“Evil,” it said again. “Dark souls.” It lowered a clawed hand toward one of the bodies’ faces, then raised it to its own face.
“That’s what that was?” Nicolas asked. “The black stuff that came out of them. That was their souls?”
That hooded head inclined in affirmation. It was even closer now, almost near enough to reach out and touch. The being was half a head taller than him, and that was enough that itloomed. Nicolas should flee. Why wasn’t he moving?
“You ate theirsouls?” hewhispered.
“Sin,” it said, then touched the center of its own chest. “Sin eater.”
Nicolas trembled. He was a sinner, too, wasn’t he? He had doubts. He questioned God’s plan. There was enough rage in him over what they’d done to Daniel to blow a geyser. He was just as bad as the rest of?—
His thoughts screeched to a halt when the demon’s hand touched his cheek, sharp, black nails tickling softly.
“Bright,” the demon—the sin eater—said. “Bright soul.”
“What?” He lifted his own hand to wrap around the demon’s surprisingly human-like wrist, intending to push it away but getting distracted the moment their skin touched. It had four long, bony fingers and a thumb, an elbow, a shoulder. It seemed relatively human-shaped underneath the cloak, but its skin was black as coal. He couldn’t make out any facial features beneath the hood except for the burning glow of its eyes.
“Beautiful.” The raspy rumble of the demon’s voice rolled down his spine. Its thumb stroked his cheek, and Nicolas trembled. It leaned in, the hood falling around Nicolas’s face and hiding the rest of the world from view.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to start, but it never came. Something soft grazed his cheek, and when he opened his eyes in shock, the warehouse was visible again. The demon had ducked its head toward his neck andinhaled. The fabric of the hood was brushing his cheek. Lips grazed his skin, and then a wet mouth attached itself to his neck, sucking tenderly.
His stomach bottomed out. Nicolas panted, his head swirling with adrenaline and fear and something else he didn’t dare put a name to. This wasn’t how the sin eater killed the others. This was something far different. Hegasped, breath wheezing through his tight throat. The demon smelled like ancient stone and petrichor.
“What are you doing?” His voice quivered.
Strong fingers slipped between his palm and the hilt of his sword, prying it from his loose grip. It fell to the concrete with a loud clang, and then the demon pushed him backward, into the hallway and against the wall. The door to the factory floor swung shut behind them, hiding the bodies and his sword from view and cloaking them in the near absolute darkness of the hallway. He still had his knives, but he barely remembered them. His hands got lost in the demon’s supple black cloak.
“Need,” the demon rasped.
“Need what?” he whispered. “My soul?”
“No.” A long, wet tongue dragged up the column of his throat, and Nicolas shuddered, warring with his own body. Why did he want to arch his head back? He inhaled deep lungfuls of the demon’s scent, squirming against the solid body beneath the cloak. Their legs tangled, and a long thigh parted his. His breath froze in his chest at the sudden friction, and it came out in a long, helpless moan. God, it had beenso longsince anyone had touched him like this.
The demon raised its head slowly, glowing eyes burning Nicolas’s mouth.
“Again,” it rumbled.
Nicolas flushed with heat. The demon leaned in, applying more pressure, and Nicolas hissed through his teeth. His body moved of its own accord, flexing his hips to rut against the demon’s thigh, and he moaned again.
The demon lunged toward him. Nicolas gave a startled gasp, and then that long tongue was pressing between his lips. This wasnotwhat it looked like when the sin eater waseating. Nicolas froze, incredulity and disbelief outpacing shock or horror. This demon waskissinghim. Or—not kissing, but exploring. Its tongue was longer and more pointed than a human tongue, and it swept through Nicolas’s mouth slowly, curling around his teeth, gliding under and around his own tongue, brushing the inside of each cheek. Like it wanted tolearnhim.
When it slipped further back, finding his soft palate and triggering his gag reflex, he jerked away, banging his head against the wall and twisting to free his mouth. “No, please, enough. Why are you doing this?”
The demon’s thumb swept across his damp lips, as though in apology. Nicolas found the demon’s eyes again, and the hood tilted like he was a particularly curious specimen. Both of its hands fell to his hips, guiding him to move again, and he hummed as unwitting pleasure coursed through him. The demon did it again and again, until Nicolas was panting once more.
“Want,” the demon rasped. “You.”
“Please,” he breathed. He didn’t even know what he was asking for anymore. His freedom? A climax? Or that strange tongue again, because it took his breath away but not in a way that repulsed him? He should be fighting to escape. He should be reaching for the forgotten knives on his belt and carving his way out of this demon’s arms. Instead he was rocking against it, clutching the unfamiliar fabric of its cloak and resisting the urge to lean in for another ill-advised kiss.
He felt a bulge nudging against his hip. Did that mean this demon was a male? Before he could decide, the demon took his collar in both hands andrippedhis shirt right down the middle. Nicolas stared down at his own panting chest. The demon’s hands trailed down his skin, sharp clawsbrushing the coarse hair that dusted his chest and circling one of his nipples curiously. Nicolas stiffened, and orange eyes flickered up to his face. Studying him intently, it—he—grazed Nicolas’s nipple with the sharp tip of his claw.
“God,” Nicolas moaned.
“No god,” the demon said, then ducked down and sucked the hardened bud into his mouth. Sharp teeth pinched around his areola, and the perfect mixture of pain and pleasure drew a sharp cry from him. His knees buckled, and the demon effortlessly took his weight, keeping him pinned between his cloaked body and the wall.
“This—this is wrong,” Nicolas tried, but it was hard to remember when all his body wanted to do was rock against the demon under him until he was a sated puddle. “We have to stop.”
“No.” The demon’s palm pressed flat against the bulge in Nicolas’s jeans, and he whimpered, his head and shoulders hitting the wall as he rocked into the touch. Something was wrong with him. This couldn’t be normal. His squad was dead on the other side of that door. He shouldcare. Even if they were idiot assholes who bought into Sloan’s propaganda. That didn’t mean they deserved to die. Why did this demon get to be judge, jury, and executioner?
