without thought or care.

  “And I would die for you,” he said softly.

  There. It was out. Let Fate drop the chips where She pleased.

  Blue’s head snapped up, her eyes met his, wide. Her face was a battlefield: uncertainty and fear taking the high ground against some new emotion he’d never seen before.

  They stayed locked in that silent stare for a breath before Blue bolted out of her chair, grabbed up her plate and stalked past him to the sink. With violent swipes, she cleared the remnants of food from her dish.

  Sokach got up, started to go to her. If he could explain—

  Dropping the plate, she whirled around. “Don’t come up behind me like that!”


  Hands raised, he stepped back, gave her room.

  She gripped the edge of the counter behind her, knuckles turning white. Her eyes squeezed tight, like she was trying to talk herself into jumping off a diving board into a cold pool. When they opened, Sokach could see an endless novel of agonies written in them.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just…I’m damaged. I don’t know how—”

  He moved quick, closed the space between them before either he or she could think about it. One hand slid into her soft hair just behind her ear, the other circled round her waist, pulling her to him.

  His lips took hers.

  Her slim body tensed in his embrace. Disappointment crushed him. So that’s how Fate would play his hand. He would release her and go. But as his hold loosened, her hands let go of the countertop, clutched at his upper arms instead. Her mouth parted beneath his with a surrendering sigh.

  Joy sang in his blood.

  He’d been right. She tasted of honey.

  His hands went to her hips, seizing her buttocks, lifted her with ease to the countertop. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands on his shoulders, her whole body clinging to him. His lips left hers, tasted a trail down her neck, the delicate curve to shoulder. She seized his face, pulled his mouth back to hers, meeting his passion measure for measure. His fingers slipped beneath her shirt, caught fire from the heat emanating off her.

  He needed to remove the clothing separating them, to feel her skin against his. Gathering her to him, he carried her across the living room area to her bedroom and laid her down.

  Her luminous eyes blazed up at him, almost defiant in her passion. As though she fought against a thousand little voices singing in her head, cutting at her, seeking to cow her, and refused to be held from this moment by their petty jabs, by fear, by her past.

  Cupping her cheek, his thumb traced the ridged line of scar.

  His beauty. All prickers and spitfire, yet – his hand slid down the length of her neck which arched beneath his touch, the pulse at the base of her throat thumping in time with his – so soft, divine.

  He couldn’t help the grin that spread his mouth wide.

  His lips captured hers, then slow, savoring every delicious moment of anticipation, he worked free each button and clasp, revealed her inch by inch, his hands and mouth learning every sensuous curve, every sharp angle, every jagged remnant of a wound, delighting in her perfection. He could not get enough; he understood then the artist who painted the same flower, photographed the same landscape, drew the same stars over and over. Such singular beauty was a never-ending inspiration.

  She tugged at his shirt, and he answered her demand, removing his own clothes. He reveled in the feel of her against him, the way her back arched, her legs wrapped about him, her hips pressing against his. Where their bodies came together, electricity zipped and tickled.

  And yet, in the moment before he entered her, her hands came up, pressed just so against his chest.

  He stopped. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, reigning in control. His body quaked with the effort, his fingers gripping fistfuls of sheet. But he didn’t want to take. It would make him no different than whoever had painted her body with their hate.

  Sliding a hand under her buttocks, he rolled them over, settled her atop him.

  Hesitation, uncertainty, washed over her face. As though to be given the lead left her at a loss. With his hands, he began to move her, rock her softness against him. Her eyes fluttered closed, her head bent as she picked up the rhythm on her own, fitted him to her with a low rolling moan.

  He gloried, watching her find her stride. Her hands splayed across his chest, her fingers gripping his muscles as she moved. Her long hair hung down around her, tickled his skin. Sharp inhales and weak whimpers escaped her lips. The tempo of her hips increased alongside her breathing.

  She tensed, her thighs squeezed his hips tight.

  With a cry, she threw her head back, a shudder wracking through her.

  Unable to check himself any longer, he flipped them over, buried himself deep inside her. This time, she didn’t hold back, but rose to meet him, thrusting hard against him. Fingernails cut into his back. The need knotted in his belly built, scratched to be set free. A howl tore free from his lungs as his release shattered him, pleasure flooding through him.

  In the aftermath, he loomed above her. His hands on either side of her face, he thumbed away the tears that slid from the corners of her eyes in whose blackness he saw his own reflected, glowing ice blue.

  “I would die for you too,” she whispered.

  Outside, the moo n and sun were passing each other. Inside, Blue slept on her side, wrapped in his arms, emitting the tiniest of snores. He looked down at her, marveling at her beauty.

  Sleep was an impossibility for him. They had lain awake for hours, talking, sharing their secrets and kisses. When the fire caught again, they’d made love a second time, slowly, the urgency gone, replaced by delicious deliberateness.

  He dropped a soft kiss to the sharp edge of her shoulder. He’d never lain like this with a woman afterwards, never felt this warm glow burning deep in the center of his chest. Nor would he again. His heart twisted. He had to make sure she’d be safe without him. He’d work a protection sigil, hide her from his people, send her from the city.

  If a miracle happened and he survived the coming fight, he’d have to figure out a way to keep her. He couldn’t give her up, nor would he share her. Especially not with Velimir.

  The image of his brother limping away from the truck popped into Sokach’s mind.

  The limp Velimir carried because of his disformed leg, because the melted, twisted skin running from ankle to knee was tight and inflexible. And marked with a scar in the shape of a line of lightning.

  Sokach bolted upright, Blue tumbling from his arms.

  That’s where he’d seen that symbol before!

  “What’s wrong!” Blue asked, blinking startled sleep from her eyes.

  He shot off the bed, dug out his pants and pulled them on. His mind was racing. His body needed to keep up with it. He started to pace.

  It all made sense now. Going to the club had been Velimir’s idea. The car’s out back he’d said. Then he’d been “too drunk” to help against the attack. The club door had slammed shut behind Sokach, leaving him exposed, alone, in the alley.

  Why? Why would Velimir turn now, after all these years?

  Sokach’s mind raced back to the argument he’d walked in on after the last meeting with the Heads. Velimir pushing Morana to rise up, take back her realm…

  By the moons, the traitor wasn’t just an inside man.

  He was a brother.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blue clutched th e bedsheet to her as she watched Sokach stalk back and forth in her tiny apartment looking every bit the tiger pacing its cage. Except that this beast was talking to himself. Not out loud, just mouthing the words and waving his hands.

  “What’s going on? You’re scaring me,” she asked, her voice shrill in her own ears.

  He came up short at that. “I’ve been so stupid. Blind!” He glared up at the ceiling, the veins in his neck visible. “It was in front of me the whole time. How he must have laughed.”

  “Who laughed? At what?”

  He threw up his hands as though it was obvious. “Velimir!”

  “Talk in complete sentences!” she demanded.

  “He’s Dragić. That symbol Tonći had tattooed on his arm, it’s a replica of a scar Velimir has.” Sokach waved at his side, intimating Velimir’s bad leg. “Morana is in more danger than I thought. Velimir is no Tonći. He will have made a fail-proof plan.” His pacing started back up. “I need to stop him.”

  Blue threw off the covers and got up. She slipped his shirt on to cover herself. “Why don’t I go to The Adriatic—”

  He whirled on her. “No! I don’t want you anywhere near this.” He crushed her to him.

 
She wrapped her arms around his middle and laid an ear to his chest, listening to his thudding heart. Her own matched his pace. It was all happening too fast. She’d thought they’d have more time, a few hours at least. She wasn’t ready to lose him. Not yet.

  If she could just distract him, buy a little more time…

  She pulled his head down to hers, kissed him with her whole body. With a groan, the tension in his stance loosened as he leaned into her. His hands slid inside the unbuttoned shirt, raising gooseflesh as they traced over her ribs and back. She shifted in his arms, letting his wandering hand catch her breast. Heat sprang between them, the kiss deepening. He bent her backwards in his passion, as though he would devour her.

  When she tried to lead him to the bed, he moaned, set her from him. “I must go, see if I can figure out his plan for tonight. See if I can stop him.”

  Terror like she’d never known sat on her chest. She hugged it close, trying to quell its trembling. “And if you can’t?”

  He had no answer. Instead, he began to root around, looking for something, but seemed unsure what it was until he spied some change on the coffee table. He grabbed a quarter and clasped it in a fist. Light beams blazed between his fingers for a brief second, then he opened his hand, offering her the coin in his palm.

  Blue moved closer. “What is that?”

  “Take it.”

  She picked the quarter out of his hand, studied the smooth silver. Where George Washington’s face had been, an ancient looking symbol gleamed.

  “Carry it with you always. It will hide you from my people. I want you to do what your instinct told you to do when you first found out about us – go to the bus station, get on one, and run. Don’t look back.” Anger, fear bent his face into hard planes. “I wish I had never stopped you.”

  His words cut deep, more painful than any punch Jimmy had thrown. She couldn’t stop the tears that burst forth. “Don’t say that!”

  “If I hadn’t stopped you, you wouldn’t be in danger. You’d be somewhere safe.”

  She fought her way back into his arms. “I don’t regret one moment,” she whispered against his skin.

  He crushed her to him, laid a cheek on the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I don’t either.”