Unholy Proposal (Unholy Inc Book 1)

by Misty Dietz

  “No! I know jack-shit about your past because as many times as I’ve asked, you always brush me off! Why is that, Nate?”

  He stilled. When he spoke, his whisper was as soft as a lion stalking through savannah grasses. “My childhood was bleak and desperate. Not many people relish those stories.”

  She forced herself not to look away from the blue flame of his gaze. “I care. Is that what your tattoo is about?” When he shook his head, she framed his face with her hands. “Then, what? What happened to you as a child?”

  He pulled away from her and walked to the mini bar. “Brandy?”

  “Nate.” He wouldn’t look at her.

  On her way toward him he spoke. “My life wasn’t commendable, Jessie.”

  “Speaking in past tense? Now who’s talking rubbish? Someone took advantage of your innocence and vulnerability—” Her throat closed on a surge of protective anger.

  “No.” He set his orange-gold liquor on the mirrored cart, reached for her hand, and walked rapidly to the door. They didn’t speak as they made their way downstairs, behind the bar, and then down another set of stairs that led to the storage room she’d been anxious to inspect all week.

  Outside a reinforced door, he reached into his slacks’ pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned key. He held it up between them. “I’d rather you regret the things you’ve done than the things you haven’t done. It’s your choice from here.”

  She’d never regret her time with him. How could she? Whatever happened after tonight, this week with Nate had made her feel more alive—more respected for her thoughts and feelings as an independent woman—than she ever had.

  The heavy, metal key was still warm from his body heat when she grasped it. Before she unlocked the door, she pulled him down for a kiss he returned with aching sweetness. She twisted out of his grasp with a groan, frustrated by her sense of obligation to finish this task for her uncle, and fighting her rising panic over the dwindling hours as the singular object of Nate’s desire.

  “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m okay.” Don’t you dare cry. She pushed the key into the lock and turned it, feeling him close at her back, whispering words in a foreign language as he so often did. His husky timbre sent a pulse of white-hot desire through her. Fingers tightening on the key, she fought the urge to turn into his arms once more. “No more speaking in tongues until you tell me what you’re saying and where you learned to speak Latin.”

  “Ad meliora luctor et emergo. Lux in tenebris lucet ex bono ad malum… ‘Toward better things I struggle and emerge. Good out of evil until light shines in the darkness.’”

  She blinked unseeing at the door before turning to face him. “How do you know Latin? And why such…Biblical stuff?” She’d seen the crucifix in his study at home, plus the one in his office upstairs, but he didn’t seem overly religious per se. Not even when they’d glossed over the topic of death. As usual with any question that specifically probed about his life, he’d redirected it. This time, however, he didn’t have a teasing smile to go along with his avoidance. “Go on in, Jessie. I know you’ve been waiting.”

  The room was surprisingly large. He must have gutted the entire basement, his contractor adding extra beams somewhere in place of all the walls he must have taken down. What resulted had an old world flair with recessed partitions in the brick walls. The north side housed oodles of somber books, while the south wall held deep shelving lined with beautifully carved wooden boxes. The furniture in the room had a unique patina that couldn’t be replicated by modern distressing. It was comfortable with a deep sense of age, especially the long, ornately carved table with thick, clawed feet that would probably go for a fortune on auction at Christie’s.

  The east wall, the side from which they’d entered, comprised ultra modern kitchen appliances and an industrial sized refrigerator. The man certainly loved his food. She’d known that since their first night together. Yet the most arresting feature of what could easily be classified as an underground bunker was its enormous fireplace. It was the largest and most extravagant one she’d ever seen, comprising the entire west wall of the room. The ivory granite mantle rose flush with the ceiling, and the width and depth of the fireplace would easily accommodate a bison. Maybe two. And carved upon it, a Bible passage that warned of evil:

  You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons; you cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons. 1 Corinthians 10:21

  She chewed on her lip. He was clearly more religious than she’d thought, and they’d had their fair share of moral discussions. Gramma Tillie would be content should there be something more that developed from this unusual agreement between them. Yet so far, he’d said nothing of the future.

  Nothing of the early hours of dawn when she would pack up her things and Scourge and go home.

  Her heart panged, but she pushed her morose thoughts to the darker recesses of her mind as she refocused on her surroundings.

  Overall, the space was appealing and decidedly not a Satanic repository. Its golden light cast a warm glow on the bricks that hugged the old leather-bound tomes on the shelves. She felt cocooned here. And safe. Though that was weird because she generally didn’t like basements, much less a room that didn’t have windows. How did this room pass modern code inspections? How would you escape if there was a fire? She turned to find Nate watching her reaction, his face carefully blank.

  “Not what you were expecting?” he asked.

  “No.” She hadn’t anticipated finding Satanic paraphernalia like Mason suggested, but she hadn’t expected this either. “Why that Bible passage? Why any?”

  “There are only a few absolutes in life. The passage is a necessary reminder for me. I committed many sins in my life.” His voice was low, like he was confessing to a priest. He seemed on the verge of baring something important.

  “Why is this room off limits to everyone?”

  “Because it’s TERRA’s heartbeat.”

  She blinked at him, not understanding. She broke eye contact to re-survey the well-loved furniture, the wide hearth, the wood boxes, the books. She ached to understand him. He was an oceans-deep sort of man. Often wild and mesmerizing on the surface, but complex and surprisingly tranquil underneath it all. He made love like it might be his last, every single time.

  But there was more than sex between them.

  He would settle her on the plush rug in front of his bedroom fireplace to talk. Business, politics, hobbies…it didn’t matter. How could any man his age have acquired such a vast understanding of world government and policy? He spoke about historical events and past human plights as though he’d been there.

  She walked to the hearth and raised her hand to the mantle expecting the stone to be cool since the fire pit was clean of ash residue. Yet, it was almost too hot to touch as she ran her fingers across the biblical inscription. “You had a fire in here recently.” His chin tipped downward in assent before she continued, “where are the ashes?”

  He glanced at the fireplace, then at the wall of books. “I always deal with them immediately. The ventilation isn’t exceptional here.”

  She nodded, though it didn’t answer her question. She smiled when she opened the refrigerator and a few cabinets and found them as plentifully stocked as the ones at home.

  Not home, his home.

  Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. “It’s lovely. The whole room. Thank you for sharing it with me.” He stood unmoving by the door. She ran a hand across the plush velvet of one of the chairs. “Were these items from your childhood?”

  “No. My family—if you could call them that—had nothing. Most of the time, not even a roof over our heads.”

  Her fingers curled into the chair back. “How did you get where you are from nothing?”

  “We don’t need to talk about this,” he scoffed.

  “You’re putting me off again.”

  “Words, once released, can never be recalled or forgotten.” His voice wa
s subdued.

  “You know I get that.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  His features were outwardly composed, but she sensed the coiled rigidity of his body. He always got this way before he was certain she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her breathing slowed as determination bloomed in her gut. “I’ve seen you work. I notice how you keep your home, how you expect perfection in every aspect of your life. We’ve lived together for a week, yet I still have no idea who you are or where you come from. Why is that?”

  They stood there for the longest time. She was not giving him a bye on this conversation. If he walked away, that would help define the edges of this thing between them that—for her—had developed into something much more layered than she’d expected.

  His shifting body language was very affecting. She could almost hear him thinking, working out how he wanted to handle this. Handle her. His hand worried his hair, his cheeks ruddy under day-old stubble. She wanted to ease his discomfort, but this had to be his move.

  Finally, his breath rushed out in a harsh sound. “Have you ever known truly numbing cold? The kind that keeps you awake at night, shivering—your fingers, toes, and lips blue? Your teeth clattering together so hard they chip and splinter?” He circled her, his hot breath raising goose bumps on her skin. “What about hunger? Not the rumbly stomach kind of thing, but a gnawing, painful sense of urgency that makes you wonder how a rodent might taste? Anything at all to fill the void. The first week is always the worst. After that, it grows easier when the raw, aching hunger dulls into apathy because your mind is so foggy from lack of sustenance that you don’t even care anymore.”

  Dear God. “There are programs to help families in desperate situations like that.”

  He smiled without humor. “People fall through the cracks even in the most industrialized nations of the world.”

  “But your parents—”

  “The chav who claimed to be my father whored out my mother to pay for his love of horse betting. My mother made us beg for food on the streets. If we managed to pickpocket at the same time, we actually got to eat a portion of what we brought back. Early on, I learned to eat my share in the gutter before returning home.”

  She shook her head. How do you even respond to something like that?

  His eyebrows drew down. “Don’t waste your pity on me, Jessie. I lost my innocence and crushed my virtue long ago. I am not proud of many things I’ve done, but neither do I regret them. Regret is a waste of energy.”

  That last comment was meant for her. She grasped his arm when he turned toward the door. “Didn’t your teachers notice? Where was social services?”

  “I didn’t go to school.”

  “That’s illegal!”

  “Not where I came from. People were too busy trying to survive.”

  She could feel a surge of energy wind tightly, charging up her muscles with the need to move. The need to act. Avenge.

  The need to wrap her arms around the lonely, exploited child he’d been.

  She sucked in a breath to calm herself. “Where did you get your education?”

  “Books, though I was illiterate until—” He broke off, staring at the fireplace.

  “Until?”

  His gaze hardened though his smile didn’t fade. “I blackmailed a history professor’s wife not only to teach me to read, but also to grant me access to her husband’s vast library. She complied so her esteemed husband didn’t learn of our affair. I was a scheming lad of fifteen who’d long since graduated magnum cum laude from the University of Life.”

  “That’s statutory rape!”

  “Bah. I was using her far more than she used me.” He paused, and she felt his hot stare on her breasts. Did he hear her heartbeat? Her eyes burned and blurred. Her skin hurt.

  She. Hurt. For a boy alone, scared, cold. Unnourished in body, mind, and spirit.

  With no one to love him.

  Her gasp plucked the bubble. “Goddamn them all for their abuse!” Her vision blessedly cleared when the hot tears spilled.

  “Jessie, no.” He pulled her to him, his large hand cradling her head to his chest where his heart pounded as wildly as her own. “Please don’t cry.” Her arms worked around his trunk, her hands sliding underneath his shirt, desperate to cling to his warm skin. Her fingers kneaded his back as though she could imprint on him the care and support and acceptance that he had been denied for so long.

  His arms loosened from around her, his hands rising to frame her face. As his eyes searched hers so intently, she felt a yielding.

  Not hers, but his.

  Her lips parted in shock of awareness. Then his mouth feathered across hers, achingly soft, their breath mingling until she felt drunk on him and the volatile emotions they’d shared. He eased back, wiping what remained of her tears. When he locked gazes with her again, he smiled, and her heart flip-flopped like the slippery blue and orange pumpkinseed sunfish she’d fumbled on his dock a couple of afternoons ago when he’d taken her fishing.

  “You’ll be a fearsome prosecutor one day.”

  Her face tightened from the dried tears as her lips curved. “I guess.”

  “I know. My one-woman army.”

  She sniffed. “Will you tell me more later?” She had one more night to soak him up.

  One.

  Her eyes welled again, dammit, but she couldn’t turn away. She didn’t want to miss a single moment with him.

  He brought her to him again with a deep sigh. “I’ve already shared more than I should have.” His voice rumbled in his chest next her ear. “More than I ever have.”

  He guided her to the door with a hand curled possessively around her hip. Before moving out the doorway, she looked back at the room, taking in the overflowing shelves of books—toward better things I struggle and emerge; the fully stocked kitchenette that promised to hold back hunger—good out of evil; and the excessive fireplace that still radiated warmth—light shines in the darkness.

  Suddenly, she understood the value of this locked room, and how sharing it with her was a massive show of trust. More than anywhere else in the world, this room was Nate’s safe place. Even more so than his residence.

  And she was determined to uncover why.

  Chapter 17

  Standing before his office mirror, Nate smoothed his white tie and slipped into the pinstriped suit jacket Jessie had selected for him. She’d decided he would be a mob boss for Halloween. He told her to change into her costume in the privacy of his office, but she’d declined, saying one thing would lead to another and…

  She would’ve been right.

  But damn, he didn’t want to be away from her for one minute after what they’d shared downstairs in the sanctorum. He’d never taken anyone in that special room where Guardians hid their ancient, holy relics and burned demonic items.

  And where he went to think.

  In the sanctorum, his existence had purpose and meaning. There, redemption felt possible.

  He should’ve been spending more time in there thinking about how to be honest with Jessie about everything. The sooner the better so they could get on with the binding ritual so he could abolish this unsettled feeling. Somehow going back to decapitate the Nephilim he’d buried in Mason’s neighborhood had only ramped up his anxiety.

  His inability to locate Mason for the last twenty-four hours didn’t help either. He’d arranged for Kat to exorcise Jessie’s uncle this afternoon, but since they couldn’t find him—

  His office door flew open so forcefully it cracked against the wall. “Are you out of your bleeding mind?”

  Nate settled a black fedora on his head. “What’s the matter, Spencer? Got the collywobbles about opening night?”

  Katherine followed Spencer into the room. Spencer slammed the door and stormed to the bar without a rejoinder, which communicated to Nate just how exquisitely pissed the tall Brit was.

  “What were you thinking bringing her to the sanctorum? Oh wait, you weren’t,” Kat
herine’s pursed lips took him back to 1903 when he was thirteen years old and caught swiping a silver chalice in St Monica’s by a young nun in full habit. He remembered the year well because he’d learned the fine art of cunnilingus from her that Christmas Eve.

  Ah yes, organized religion.

  “Jessie approved of the room’s feng shui, Kat. Looks like your lessons from Jinx are sinking in. Aren’t you tickled?” Nate approached the wall to enter the code that slid the paneling back on the mirrored glass. Jessie still wasn’t at her station at the bar.

  “I don’t know what makes you so stupid, but it really works.” Katherine took a second glass of brandy out of Spencer’s hand and drained it.

  “Did you show her the relic?” Spencer’s shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie hung loosely down the front of his shirt. Had he walked in here like that? The man never walked around unmade.

  Nate frowned at him. “Do you really have to ask?”

  Katherine raised an are you sure you want me to answer that eyebrow which would normally amuse him.

  Not today. “The relic is safe. I didn’t actually take Jessie behind the bookcase. I merely wanted to share my appreciation for the space with her.”

  “No humans are ever allowed in any of our spiritually warded rooms. Not even those who know about us and what we do. That has been a Guardian rule for centuries, Nate. It was bad enough when Sonja saw the demon paraphernalia. If Dorian hadn’t replaced her memories with something innocuous, who knows what kind of mess we’d be cleaning up right now.”

  “You’re overreacting. I knew Dorian would take care of it.”

  “You’re missing the point, Nate. If humans discover these rooms house the relics, it wouldn’t be long before demons find out. And if they get to the relics, you know where they’ll take them.”

  To Hell.

  Where they’d stockpile the holy items until they generated enough power to break Lucifer out of his cage. The prison into which the Archangel Michael had cast him when Lucifer had originally rebelled in Heaven. How many relics would it take to unlock his prison? Ten, five, two? It’d be nice to know.