Eternal Sin

“Seriously, I’m fine,” she assured him.

He didn’t say anything, just kept going. Jaw tight, eyes trained forward, he took her into her bedroom and placed her gently on the bed. When she lay back against the pillows, he sat beside her.

“Where’s the pain?”

“There is no more pain,” she said. “It’s gone.”

“Then where was it?”

What was he doing? Why was he acting so concerned when he didn’t have the capacity or the ability to feel that emotion? Then she realized with a deep sense of melancholy that he did have ability, or the instinct. Not to care for her, but to care for the balas.

She pointed to the underside of her belly near her hipbones. “Here. But it’s gone now.”

Before she could even get that last part out, he had the edge of her black lace pajama top between his fingers. His dark eyes met hers. “May I?”

She nodded. “All right.”

He lifted the material just a few inches, to the very top of her belly, then placed his warm hand on the spot where her pain had been and began to rub in slow, gentle circles. Mesmerized, entranced, confused, Petra watched his large, strong hand massaging her swollen belly. Would her child’s hand look like this someday?

Oh, gods.

She lifted her gaze to his face. His stunningly handsome face. If she had a male balas, would he look like Syn? Would he have carved cheekbones and a full mouth? Deep, soulful eyes that pinned a female where she stood, then made her melt?

Her chest went tight and she bit at her lower lip. Would she really go through her life seeing Synjon Wise in every expression or movement her child made?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand stalled, his eyes burning a hole through her. “Is the pain back?”

“No.” Not that kind of pain.

He looked relieved, then started again with the circles on her belly. “This all right?”

“It feels good.” Too good. What was she supposed to do here? Stop him? Tell him that every time his hands were on her, she wanted them inside her as well?

“Look, Petra.”

The sudden youthful tone in his voice had her looking up. “What?”

“It follows me.” The smile on his face stunned her. It was completely real, almost innocent.

“What follows you?”

“The balas. It follows my hand.”

She looked down, watched as he moved his palm slowly across the top of her belly and down. A soft moan escaped her lips as she felt the deep and intense movement within her womb.

“Look,” he said.

And there it was. Her child’s head or elbow or foot following along behind Synjon’s hand.

She pulled away from him, from his touch, from the idea that he might somehow have control of her little balas, and rolled to her side. “I’m really tired.”

Syn didn’t say anything, but his hand flexed.

“You know, from all that pacing.” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. What had just happened here was the most intimate thing that she’d ever experienced in her life, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

“Good night, Syn,” she said almost breathlessly.

He stood, hesitated for a moment, then walked to the door. “I want to know if that pain comes back.”

She curled into her pillow.

“Promise me, Petra.”

His tone, almost dark, worried her. “I promise.”

This time, when he left, he didn’t close the door all the way.

* * *

He felt.

Not just the keys beneath his fingers as he worked the Bosendorfer with Debussy, but something deeper, something that had nothing to do with instinct, when he got close to the balas.

How could that be possible? Instinct he was willing to accept, but an emotional connection?

Cruen had drained him absolutely. Syn had made sure of it—then made sure all those emotions were permanently embedded in the asshole paven.

He played on. He played until he felt nothing at all. He played until the room grew cold and the snow outside accumulated against the glass doors leading to the terrace.

He played until he felt someone watching him.

His hands stilled over the keys and he glanced up. To his right, halfway between the hall to her bedroom and his piano, was the most beautiful swollen-bellied angel. Her hair loose and falling about the high white mounds of her breasts, barely encased by the black lace of her tank.

His mouth started to water. “Is the pain back?”

“That was you?”

“Is the pain back, love?” he said again.

“No. No, I’m fine.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out, then began to play once again. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

She came to stand beside the piano bench, bringing her scent with her. It made his gut clench with hunger and thirst. “You were the one playing at the party.”

He looked up at her. “You heard me over that crowd?”

“It was the only thing I wanted to hear,” she said. “It was beautiful. It is beautiful. I had no idea you could play.”

“The secret life of Synjon Wise,” he muttered, then switched gears, his fingers dancing over the keys as he played the very same song he’d played earlier that night. When he’d wanted to block out the party, his hunger, and his ever-growing desire for the veana who stood just inches away.

When he stopped, Petra sighed. “Incredible. I wish I could play like that.”

“You can,” he said.

She laughed. “Come on now.”

“I don’t mean right away. But you can learn, start from the beginning.” Then he added impetuously, foolishly, “I could teach you.”

“I’d like that, but I’m not sure I can fit on a piano bench in my condition. Where’s the belly going to go?” She laughed. “On top of the keys?”

“We could give it a try, and if it’s not comfortable, maybe after the balas is born . . .”

“Right,” she said quickly. She was quiet for a moment, no doubt thinking about returning to the Rain Forest after the birth of Little Fangs. Or not returning.

It was a thought he refused to entertain.

“How long have you been playing?” She came around to stand behind him.

“Since I was a balas of six years.” He started playing something soft and a little sad. Seemed to suit the mood. “Took to it right away.”

“No lessons?”

He shook his head. “Not a one.”

“That’s amazing. I wonder if Little Fangs will have—” She stopped abruptly. “Sorry. I know you hate the name.”

“I don’t mind it, really.” He looked over his shoulder, found her gaze. “And I hope so.”

She swallowed tightly and her eyes shuttered.

Syn took his hands off the piano and turned around to face her. His hands went to her waist, his thumbs on her stomach. “I hope the balas has something of me. Though it may seem impossible to see at this moment, with what I have become, there are traces of good within my blood.”

She gazed down at him. “I remember.”

“Oh, Petra.” He leaned in and placed his head on her belly. It was so warm. She