On the one hand, it felt sort of delicious to think of him helping her, but that feeling of excitement made her nervous. She didn’t want to get that close to Nigel. Well, she did, which is why she didn’t. Besides… “You can’t always be by my side. Someday you won’t be there and they will, and then what?”
Nigel cursed.
Oh, yes, he knew. She did, too. Teeth in her throat. Poison coursing her veins. And then embarking on round two of watching herself become stronger and more powerful and happier until she became deluded with her own power and attempted something that killed her. She’d watched her family die, one by one on their deedub suicide missions. And then she’d done the same. Tried to get herself killed by orgasm at the hands of the Godfather, for heaven’s sake! Death was bad enough, but to get yourself killed because you can’t live without the high of an orgasm?
That was the fate of a deedub bite. Instead of dying right away, it made the victim stronger and stronger and more powerful until she was so consumed with her power that she felt the need to push the limits, and then got herself killed. The path each death took depended on the natural inclinations of that victim.
Natalie’s power was sensual in nature, so pursuing a man who killed with orgasm had been the curse’s choice for her. She’d gotten her wish, the Godfather had killed her with an orgasm (which really wasn’t as fun as one might think), and then she’d been saved at the last second when her sister had switched her soul into the body of her sous chef, Gina Ruffalo. Gina gratefully went to the Afterlife and Natalie got another chance.
Too close. Too scary. And too horrific to know she was chasing her own death for a sexual high, and yet entirely unable to stop herself. “Never again. I won’t do that again.” She gestured at Maggie, who was still peeking out of the cabinet. “And they’re going after Maggie, and I can’t keep her safe. It’s all going to happen again, unless I do something to stop it, and I can’t do it alone.”
“Ella is not the answer—”
“No?” She poked at his chest. “How are you going to get Pascal, then? How are you going to control your drawing?”
He swore again and ran his hand through his hair. “You can do it. You don’t need her.”
“I can’t even influence a Dullet right now!”
Nigel frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve lost it.” She shoved her hands in her pockets, hating to admit her ineffectiveness. “There’s nothing inside me but this great emptiness. There’s no power. Nothing. Just emptiness.” As she said the words, she realized that was indeed what had happened. There was no more sensual power within her. It was as if it had died with her old body.
“You can’t lose your power. It’s yours, and it’s still inside you.” Nigel grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You exude so much passion and fire, I can hardly stop myself from drawing you at every given moment.” He laid his hand over her heart, his palm warm and strong. “But you’ve got it ratchetted down. Stop fighting your passion. It’ll come out.”
“Stop fighting?” She started to laugh. “Did you not see me when I was under the deedub thrall? When my inner passion was driving me toward my own death?” She folded her arms, hugging herself against the memory.
Nigel met her gaze. “But did it feel good? To unleash your inner being and hold back nothing?” His question was urgent, demanding, as if his soul needed to hear that answer.
She hesitated.
“Tell me.”
Finally, she nodded. “Unbelievable,” she whispered. “Like I was alive for the first time.” Granted, she’d been on a quest that was going to end in self-destruction, but the feeling of indomitability had been magnificent. After a lifetime of fearing every moment of health, strength, and good moods, it had been so liberating to embrace her strength.
“I bet it was,” he said quietly, with an undertone that almost sounded like yearning.
She shuddered, remembering her inner self screaming at her to stop, and her complete inability to tear herself away from the man who had already killed so many women before her. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore, but as God as my witness, I never want to be out of control like that again, and I never want to be a victim like that. I can’t go backwards, Nigel.”
“Going backwards.” Nigel closed his eyes for a moment, his grip tightening on his marker. “That’s a crappy place to be.”
The depth of his voice struck her, and she realized he understood how she felt in her desire to be able to live freely, all the way to the depths of her soul. She had no clue how a man as powerful as Nigel could understand what it was like to hide from life or the power within, but she sensed that he did. She took his hand, needing his touch, the feel of another person who understood what she was saying. “If Ella can help, I want to let her.”
Nigel swore. “She can’t be trusted.” He took the cap off the marker, a move so quick it seemed almost desperate.
Ella’s face tightened, but she said nothing. She was waiting.
“I know she supported Angelica—”
“I don’t anymore,” Ella interjected, then shut her mouth when Nigel glared at her.
“But if we stand together, we can protect ourselves if she tries anything.” Tears began to burn in her eyes as Natalie contemplated fading back into the woman she used to be. “I have to take any chance I can get, because I can’t go back to who I used to be. Could you go back to the Den? Could you?”
“I’m going to as soon as I leave here.” His voice hardened as he began to draw on his hand. “I have to rescue Pascal—” He stopped, staring at the marker in surprise, as if he had no idea how it had gotten into his grip. “Did you give this to me?”
“The marker?” She blinked, confused by the change of topic. “You took it out of your pocket.”
Fear flickered over his face, chased by raw longing. Nigel was afraid? Dear God, what could be so bad that he was scared?
He thumbed the tip of the marker. “Give me your hand.”
“What?”
He looked at her, and she saw the need in his eyes. “Your hand.”
She knew what that kind of desperation felt like. She’d lived it. So she set her hand in his, hoping she could give him respite or peace. No one should feel like she’d felt, and like he apparently did.
His touch was firm, just like before, but this time, his grip was cold, as if he was treading the edge of an emotion he didn’t like. He wasn’t burning with energy and adrenaline, like he had been when he arrived in her shop. He was tense and on edge. His jaw set in a grim line, he studied her, and then he began to draw on her palm.
Her body tingled at his intense scrutiny, at the way his gaze bore into her, as if ferreting out all her secrets. This was the Nigel she knew. The one who intrigued her. The one who made her feel like there was more to her than the woman who huddled in fear and ran from shadows. A woman worthy of his attention.
His pen was flying across her palm, the touch featherlight, as if she were the greatest treasure and he was afraid to harm her. He wasn’t looking at what he was sketching. His gaze was riveted on her face, and she knew he was drawing her. He was drawing her the way he saw her, not the way she looked. “What do you see?” she asked.
He was almost in a trance, his place of utter peace, of absolute serenity, of ultimate power. “A woman who beats with fire, who’s flushed with passion. A bird who wants to fly, but has chained herself to the earth with cement.” His eyes darkened and he caught her chin, even as he kept drawing with his other hand. “You have so much fire inside you, Natalie. And so much restraint. Cold, hard restraint. Fear.” His thumb moved over her throat, his touch so soft and tender that it made her belly jump. “Fear sucks, little one. It will break you.”
“I know.” Dear God, did she know. “That’s my point. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want to own my life.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s the first step—” He swore suddenly, and his fingers tightened on her throat, pressin
g more firmly. Not hurting at all. But reminding her of the intense, deadly strength in this man. How easy it would be for him to kill her with no more than a breath. “Take your hand away from mine,” he said. “Get it out of my reach. Right now.” His command was ruthless, unflinching. Demanding.
She tugged, but his grip tightened as he fought to keep drawing. “You’re holding me too tightly—”
“Now!”
Galvanized by his command, she yanked her wrist out of his grasp. He whirled around and grabbed the counter. He gripped the marble and bowed his head, his muscles rigid in his arm, the tendons bulging in his neck.
She rubbed her wrist where he’d held her so mercilessly, her skin still throbbing with the strength of his grip. She wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t hurt her. She knew that. But something was not right with him. “What’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t lift his head, his shoulders still flexed. “I was drawing you. I was focused on you, and I was drawing you.”
Heat washed through her body, like a hot spring had exploded in her belly and poured over her. “I know you were. I could feel you inside my soul, probing me.”
He raised his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, smoldering with heat. “I’m always inside you.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
He didn’t take his gaze off her. “Look at your hand. Tell me what I drew.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Tell me it’s you.”
Natalie flipped her hand over. At first, she couldn’t quite tell, and then she saw muscles that weren’t hers, shoulders too broad for a woman, a jaw that was too defined, cheeks too gaunt. Then she looked into the eyes, and she knew. “It’s Christian.”
Nigel’s grip on the counter tightened, and anguish flashed across his handsome face. “Is it finished?” He gritted out the question, as if each word was poison, ripping at his throat as he spoke it. “Did I finish it?”
She looked at it. “I think so—”
“No!” Ella was leaning over her shoulder, peering at the drawing. “His left foot is missing.” She pointed to the base of Natalie’s palm. “See?”
Instead of Christian’s foot, there was a red imprint from where Nigel’s thumb had been gripping her so desperately. “Oh, yes, I see—”
“Sweet Mary.” Nigel let out a breath and leaned his head back, as if he’d just been granted the gift of a lifetime. “You’re certain it’s not finished?”
“Yes.” She started toward him. “I’ll show you—”
“No!” He threw up his hand to block her, quickly backpedaling, as if terrified of her. “Keep it away from me.”
She stopped instinctively and folded her hand over. Her heart ached for the anguish she saw on his face. Her serene, poised, powerful warrior was struggling. Waging an internal battle. “Nigel? What’s going on?”
“Wash your hand. Wash it ’til it’s gone. Now. Before I can finish it.”
His tension was evident, and she went cold at the fear on his face, the self-hate. God, she’d been there. She knew what he was suffering, and her heart softened for him. “Okay, okay. I’ll get it off.” Natalie hurried over to the sink and began to scrub. The marker wasn’t permanent, and it flowed off easily. By the time she finished, Nigel was gripping the counter again. Sweat was dripping down his temple, and his muscles were shaking with the effort of controlling himself. From coming after her? He looked like someone was flaying his back with a whip, and only sheer force of will was keeping him on his feet.
“It’s gone,” she said quietly. “It’s okay, Nigel.”
“Take the pen.” It was between his fingers. “Take it now.”
“Okay.” She moved quietly across the room and set her hand on the back of his. His skin was ice cold, the flesh taut across the bones in his hand. The moment she touched him, he sucked in his breath, and his body tightened. But he didn’t lift his head or open his eyes. Carefully, she slid the pen free and handed it to Maggie. “Go throw that away.”
Maggie scrambled to her feet and hurried into the back room.
Natalie put her hand on Nigel’s shoulder. It was rigid, his muscles bulging as if he were fighting a battle. “Okay, so the pen and the drawing are gone.”
Nigel’s shoulders shuddered and he lifted his head. He met her gaze, and his face was haunted. “I really thought I was drawing you.”
She nodded. “So did I.”
“I couldn’t stop it.”
She frowned. “Yes, I noticed.” And then she understood. It was exactly like it had been when she’d been dying from the deedub poison. Her mind had been conscious, aware, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself from doing things that were so dangerous, so deadly, and so not in her best interest. But they had felt so good, and that had been the addiction.
Like his drawing. Oh, no. Not him, too. Being out of control like that was a horrible feeling, and for him? A warrior who’d been fighting his captor for control his whole life and finally gotten it? She knew exactly what it felt like to go backwards, to a place of being out of control.
She rubbed his shoulder, wanting to give him comfort. “Why is drawing bad?”
Nigel smiled grimly. “Long story, sweet girl.” He took a breath and unpeeled his hands from the counter. There were cracks in the marble spiderwebbing out from the pressure. He met her gaze. “I need you.”
Something tightened in her belly at the raw need on his face, at his admission, at the idea that this warrior, this vision of passion and heat and strength, needed her. The thought that she could help him made her feel strong and powerful, and she clung to it, needing that illusion. She could not let Nigel suffer, not when she knew what it was like. “Okay.”
Nigel nodded and turned to Ella. “You will teach Natalie how to influence me.”
Ella’s cheeks flushed and her eyes filled with sudden tears that she blinked away almost instantly. “Yes, yes. I will.”
Nigel put his hand on the back of Natalie’s neck and pulled her close. “You hurt Natalie, and you die. For her, and for all the others.”
Natalie didn’t pull away. She liked his protective stance. He was going to keep her safe, and that felt good. She hadn’t felt safe for a very, very long time, and his firm grip on her was a gift.
Ella’s cheeks grew redder. “I won’t hurt her. I promise.” She met his gaze. “Or you.”
“I don’t need assurances for myself. I can defend myself from you, and now I’m free to do it.” He turned Natalie toward him. “How long do your suggestions last?”
Oh… wait a second. What was she promising? She couldn’t even influence a Dullet anymore. What made her think she could suddenly do what she hadn’t ever been able to do before? “I think Ella should influence you.”
“Ella?” His grip tightened on her. “No chance,” he growled. “I will never permit her near me. Ever. It has to be you. I won’t trust anyone else.”
Okay, so it was incredibly sweet and touching that a man who had no reason to trust anyone in this world trusted her, and it made her want to help him so much. But she wouldn’t promise something she couldn’t deliver. Regretfully, wishing she could be the woman who would help him, she shook her head. “I already told you I can’t do it anymore. Even if I figure out how to do it, there’s no way to know how successful I’ll be. You can’t count on me for something that important—”
“I don’t have time for a can’t. I only have time for cans. You can. I can. Pascal lives. You live. That’s the end of it.” He looked past her at Ella. “How long will it take to teach her?”
“Five minutes or never. Depends on her.”
“Make it three minutes.” He ignored Natalie’s protest. “How long will her suggestions last?”
“Thirty seconds to a few days. It’s different for everyone.” Ella cocked her head. “You’ll be a challenge. It won’t last for days with you. You’ll push it away.”
He nodded and turned to Natalie. “Then you’re coming with me. In case you need to do a second round.”
&
nbsp; She blinked. “To the Den?”
“Don’t be afraid.” He grabbed her hand. “No one else under my care dies. Starting with you.”
No one else? People had died while under his protection? Like her sisters and her mom. Dying while she tried to make them live. God, he understood, didn’t he? “Oh, Nigel.” She laid her hand on his cheek.
“I swear on the soul of every warrior who died in my care that you’ll survive.” His fingers dug in.
All she needed was a chance. An opening. And she could do the rest. “Okay.”
He nodded once, relief evident in his eyes. “Okay.”
And with that short exchange, she was bound.
***
Well, hellfire and damnation, when had he turned back into a man?
Charles Morgan, former dream genie of subpar reputation, peered carefully around the corner of the couch. He examined his reflection in the stainless steel toilet he’d been drinking out of for the last three weeks, since he’d been so rudely lured into imprisonment by an attractive young woman wielding a ham bone.
It didn’t seem possible, but as he double and triple-checked his reflection, it was undeniable. He was no longer a smut-infested dog. He was a man. And not a demon-infused-smut-monster loaded with taint.
It was his own visage, one he hadn’t seen in far too many decades.
Stunned, he touched his face. Whiskers, and not the canine kind. The manly kind that women swooned for. Cheekbones. Lips.
“Hot damn,” he whispered. After three hundred years of being contaminated from the smut of a certain witch’s black magic spells, he was finally clean again! “I’m really back!”
“How do you like it?” Standing in the doorway was the sensual beauty who’d waved that tasty bone and promptly locked him up. In the three weeks since she’d deprived him of his freedom, she’d been scratching his butt and delivering white standard poodle girlies to him. Poodles with pink bows who had been very friendly to a big, black, shaggy dog that stank of smut, black magic, and death.
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