The Wicked In Me

Hearing footfalls, Wynter turned away from the painting she’d been admiring to see the gargoyle coming toward her.

He swept his gaze over her and the others. “Follow me.”

Wynter raised an Are you ready for this? brow at her crew, who all nodded. “Let me do the talking, please.” Because Christ knew what kind of shit they’d blurt out, and they did not need to be offending an Ancient.

Trailing after their guide, she asked, “Who has agreed to see us?”

“Cain,” he replied.

Her heartbeat stuttered. Not the best news, considering he’d been described as a mental sadist, but it was better than being turned away.

Wynter passed through many ornamental arches and glanced into various rooms, noting several people lingering around.

Rolling back her shoulders, she fixed a placid look on her face. Innocuous, staid, uninteresting—that was what she was going for. Wynter wanted to fade into the background and draw as little attention as possible while here. She wanted to be simply another resident, wanted to come across as a mere run-of-the-mill witch.

Finally, her guide halted near a mahogany door and wrapped his knuckles on it. A deep voice bid them to enter. Following the gargoyle into the room, Wynter almost blinked in surprise. She’d expected a simple office. It was a parlor. Gothic and elegant, it had antique Victorian furnishings, thick red drapes, a large stone fireplace, Persian rugs—

Sharp, hooded eyes clashed with hers, so serpent-like in their intensity that it tripped every one of her inner danger alarms. At the same time, though, her body perversely perked up. And she couldn’t really judge it for that.

Long and lean and supremely male, this man was perfect in form. His face looked carved from stone, all sharp angles and hard lines like an uncut jewel. His short, smooth hair was the color of obsidian, and he had the kind of full, carnal mouth that made a girl wonder just what he could do with it. His eyes were definitely his best feature, though—they were dark and almost … lustrous, like two black pearls.

So this was Cain … The originator of murder, the ancestor of envy, the quintessential personification of sin.

Someone could have warned her that he was also built to compel and seduce.

He stood tall and straight with his shoulders back and his feet planted—the image of self-possession. The long-sleeved tee he wore stretched tight across a delightfully toned chest. He’d shoved the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing ancient-looking tattoos. Even his forearms were toned, like those of a drummer.

“The coven I mentioned,” the gargoyle said to him.

Cain lifted a glass tumbler from a liquor cabinet. “So I see.” His voice was a deep, rumbly, I’ll talk dirty to you all night long kind of sexy that made her think very filthy thoughts. “You can leave now, Maxim.”

The guy obligingly breezed out of the room.

Cain took a swig of his drink, his gaze sweeping over the others, who’d all fanned out behind her. His eyes then once more locked with hers, unapologetically direct.

Her pulse skittered as his long legs began to cover the space between them. He moved with the sinuous grace of a tiger on the hunt, each step slow and precise, like he was callously savoring every fluid stride that took him closer to his prey. Damn, he had an explicit, sexy rawness to him. An edge. Not a devil-may-care edge; no, the edge of an apex predator who knew he was the penultimate alpha male and wouldn’t hesitate to slit your throat if you stepped a foot wrong. And she was entirely unprepared for how much that revved her engines.

Silently cursing her unruly hormones, she kept her expression blank, trying and failing not to admire the muscles bunching and flexing beneath his shirt. While her combat-trained mind instinctively plotted all kinds of potential pre-emptive strikes just in case he moved to hurt her, the entity inside her blinked and lifted its head. It went on high alert, but she sensed no panic from it. It didn’t feel threatened or vulnerable. She wasn’t sure if it could feel fear.

Finally, Cain came to a stop in front of her, so close she could feel his body heat. He gave her a lazy, head-to-toe perusal. An electric awareness snapped the air taut as little sparks seemed to spring from her to him. Not liking that visceral chemistry or the damn fluttering in her stomach, she fought the frown that tried tugging at her brow.

Towering over her, he watched her. Studied her. Missed nothing. “I am Cain. And you must be … ?”

She gave him a respectful dip of the chin and said, “Wynter.”

“Wynter,” he echoed, swirling his tumbler. “Pretty name.”

“It is, isn’t it?” said Delilah, remaining slightly behind Wynter. “Perfect for a Priestess.”

Wynter felt her lips thin.

“So you’re a coven?” asked Cain.

Since they no longer needed to pose as one, Wynter shook her head. “No, we’re—”

“The Bloodrose Coven.” Delilah reached past Wynter and handed him a fucking business card.

Wynter whirled on her. “What in the hell? When did you get—you know what, we’ll talk about this later.” She quickly introduced the others, thankful they remained quiet.

Cain inclined his head at them, a ghost of a smile now touching one corner of his mouth. It didn’t soften his expression or relax Wynter’s nerves. Something told her he’d still wear that hint of a smile while caning your fingers.

“Drink?” he offered.

“No, thanks.” She’d rather keep her wits about her.

The others also politely turned down his offer.

He gestured at one of the sofas. “Sit.” An instruction, not an invitation. It wasn’t spoken rudely, just in an expectant, no-nonsense tone that told her this was a man used to being in power.

He was also undoubtedly used to being obeyed … so it would probably be best not to spend a lot of time around him, because Wynter had a will of her own and wasn’t afraid to use it. That wouldn’t help with her whole ‘innocuous’ act.

She sat in the center of the couch he’d indicated and then crossed one leg over the other. Anabel and Hattie sat either side of her while Delilah and Xavier each claimed an armrest.

Cain sank onto the sofa opposite them and took another swig of his drink. “Maxim tells me you came to apply for residency.”

Wynter nodded. “That’s right.”

“I won’t ask where you’re originally from or why you’d choose to move to Devil’s Cradle—that’s your business. But I do need to be certain that you’re all fully aware of the realities of this town.” He balanced his glass on his thigh. “It was founded by myself and the other Ancients, all of whom live beneath the surface. There are rules, and everyone is expected to obey them. Punishments tend to be severe. Still, fights often break out. It can be difficult for several breeds of preternatural to coexist in a small town.”

“The population seems bigger than I thought it would be.”

“Oh, Devil’s Cradle is home to many creatures. Some merely come here because they haven’t been accepted anywhere else. I’m talking hybrids, misfits, cursed beings, or those with mutations. We also have species hiding out because they’ve been hunted near to extinction. Then there are the others, and most are the definition of unsavory. Outcasts, criminals, crazies. They have prices on their heads or are fleeing from persecution.” He idly tapped his finger on his glass. “Every single resident has one thing in common—they’re desperate for safety.”

A little like Wynter and her crew, then.

“If you become one of us, the Ancients here will protect and shelter you. We will never give you up to anyone who may come for you, we will never ostracize you, we will never hold you accountable for anything you did before coming here. But there’ll be a price.”

“Will there be any exceptions to the whole ‘not giving us up to anyone who’d come looking for us’ thing?” asked Xavier.

“No,” replied Cain. “We protect our own. You must understand, though, that this isn’t a fanciful sanctuary. It’s not some quiet, peaceful haven. Jungle law is very much prevalent here. If you can each hold your own, or at least find good allies, you shouldn’t find yourselves constantly challenged. Going lone wolf—or lone coven, as it were—would be a mistake, especially if you’re people who generally shy away from duels.”

Wynter wouldn’t hesitate to cross swords with anyone who’d think to challenge her. Ordinarily. Here, though, she wanted to keep her head down. Which would be hard to do when the people on this sofa with her were freaking insane. She was about to once more repeat that they weren’t actually a coven, but then Cain spoke again.

“Are you all still interested in becoming residents here?”

“Yes,” replied Wynter, and the others answered in the affirmative.

“Like I said before, there’s a price,” he warned.

And she could guess what it was. “Our memories would be stolen from us if we ever decided to leave?”

“No, we are not interested in erasing people’s identities. Although it should be noted that, on leaving, the memories of your time here will become fuzzy and soon after fade.”

That wasn’t so terrible, since it wasn’t like she’d forget her entire life. “Okay, so what’s the price?”

“Unless, or until, you officially leave Devil’s Cradle for good”—he took another drink from his glass and then tipped it their way— “your souls would partially belong to me.”

*

Cain watched as Wynter went very still. The others exchanged uneasy looks but didn’t speak, clearly content to let her take the lead. To look at her, no one would think she was Priestess of a coven. Nothing about her screamed ‘authority.’

Average height and slender as a rake, she didn’t appear in the least bit threatening. Her posture was both self-protective and submissive. She kept making nervous little gestures—biting her lip, twirling her ankle, swallowing hard.

It would be so easy to dismiss her as any sort of threat, but … there was the noiseless stealth with which she moved. And her quicksilver eyes—sharp, piercing, framed by thick dark lashes—had done a predatory sweep of the room like a leopard on the hunt when she’d first entered. It had snatched his inner creature’s total attention.

She also met Cain’s gaze easily. Not boldly, not in challenge, but she was utterly focused on him. And he knew she was watching for a sign that he’d attack. He knew she was ready to counter any move he might make. It almost made him smile.

Knowing that she’d strike without hesitation if he should prove a lethal threat stirred his blood in a way he wouldn’t have expected. The creature inside him liked it just the same. Liked her.

They also both sensed that there was something off about this little witch. Cain couldn’t put his finger on what it was about her that raised a red flag in his mind, or why his monster didn’t look upon her as prey. It saw another predator, which was why it had been watching her as intently as she watched Cain.

He stared directly into her eyes, wishing he could see inside her head. No amount of staring made her squirm in discomfort or falter with her act. Her nerves were rock steady. Wynter wasn’t a slave to her emotions, no, she was their fucking master. He respected that.

It was possible she was purposely giving off a nothing to see here, move along vibe because she simply wanted to fly under the radar. If so, that wouldn’t work. No one who looked like her would ever go unnoticed.

She was fucking beautiful with those unusual eyes, the heavy lower lip, her high cheekbones, and all that glorious dark hair that hung down her back straight as rain. But her attractiveness was only a small part of her draw. The way she carried herself, the steel in her spine, the sharpness in her eyes, the magick that hummed around her like an aura of electricity—all of it came together in a very pretty package. And he wanted her.

She gave her head a little shake. “We’d each have to sell you our soul?”

“No. But you would have to submit partial ownership of it over to me.”

“In what way is that different? I don’t really understand.”

“When someone signs their soul over to me in exchange for something it means that, no matter where they are in the world, they owe me their compliance. They are chattel, essentially. Puppets on a string, even. If I ever tug on those strings, they have to do as I bid. Each of you, however, would not be under my control as I would only have partial rights to your soul. But you would owe me respect, loyalty, and be in my service for as long as you’re residents here.”

“Why you specifically? Why not all seven Ancients?”

“We would all have authority over the five of you, of course. But the other Ancients would not hold such rights merely because it is not them making you the offer. Had another Ancient been on duty here tonight and had you accepted their offer, you would all have been in their service.”

She gave a slow nod of understanding.

“So … is this a price you’re all willing to pay?”

She glanced at each of her coven members. For long moments, they silently seemed to hem and haw but, eventually, one by one nodded.

Wynter turned back to Cain. “The issue here is … I don’t know if you’d actually want partial ownership of my soul.”

He felt his brows flit together. “Why is that?”

She shrugged. “It’s undead.”

Cain stared at her for long seconds, taken off-guard—something that very rarely happened. He leaned forward and, careful not to spill his drink, braced his elbows on his thighs. “When did you die?”

“When I was a child. As you no doubt know, magick can do all sorts of things, even bring people back from the dead.”

“I’ve heard that those with undead souls never feel real satisfaction. Is that true?”

“Yes. It’s like there’s a … detachment there. No taste or smell or sensation fully gratifies us, so we exist in a kind of limbo. But it beats being dead.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” He felt a slight stirring in his mind—one he hadn’t felt in so long he almost didn’t recognize it for what it was: fascination. “I’ve never touched an undead soul before.”

She double-blinked. “You can … touch souls?”

“If I’m granted partial or full rights to them, yes.”

“So if we agreed to your condition, you could touch our souls? What would that mean for us?”

“It wouldn’t allow me access to your thoughts or feelings, if that is what you’re wondering. But with one touch, I would have a general idea of your character merely because the soul is the foundation blocks of a person. Additionally, I’d know if you died.”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Could you also cause us pain?”

He nodded. “There’s nothing more sensitive than the soul.”

“So, in essence, we’d be completely vulnerable to you?”

“Yes.” And where it concerned Wynter, the dark heart of him liked the idea of that. “You would all also wear my mark on your palm. A brand that declares you’re under my protection and in my service. Every resident is marked by whatever Ancient claims rights to their soul.”

“How do we know you really intend to give those rights back to us when we leave?”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little. No offense.”

He felt his mouth quirk. Oh, he liked this little witch. And he’d definitely have her. “None taken. You needn’t worry. I’ll be as bound to the terms of the verbal contract as you.”

“What exactly are the terms?”

“There’s no fine print, Wynter. The agreement would be simple: For as long as you’re a resident of Devil’s Cradle, your soul will partially belong to me, and so you will owe me your loyalty and respect while also being in my service. In return, I will ensure you have shelter and protection from insiders or outsiders—no exceptions. The same will go for the rest of your coven if they agree.”

“Just to be clear, we’re not a coven,” said Wynter, though her thoughts were mostly centered around his ‘terms.’ She’d known the price would be hefty; she hadn’t known it would be this high. She’d heard that Aeons refrained from attempting to plant temporary spies here. She could now guess why.

Giving up some rights to her soul held no appeal, but neither did leaving Devil’s Cradle. Her gut told her that this was where she needed to be. And it wasn’t like she couldn’t reclaim those rights. If she decided she wanted them back, she could just up and leave, couldn’t she?

There was nothing in that agreement he’d mentioned that said he’d be privy to her secrets. He clearly hadn’t sensed the entity she hosted—an entity that was totally chill right now and close to dozing again—so that was good. And since her monster wasn’t bound to her soul, he wouldn’t ‘feel’ it on touching said soul. In sum, she’d be able to keep him in the dark.

If accepting Cain’s offer was a bad idea, she’d have received some sort of warning from the deity who’d branded her by now—She was seemingly full of opinions and often interfered with this or that.

The thing that most encouraged Wynter to accept his offer was that this dude was most definitely a match for the Aeons. He wouldn’t tremble in his boots if they tracked her to Devil’s Cradle. More, he’d be bound to protect Wynter from them.

But none of that meant anything if her crew weren’t on board with this, though she doubted they’d turn Cain’s offer down. They simply weren’t sane enough to be as wary as they should.

She glanced at each of them and lifted one brow. “Well?”

Delilah lifted one hand. “I’m in.”

“Same here,” said Xavier.

“I’m tired of running,” began Hattie. “I’m too old to keep doing it. I want to plant my derrière somewhere. This place is as good as any.”

When Anabel didn’t speak, Wynter gave her a gentle nudge and asked, “What about you?”

Anabel gave her a shaky smile. “We all have to die somewhere, so … yeah, whatever.”

Wynter shook her head. So morbid. Cutting her gaze back to Cain, she said, “All right, then; it looks like we’re staying.”

His eyes glinting with a dark satisfaction she didn’t quite understand, he held his hand out to her. “Then we have a deal?”

Wynter shook his hand. “We have a deal.”

A swish of power curled around their joined hands, warm and binding. At the same time, there was a curious shifting sensation in her chest. More lines of blazing pain whizzed along her palm, as if something was being carved into the skin wickedly fast.

She flipped over her hand to find a large ‘C’ on her palm that curved around a triangle that had a snake threaded through it. The mark was a little red and raw, like a laser had mere seconds ago gone to work on her flesh. The burn had faded though, so she guessed the redness would soon also vanish.

As he went through the same branding process with the others, she traced the mark on her palm carefully, marveling at how she felt no different than before despite apparently only now possessing partial rights to her soul. There was no sense of being shackled or owned or anything.

Done, Cain drained his glass and then smoothly rose to his feet. “Now I’ll have Maxim get you all settled. He’ll find you a place to live. He’ll also explain the rules and just why it would be a bad idea for you to ignore them. I’m hoping I won’t have to ever speak to you under other … more unpleasant circumstances.”

Wynter stood, and the others followed suit. “We won’t be breaking rules or making waves or anything like that.”

“Glad to hear it. I treat my own well. Until they displease me.” He paused, looking at her intently. “So don’t displease me, Wynter.”