Cursed [Book 1] ✔

Chapter 21.2: F@$#!

"Fuck!"

The woman had died upon arriving to the hospital. She was announced dead ten minutes into the e.r. staff's life-saving measures. Her thoughts had tapered off after one last question of Where are we going?

From my place in the waiting room, I delved into her mind. All I caught was a white sea of calm, until I heard the flat line from the hospital monitor. Then, the white sea vanished, and I saw nothing.

My hesitation had cost her. I had waited for Tristan, when I should have rushed her to the hospital right away.

Around him, I wasn't myself. I acted like a young girl desperate for his attention. Why the hell did had I waited? He had told me he would take care of the demon, and that I should take care of the girl. He was a Djinn, and could handle himself. Obviously, he had done his job, and I had failed to do mine.

Tristan was the paradigm of a distraction. It was possible that distraction was his ultimate purpose. Lillith and Samael still existed, just in a form unknown to the human eye. They could have manipulated my particular Djinn into doing whatever they wished. If so, I wondered what their ultimate goal would be in such a scenario. Veer me off course, mess with me, kill me?

To find out more, or to merely feed my addiction, I planned to stop by Tristan's apartment later. There was also the matter of my sword being in his possession, which was really my main reason for going to his place. Yeah. Yeah, right.

At his door, I hesitated, followed by a strange sensation to leave and never return, sword be damned. I could see myself slipping out of the building, opening the door to my hotel room, and taking a long-needed shower. I would go to bed unburdened. The only regret I would feel would be associated with the loss of my sword. So clear were these images in my mind that I nearly followed through. Yet, a stronger sensation pulled me out of my anti-fantasy and back to Tristan's front door. The cold wood of the door on my fingertips confirmed it was no dream. Being with Tristan was the dream, and I meant to find out how it ended.

My open palm curled into a fist, knocking gently on the door. After a rustling of padded footsteps, the door swung open. Tristan's hair was wet, a towel secured around slim hips, affording me the opportunity to appreciate his form: like his infamous parents, his skin had a stone-like hardness to it, and was just as pale. His paleness didn't turn me off to his perfect gleaming abs, chest, and face. Every inch of him mirrored that of a Roman statue made flesh. I ached to move aside the bothersome towel.

Tristan rudely interrupted my appraisal. "Care to look into my eyes, love? Not that I mind the starin' much. Would just make it easier to talk."

I averted my eyes with some effort. "I came here for my sword."

"Well, I didn't think you came to shower with me." My breath came in at a noticeably swifter pace at his casual remark. He raised his brow. "Come on in."

You can still go to the hotel.

In response to my conscience, I stepped over the threshold of his doorway, essentially telling the voice, Thanks, but no thanks, fucker.

Ah, that word was on the tip of my tongue, with the physical implications of it looming large in my mind. Following Tristan's half-naked body into the drawing room, I knew what I had really come here for.

"You can sit and wait while I get dressed." He cleared his throat quite audibly. "Then I'll fetch your sword."

The heat of my embarrassment bloomed as I realized why he had cleared his throat. Tristan may not have seen my red-colored thoughts, but he could certainly feel the lust. Oh God.