When Wicked Craves (9 page)

He took a step toward her. Too close, considering that his hands were bare. She stepped back, but he matched her, his proximity making her fidgety. Nervous. She stood still—very still—and forced herself to meet his eyes, trying to ignore the way her heart was beating now, tripping in time with both fear and something else. Something new and just as dangerous as the curse she lived with every day of her life.

“I think you’re missing the bigger picture,” he said, so close she could feel his breath on her skin, the sensation as warm and gentle as an imagined caress. She shivered, definitely not out of fear, and focused on something just over his shoulder. Right then, she didn’t want to meet his eyes. “You want this curse lifted even more than I do. And to get that done, we’re going to have to work together.”

She opened her mouth, ready to lash out with a snippy comment about his definition of working together, but he got there first.

“I apologized for getting into your head, and I meant it,” he said, taking a step back, and then shifting position
so that she was looking straight at him. “But don’t think you can dangle idle threats. We’re a team now, Petra. Which means you tell me everything you know about this curse and how to lift it.” He looked hard at her, and she shrank under his look. “Everything.”

Not exactly an option.
If he knew her death would free Serge, he’d kill her in a heartbeat, and that really didn’t sit well. She wanted to live too damn much. Wanted to cling desperately to the hope that somehow, someday she really would be a part of the world instead of an outsider.

So no, she’d never tell Nicholas the truth, but there was no way she could remain silent, either. Not completely.

“Petra?”

“Deal.” She glanced down, eyeing his hands. “I’d say we could shake on it, but …”

“Probably for the best.” He tossed the backpack at her feet. “Clothes. You should change.”

He already had, having abandoned the ninja look for something more L.A. casual, dark jeans, a white button-down, and a black leather jacket. Simple. Basic. Yet on him it looked like runway attire for a male model. At the very least, it looked like he should be in line for a screen test at one of the studios.

She’d seen him innumerable times in fancy silk suits that probably came from custom tailors in exotic locations, and she could remember thinking that he looked nice. Well put together. Now, though …

Now he looked like sin personified. Smooth and slick and completely in control.

She frowned, fighting the memory—if
memory
was
the right word—of his essence twining with hers. He’d made a mark on her, that much was for sure.

And the fact that she couldn’t do a damn thing about it was one of the bigger regrets in her life. Fortunately, she was a woman used to sweeping regrets aside.

She bent down and unzipped the bag, then pulled out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of long, thin opera gloves.

“Lissa,” Nicholas said, his voice oddly tight. “Hopefully they’ll fit.”

“Is she here?” Lissa was the werewolf Rand’s mate, and she and Petra had spent many long visiting hours together, with Lissa doing her best to convince Petra that everything would turn out all right, and neither one of them really believing it.

As if in answer, there was a tap at the door, and then Lissa stepped in, Rand right behind her. The weren’s eyes shifted to Nicholas. Lissa looked only at Petra. “Oh, you haven’t tried them on yet. I wanted to make sure everything fit.”

“I’ll do it now,” Petra said, then glanced at Nicholas and felt her cheeks burn. “Well, as soon as Nicholas leaves.” Smooth. They were about to be existing in very close quarters, and she was wondering what it would be like to know that he was watching her. To feel his eyes looking at her
that
way, and know that even though he couldn’t, he desperately wanted to touch her, almost as much as she longed to feel his touch.

Except he
wasn’t
looking at her that way. For that matter, he wasn’t looking at her at all. Wasn’t looking anywhere, in fact. But she had the odd sensation that he was staring into nothing so that he wouldn’t stare at
Lissa. There was a tension between them, something harsh and uncomfortable. And although it wasn’t any of her business, she couldn’t help but wonder at the thickness in the air, and the way Nicholas held himself, as if he was holding back a secret.

Lissa, too. The way her attention stayed solely with Petra. And the way Rand watched Nicholas like a hawk.

Interesting.

But what was even more interesting—and more than a little disturbing—was the way that watching them made her feel. Sort of twisted up inside, and although she liked Lissa—a lot, actually—right then she couldn’t wait for the beautiful succubus to vacate the premises and let her and Nicholas get back to their conversation.

“You picked out great stuff,” Petra said. “It looks like it’s all going to fit.”

“I’m so glad.” She took a step back. “I’ll let you guys finish up, but Luke wanted us to give you a nudge.” She said the last to Nicholas as she hooked her arm through Rand’s. “Everybody’s anxious to get moving.”

“Everybody?” Petra asked, wondering just how many people had helped break her out.

“It takes a village,” Nicholas said wryly.

Petra frowned as Lissa retreated, shutting the door behind her. The thought that there might be more than just Nicholas both panicked and thrilled her. She wasn’t used to being beholden to anyone but Kiril, and he never considered his protection a burden. She was his sister, after all. But owing someone something … that was intimate and scary.

“Who exactly is everyone,” she asked, “and how did they help you get me out?”

“They didn’t,” Nicholas said. “That I managed on my own. Mostly.” Some of the pressure on her chest lifted. Whoever was out there hadn’t helped in her rescue. She was still beholden only to Nicholas.

“They’re here because of Serge. Keeping guard.”

“And no one else knows he’s alive?”

“Only five people. Rand and Lissa, Luke and Sara. Me. Six now, with you.” He studied her. “Do you want to see him?” Nicholas asked, as if the possibility had just occurred to him.

She shook her head. “The only reason to see him would be to remind me of what my curse can do. Trust me, I don’t need the reminder. I’ve lived with it every day of my life.”

She turned away, frustrated by the rising memory of the horrible night when she was born.

As remarkable as that was, somehow she did remember it. The blood-spattered walls. The screams of her mother. The terrifying howls of her father.

She clenched her fists, not wanting to go there, shoving hard to lock the memory away.

“Petra? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She shifted so she was facing him. “It’s not just me, you know. It’s handed down. A family curse.” The words just spilled out, and as she looked up at him, at the compassion on his face, she was struck by the sudden realization that he was such a damn good advocate because he knew how to watch and when to question. And because there was something about that face that inspired trust.

That made people believe that they could speak honestly
without harsh consequences. Even people as wary as she.

She supposed it made sense to tell him what little she knew, though she had her doubts that removing the curse was possible; but he’d be no help at all without understanding how the damn thing came about.

She recalled the soft way he’d looked at Lissa, and had to admit that this was about more than freeing herself from a curse. Right then she wanted to see the sympathy that would surely blossom in his eyes. Needed to see it.

Needed the comfort of knowing that he wasn’t doing this just to save Serge, but that in some small way, he could save her, too.

“A
family
curse.” Nick stared at her, a bubble of irritation rising inside him. “I was your advocate. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have mattered? They condemned me because of
what
I am, not
why
I am.”

“It matters.” He’d assumed the source
of the curse could be tracked down. Now he had to consider the possibility that whoever or whatever placed the curse on the Lang family was long gone, dead and buried. Not good. Not good at all.

But a family curse meant family stories and heirlooms. Hopefully they’d find a clue there.

He started to say more, but was interrupted by a pounding on the door. “Forget fashionably late,” Luke said. “Just get yourselves out here. I want everyone briefed before it’s time to feed him.”

“Five minutes,” Nick answered, then turned back to Petra.

“Go on. I’ll change and be right there.”

“You’ll change,” he agreed. “And we can talk.”

She glanced down at the bag at her feet, at the man standing in front of her.
“I’m not—”

“I’ll turn around,” he said, then did, facing the doorway instead of the woman.

He heard the rustle of cloth as she peeled herself out of the PEC-issued outfit, and he’d been with far too many women not to imagine how she looked, the dim light of the room making her skin glow, the shadows accentuating every curve. So help him, this woman wasn’t even on his radar and yet his body tightened. Like Pavlov’s bloody dog, he thought, with a combination of amusement and irritation.

“You didn’t answer me,” Petra said, interrupting his thoughts. “Would it have mattered?”

Without thinking, he turned to answer her, and saw that the image he’d had in his head was right. She stood naked now, all soft curves and sleek lines, her petite body athletic, but with enough flesh that no one would ever mistake her for an adolescent boy.

Her head was inside the hooded shirt, and he knew he should turn back, but he couldn’t. He liked the way she looked, fresh and innocent.

She was a rare creature, he thought. One he couldn’t seduce, couldn’t use, couldn’t touch despite the temptation to reach out and stroke her skin, to see if her body was as soft as it looked, and to experience the unique pleasure of knowing he was the first man to caress her that way.

That pleasure, however, carried a heavy price.

Her head slipped through the hole in the shirt, her dark mass of curls emerging first, then her face, eyes closed. She opened them, saw him watching her, and jerked the shirt the rest of the way down. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Admiring the view,” he said, amused by the way her hands crossed down, hiding her crotch.

“Dammit, Nick! Turn around.”

“I apologize. I assure you I didn’t mean to look,” he said, but he did turn.

“That’s complete and total bullshit.”

He chuckled. “No, it’s true. I didn’t mean to look, but once I turned around, I couldn’t turn back. You’re beautiful, Petra.” He fought the urge to take one last look at the body of a woman he couldn’t have. “Has no one ever told you that?”

She didn’t answer, and he regretted his words. Of course no one had. No man had ever seen her like that; how could one have, when to see her was to want to touch her?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter, and we need to go.”

He could hear her yanking on the jeans, her movements abrupt and jerky. He’d upset her. Dammit, he was usually better at saying the right thing to a woman.

“One more time—would telling you that my family’s cursed really have helped?”

He turned around to face her, certain now that she was dressed. “No,” he said, watching the way she held her face, so bland and expressionless. “You’re right. They would have looked at you, seen a long line of cursed humans, and wanted all the more to end it, right then, right there.”

For a moment, silence hung between them.

“I destroyed my father,” she finally said, her face and her voice hard and steady, but he could hear the vulnerability underneath. He wished he could reach out to her, but at the same time he was glad that was impossible. He could tell by looking that she wanted to appear
strong, and accepting his touch would be like acknowledging weakness. Petra, he knew, didn’t like to be weak.

“I was only a baby, but I know what happened. I guess it’s part of the curse, but I remember it all.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently.

“No,” she said with that same steely dispassion. “It wasn’t my fault. But that doesn’t change the fact that he changed because of me, and because he changed, he killed my mother.” He heard the hitch in her breath and saw the softness beneath the steel, the guilt so quickly masked.

“I see it every night in my dreams. I’m in the dark, warm and safe with my brother, and then there’s pain. So much pain. That part’s a blur until I’m blinded by light and cold and scared and alone. I’m screaming, too, because I want my brother, but he’s not there with me.” She met his eyes. “I’m being born, you see.”

He nodded, but didn’t interrupt. She drew a breath, then continued, stating facts like a soldier would give a report.

“After that, the dream shifts. I’m not inside me anymore, but it’s like I’m watching a movie. There’s an old woman, and she wraps me in a cloth. She knows she can’t touch me. And even though my mother’s still in pain—because Kiril’s on his way—she’s happy because she’s free, but she feels guilty—so guilty—because her happiness comes at a heavy price to me.”

“She’s passed it on.”

Petra nodded. “Firstborn. Birth both cures and curses.”

“And this cycle? How long had it been going on?”

“Since the 1800s for sure. Possibly before that, but that’s as far back as our family Bible goes.”

“And your father?”

“My dreams don’t get into his head, so I don’t know why he did it. My aunt told me that he’d always been impulsive—never thought clearly—and that when he was allowed into the room, he was so overjoyed that my mother was cured, and so amazed that he had both a daughter and a son, that he didn’t think to ask who was firstborn. He assumed it was Kiril, since he was bigger, and I was a puny, runty little thing.” Her wry smile cut right through him. “I guess he didn’t realize that power can come in very small packages.”

“He touched you.”

“Barely. Just the slightest brush of a fingertip against my little thumb. He was counting them, the way parents do, to prove that their children are perfect.”