Carnal Sin

“But the million-dollar question is, can we use it to send Lust back to Hell?”

After leaving Moira and Rafe at the hotel, Jackson ensured that the chalice was properly secured in the vault in the Grace Harvest church basement. The alarm was armed. He walked across the parking lot to the vicarage, physically exhausted but emotionally wound up.

He knew about demon hunting and had participated in a few exorcisms, but only as an assistant or bystander, and only under controlled conditions. He’d had no idea what was required, what Moira and Rafe truly had to do, or how much fortitude they needed to face off a demon that wanted them dead. They had worked in unison, completely in sync with each other. It had been amazing to watch, as well as terrifying.

At least for now, it was over.

Jackson wasn’t a drinker, but tonight-this morning, rather-he poured himself a double Scotch before going to his office. He sat at his desk and booted up his computer. While waiting, he sipped his drink and consoled himself with the fact that he hadn’t lied to Moira. In fact, he’d told her the truth-he was still looking for Courtney.

He would never have considered breaking and entering to obtain the information he needed-information he suspected Wendy Donovan had-but when the opportunity arose, he’d jumped at it. How could he not? His daughter’s life-her eternal soul-was at stake. He couldn’t stand by and not try to save her.

If Wendy Donovan’s contact list and computer files didn’t ultimately help him track down his daughter, at least he would have a much more comprehensive list of witches across America to add to his database. Jackson was confident he would someday find Courtney. He knew the name of the witch who had recruited his daughter, and now with Wendy’s files he could track down her associates. Eventually, he would find and save his daughter.

Even if it took his last breath.

EIGHTEEN

After Moira helped Rafe recline on one of the double beds in their hotel room, she took her knife and cut away his shirt from the wound. Her field dressing had held, but the bandage was soaked bright red. He’d somehow reopened the wound. Dammit.

“I liked that shirt,” Rafe said, eyes closed.

“You have at least six other black T-shirts,” she said. Rafe was pale, but at least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. She willed her hands to remain steady as she carefully removed the dressing and inspected the injury.

The wound had stopped bleeding again, but it had gone in deep enough to have Moira debating whether to take Rafe to the hospital. What if the blade had nicked a vital organ? She must have stared too long, because Rafe said, “Forget about the hospital. I’m fine.”

“You lost a lot of blood.” She showed him the bandage she’d just removed. “How are you feeling? Honestly. Nicole stabbed you with her asthame. We don’t know if the knife was poisoned, or cursed, or-”

“I am fine. Just exhausted, like you. I think I saw orange juice in the mini- fridge.”

She rose and crossed the room. “I forgot there was a refrigerator. I’m so used to the generic, cash-only, fleabag motels.”

She pulled out orange juice for Rafe and a water bottle for herself. Then she grabbed a mini-bottle of vodka.

“I didn’t know you drank the hard stuff,” Rafe teased.

“Me? Hell, no. If it’s not beer, don’t bother me with it. This is for you.” She shoved a folded towel under him. “It’s going to sting.”

“Don’t-” he began, but she’d already poured half the bottle over his wound. “Shit,” he gasped, biting down on his lip.

“I warned you. Sorry.” She kissed Rafe near the cut, not realizing she’d done so until her lips touched his warm skin, tasted the alcohol on his body, and smelled the sweat from their battle with the witches.

In silence, Moira finished cleaning and taping his injury, trying to ignore Rafe’s watchful eyes. “You’ll live.” She tried to sound flip, but it came out relieved. She finally looked at him, and he took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

Her racing heart was finally slowing as the adrenaline from the last hour faded. “But if you feel any sharp pains, start bleeding, get a fever-I’m taking you to the hospital. Or else back to Santa Louisa to have Dr. Fielding look at you.”

“I don’t need a coroner yet,” he said with a half smile.

“I’m serious!” She tried to stand, to pace-worry and fear battling for primacy-but Rafe didn’t let go of her hand. He pulled her down on top of him.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. But it’s nice to have someone worry about me.”

For a split second she thought about his wound, not wanting to reinjure it, but his bare chest was flat against her, his lips right in front of her, his eyes staring into hers.

“I’m fine,” he whispered again.

She kissed him, not wanting to hear he was okay because she knew he wasn’t. He’d been stabbed; he could have died. She shivered uncontrollably. They were partners; she’d never forgive herself if he died during one of their operations.

They were more than mere partners.

“I can’t lose you,” she said, her mouth moving from his lips, to his rough jaw, to his neck. “I can’t,” she whispered.

The thought that tonight could have been their last night on earth terrified her. For two weeks they’d been talking around their mutual attraction-every time Rafe brought it up, she avoided the conversation. She didn’t want to talk about the kisses they’d shared, the hot touches, the way she missed him when they were apart, the way she knew when he entered a room even when her eyes were closed. She had kept the protective shields surrounding her heart, her emotions, erect and strong.

But tonight they crashed down around her with one simple thought:

Rafe could have died.

She didn’t want to care about Rafe Cooper. She didn’t want to be here in this hotel room alone with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her body, holding her close as she greedily licked his salty skin. Caring raised the stakes. Caring left her vulnerable. She didn’t want to care. Or to fall in love.

But she didn’t know how to stop it.

Tonight, she let go. Tonight, she touched Rafe the way she’d wanted to for weeks. She pushed aside his earlier comments about not settling for a one-night stand. She’d worry about that tomorrow.

She kissed Rafe’s chest. His biceps. The soft skin on the inside of his elbow. She kissed each of his fingers in turn, slowly, wanting to know every inch of his body. She kissed his stomach and stopped when her lips brushed his bandage.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “Maybe-”

He grabbed her forearms and pulled her up, his mouth hard on hers, silencing her excuses. He rolled over so her back was flat on the bed and he towered above her. His voice was a low, primal growl. “If I bleed, you can stitch me up later.”

Then there were no more words between them, only the heat that had been building exponentially until together, they turned combustible.

Rafe pushed aside his doubts, all anxiety over what they had faced and what they would face, and focused on Moira beneath him. Kissed her so she couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell him to stop, to slow down, to think. He didn’t want to debate whether making love to Moira was right or wrong; it couldn’t be wrong. Not when she warmed his cold heart; not when she gave him the will to live, a reason for fighting the pain of memories that weren’t his, or the unspoken traumas of his own distant past.

With Moira, he could face the world and any battle the underworld threw at them.

He had to. For her. For them.