The Taking (Seven Deadly Sins #3)(43)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Swallowing hard, Regan forced her eyes open. It amazed her that a man she had known for such a brief amount of time could understand her better than her parents or the man she had married.

“Is that what my snake says?” she asked lightly.

Felix smiled. “Yes.”

Then he kissed her, a soft lingering press of his mouth on hers, before retreating to the other side of the bed. “Go to sleep, beautiful Regan. Release your snakes.”

Regan closed her eyes again, and felt Felix’s hand reach over and brush her cheek. Sighing, she quieted her mind and let it all go.

Felix watched Regan sleeping, her hands tucked up under her cheek. He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought her ordinary looking. She was a delicate, ethereal beauty, her compassion in her eyes. She was the kind of woman who loved with all of her heart, even at the risk of having it hurt.

He wasn’t doing her heart any favors by being there with her. She was still vulnerable from her bad marriage, and she was falling for him, he could see it in her expression when she spoke. It was just infatuation, obviously, since that was all women ever felt for him. They merely took, never gave. And it would fade.Yet with Regan, for the first time since he received his immortality, he was tempted himself. There was something about her unselfishness, the way she asked about him, seemed genuinely and truly interested in him, that was puzzling. Pleasing. It brought to the forefront the loneliness he’d been ignoring and taunted him with possibilities that could never be.

He wanted a woman to love him. To really and truly love him.

But that was something he was never entitled to, what the consequence of his greed was. No woman could love him.

Yet, when he watched Regan, at peace in her sleep … he ached for her to give him that.

She wasn’t like other women he’d dated, women who simpered and flirted and laughed. Women who thought he was strange, but were willing to overlook it for the sake of hot sex or to brag to their friends that they’d nailed a voodoo practitioner. No woman, then or now, had ever understood him, or even desired to understand him.

Until Regan.

He had been telling the truth about spending the night with women. He had never, not in his entire existence, slept in the same bed all night with any woman. In the previous century, it hadn’t been possible or practical given the strictures of society and the fact that most of his lovers were wealthy white women. Then in later days, he hadn’t wanted to. It was much easier to leave after sex, still in control of his emotions, than to hang around hoping for intimacy that would never arrive.

While he intended to stay the whole night with Regan, it didn’t look like he was actually going to sleep. He was wide awake, body satisfied but mind restless.

By being there with her, he had done something he couldn’t take back, and while he wanted a lot of things—wanted to protect her, wanted to enjoy her company, wanted, wanted, wanted—he was worried.

If his presence caused her pain, he would never forgive himself.

Climbing out of bed, he shook his head at himself. He’d told her about his mother. His parents. He never did that. Never. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him with Regan, except that maybe it was because she was the first to ever ask.

Moving in the dark to the chest of drawers, he touched the cool marble top, looking at the sopping piece of torn paper that he’d tossed on top of the original mailing envelope.

“Camille,” he said, under his breath, so he wouldn’t wake Regan. “Are you here?”

The room was silent. There was no movement at all, including from Felix, as he stood still and listened, watched, felt.

Nothing.

There didn’t seem to be any presence in the room, and the only sound was the soft whisper of Regan’s breathing.

“Camille,” he said again, more forcefully. “Show yourself.”

No response, not even a rustle of a breeze.

He almost walked away, climbed back into bed with Regan, but he realized if he never dealt with the past, how could he ever find a future? Some small, stupid part of him still wanted to believe that one did exist for him. Hope was too strong of a word for it, but if righting the wrongs of the past made the present more tolerable, he would embrace that.

Besides, he owed Camille.

Opening one of the French doors, he glanced back at Regan. She didn’t even shift on the bed, but slept deeply, the covers up to her chin.

He stood in the doorway and faced the room. “Camille, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for any part I had in your pain and suffering. Most of all, I’m sorry for your death. Talk to me. Tell me what it is you want.”

Felix sat down on the floor in the house he should never have entered and waited for an answer.

He never got one.

Regan woke up with a start, the light streaming from the windows onto her face. She was late for work. She had to be. It was too bright for it to be before eight A.M. Sitting up, she stopped frantically shoving her covers off when she caught sight of Felix on the floor in the open French door to her balcony.

“Good morning,” he said.He was still in his boxer briefs, his knees up, elbows perched on them, his cross prominent on his chest.

Have mercy, she could not believe she’d had sex with this man. Such amazing, world-tilting, multiple-orgasm sex. Surely this was retribution for all the so-so sex she’d had with Beau.

And he’d stayed the whole night, which she hadn’t expected, even though he had said he would. Of course, she wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing on the floor.

“Good morning.” She smiled, a little nervous. What the hell was she supposed to say to him? She’d had a total freak-out meltdown on him the night before and afterward had asked him to do her against the wall. Then followed it up with embarrassing confessions of reptile delusions and her childhood theft of her sister’s stuffed animal.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, then berated herself mentally. That was such a lame, polite, ridiculous question.

He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep.”

Regan blinked. “At all? I’m sorry, wasn’t the bed comfortable? Did I steal the covers? Or snore?”

“Why do you always assume that anyone else’s discomfort is your fault or responsibility? Nothing you did kept me from sleeping. Nothing.”

O-kay. She felt her cheeks start to burn. Maybe he had a point, but did he have to make it sound like such a flaw? He almost sounded angry with her. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

He stood up, and she immediately forgot why she was irritated. He was physically perfect. Absolutely perfect. That was both exciting as hell and intimidating in the extreme. “Any reason you were on the floor?” she asked.