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He reached out, wanting to touch her. Knowing this was why he’d come, this sweet seduction. This wasn’t about plans or plots or exit strategies. It was about Sara. The woman looking at him with enough longing to fill his heart with hope.
“You touch me, Sara, in ways that it would be better that you did not. I know I should leave—know even that you should push me away. And yet I cannot stop.”
He reached out, brushing a hand to her cheek. The tempo of her heartbeat increased beneath his fingers, and he thought of the blood that flowed in her veins. Sweet, delicious, like the woman herself. He thought, and he wanted, and the hunger that he had been fighting for hours surged within, the serpent crying for release.
He beat both back down, subordinating them to his desire, now a living, breathing thing. “Sara,” he said, voicing the only words that mattered. “I love you.”
He saw the glow of pleasure on her face, then felt the warmth of her lips on his. A wild, claiming kiss that spoke more than words ever could.
She was his. By the gods, she was truly his.
He pulled her closer, his hands sliding over her bare thighs, then higher still until he groaned against her mouth when he realized she wore no panties. She writhed against his fingers, her hands cupping his head as she deepened their kiss.
She was giving him all of her, and the knowledge humbled him. Even with everything she knew about him—with Braddock lying dead in the morgue—Sara was giving herself to him.
She loved him.
The knowledge was both arousing and humbling.
And yet it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. How could it, when she didn’t truly know everything?
He froze, and she pulled back, her brow furrowed in question.
“Luke?”
“There is something I must tell you. I cannot keep it from you, though I wish I could. I fear I will lose you, my love. And yet you must know.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Then we are even.” He closed his eyes. “It wasn’t Sergius,” he said, his words tasting like chalk in his mouth. “It was me.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she scrambled off the bed, her eyes wide and her arms crossed over her chest. “You? You’re the one who killed my father?”
“I’m so sorry. The rest is true. I was ordered—”
“You need to leave.” Her words held the chill of ice.
“My love, please. You know the circumstances. You said you understood.”
She shook her head, her face pale. “Please. I need you to go.”
“Sara, I—”
“Go!”she screamed, and in that moment, the serpent burst free, the hunger taking over as his fangs extended and he pulled her close, lost in the craving for her touch and her blood.
Sara screamed, yanking out of his grasp to lunge forward, grab the control box, and jam her finger hard onto the panic button.
ChapterEighteen
She shivered, couldn’t stop shaking, the cold threatening to consume her.
He’d killed her father.
He’d confessed, and then he’d changed right before her eyes, his fangs bared, his dark eyes full of hunger as he’d yanked her toward him.
Then he’d run, ripping open the patio door, leaping from the balcony into the thick, black Los Angeles night.
A gray mist filled the room, and even as her foggy brain registered that the mist must be the security team, Sara scrambled to her feet and stumbled toward the patio. Hands on the railing, she breathed deep and looked out over the dark, empty night, her eyes searching futilely for Luke. He deserved it. Whatever happened to him, he deserved it.
