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Serge had done a lot of regrettable things in his long life, and he was certain that he would rack up more in the future, but never would he stoop so low as to count fucking his best friend’s ward among them.
“Don’t want to sit. Want to play.” She slid her hand down over her belly, over the mound between her thighs, and the only thought in his head at the moment was that Luke had damn well, damn well, better value their friendship, because the serpent was coiling inside him, stirring up all those dark cravings, and fighting it back was using all of his willpower. Every last drop. “Don’t you want to play with me, Sergius?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said, forcing the words out. “I need to get some work done.” He made to move past her, felt her fingers close over his arm. “Let go, Tasha. I need to get out of here.” Talk about an understatement.
“But I do know,” she said, sidling closer, her gown brushing against him, her soft thighs pushing close. “He showed me,” she added, cupping her palm over his frustrated, desperate cock. “He showed me how to play.”
Warning bells sounded like Klaxons in his head, and he stepped back, gripping her shoulders and looking firmly into her face. “Who?” he demanded. “Who showed you?”
“Judge not,” she giggled. “Lest ye be judged.”
“Judge not?” he repeated, not understanding. But as he looked at her and saw that glint of sexuality spark in her eyes, he knew. He knew what had happened to her.
More than that, he now understood Luke’s motivation.
“Braddock,” he said, the name like a curse on his lips. The judge had always been oily, and for decades there had been rumors of bribery and blackmail. If Serge was understanding Tasha right, Braddock had gotten his hands on her—and had gotten himself killed for his trouble.
He looked down at Tasha, unable to conceal his fury. “What did the bastard do to you?”
“Do you want me to show you?” she asked, pressing herself up close, her body swaying dreamily from side to side. “I promise to only share the part that felt nice. So nice. All soft and sweet.” She scowled and shook her head, her brow creasing. “But not the part that hurt. That’s the secret part. Not for sharing. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it when it burns. No pain,” she added, the vixen shriveling to reveal a terrified child. “Please, no pain. Not again.”
She fisted her hands in his shirt and looked up at him with wild, terrified eyes. As she whimpered in his arms, he wished that he’d been there to help Luke take Braddock down.
“Tasha,” he said, wishing he could extinguish the fear in her eyes. “You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“No more pain…”
“No.”
“Only pleasure…”
“That’s right.”
“I can make it stop,” she whispered, her dreamlike voice working on him like a trance. She lifted herself onto her toes, her hands still lost in his shirt. Her lips brushed lightly over his. “I know things I’m not supposed to. I know things about making the hurt go away. About turning pain into pretty, pretty pleasure.” She tilted her head back, her smile as convincing as any whore he’d taken to bed during his youth as a human. “Do you want me to show you?”
“Tasha.” He ground out her name, his hands closing over hers, pushing her away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She moved closer, the gossamer gown caressing curves that his fingers ached to touch.
A lump formed in Serge’s throat and he tried to swallow back the rising serpent. He would not bed his friend’s ward. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
And yet as she moved ever closer—as his body tightened with need and the darkness raged in his blood—he feared that no matter how hard he fought, in the end, he would betray his friend.
* * *
Sara passed through a wall of light as she crossed the threshold, realizing it was a facial scan to verify her identity. She stood a moment, soaking in the strangeness and wondering where her escort was, when she heard a flapping sound approaching from the dimly lit hallway.
A moment later, the source of the flapping appeared—a woman with flowing dark hair, a pale complexion, and wings that spanned almost the entire width of the tunnel. She landed a few feet from Sara, her head bent, her wings folding back, then seeming to disappear all together.
She lifted her head, a brow raised as she studied Sara. Sara did the same. She had high cheekbones, pale blue eyes with cat-like pupils, and she held herself with complete confidence.
The woman—or whatever—cocked her head. “Well? I haven’t got all day.” She turned and started to walk down the hall, back the way she’d come. Sara hurried to keep up. When they reached an intersecting hall, her escort extended a hand, pointing. “Investigation to the right, prosecution to the left. Detention on sub-15. Questions?” she asked as they turned left.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“I’m Blair.” She stopped, her eyes roaming over Sara. It didn’t look as if she liked what she saw. “I’m the one who can destroy you with a song and kill you with a kiss.”
Deliberately, Sara crossed her arms. “Is that your official title?” No way was she showing intimidation. She glanced at Blair’s lanyard, searching for a clue as to what this woman was, but the S she saw there didn’t mean a thing.
