She didn’t blush under his heated appraisal, her rosy mouth tilted at a wry angle as she looked him right in the eye. Slowly, she said, “I never thought I’d see the day that Noah Winston came slinking back home.”
“It’s … good to see you,” he murmured, giving her a wary nod as he shoved his hands in his pockets, figuring it was the safest place for them. He watched as she slipped the knife into the sheath strapped to her tanned, bare thigh, her cutoff shorts and skimpy halter top revealing far too much flesh for his peace of mind. He was a little shocked to see her wearing the weapon so openly, but knew he shouldn’t be. Any woman who was related to Jessie Broussard was bound to be hell on wheels, and Willow was obviously no exception. Her parents had been killed in a boating accident when she was only five, and it was Jessie who had raised Willow and her siblings. Raised them and loved them like her own.
Clearing his throat, he added, “It’s been a long time.”
She dragged her gaze over him, then slid him a taunting smirk. “You look like hell.”
And you look good enough to eat. Or lick. Or nibble on, he thought, keeping the provocative, no doubt dangerous, words to himself. Instead, he said, “You look … pissed.”
She arched one slim pale brow. “I’m sure that doesn’t come as a shock. Most girls never stop hating the first guy who trampled their heart. We have long memories.”
“I didn’t do a damn thing to your heart,” he said tightly. Her body, yes. He’d kissed it and touched it and had been on the verge of taking things too damn far before they’d been interrupted. Just thinking about it made his insides burn. He’d been about two seconds away from burying himself between her sweet little thighs when Harris had shown up. Then his mother … followed by Jessie. Before he knew it, a goddamn crowd of relatives had surrounded them.
“You know what?” she murmured, her voice growing softer. A chilling light flickered wildly in her big brown eyes, the unique color reminding him of gold-dusted cinnamon. “You’re right. You didn’t do a damn thing, Noah. You just cut out and ran.”
He scraped his palm across his scratchy jaw, silently reminding himself to stay calm. He couldn’t let her rile him, which was exactly what she was trying to do. “We haven’t seen each other in years, Will. Can’t we at least be civil?”
“You can be whatever you want,” she drawled.
“I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
With a sharp sigh, she crossed her arms under her breasts and cocked her hip. “Exactly why are you here?”
“I already told you. I need to talk to your aunt. Ask her some questions.”
“And would this have anything to do with your little quest to save the world?”
Surprise had his eyes going wide. He knew she’d become some kind of hotshot private investigator for the ancient clans who still walked the earth. But he hadn’t imagined she would ever waste her time keeping tabs on him. “You’ve been spying on me?”
She shrugged, and Noah couldn’t help but notice how the motion pushed her breasts against the thin cotton of her shirt. “I’m not deaf,” she replied, the lazy, liquid cadence of her speech striking him as incredibly seductive. He’d spent so much time on the West Coast, he’d forgotten just how sultry a true Southern accent could sound on a woman. Like something hot and sugary that would melt on your tongue. “I’ve heard the talk spreading among the clans. You’re a part of the Watchmen now. Or whatever the separatists have decided to call themselves.”
Separatists? He almost laughed, imagining what Kellan, one of his werewolf buddies, would say to that. Idiot would probably love it.
“Look, it’s important that I talk to Jessie.” Before she could tell him her aunt wouldn’t want to hear anything he had to say, Noah played his ace. “It’s about your family.”
HER FAMILY? Though she tried to play it cool, Willow knew he’d seen the truth in her eyes. That initial blast of wariness and fear that had caught her by surprise. He couldn’t mean … No, that would be impossible. She didn’t know with any certainty that he was talking about Sienna. Hell, there were Broussards scattered all over the world, each one as crazy as the other. Any one of them could have stumbled into trouble. Noah was just sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.
Taking a deep breath, she ran her hands over her arms, wishing she were wearing more clothes. A woman needed full emotional battle armor when faced with a man like Noah Winston. Carefully, she said, “I don’t see how that could be possible. You don’t know a damn thing about my family, Noah.”
A warning flashed in his shadowed gaze, making her stomach bottom out. “I know something you’re going to want to hear. Trust me.”
“As if. I’m not in the habit of trusting the Casus,” she murmured, deliberately baiting him. She knew damn well that he hadn’t been taken over by one of the monsters. Yet. He was still Noah. But for how long? Without sustenance, the Casus had become shades while trapped within their metaphysical prison. From what she understood, they were forced to take human hosts when they returned to this world—but not just any humans. They needed ones who had a trace of Casus blood in their ancestry, and the Winstons fit the bill. Hell, they were practically the headliners.
“Stop the bullshit,” he growled, finally losing his temper as he took a step toward her. “You know me.”
Shaking her head, she said, “Wrong. I knew you, as in past tense. I don’t have a clue about who you are now.”
“I’m still me. Nothing’s changed.”
Like hell it hasn’t, she thought. But she kept the resentful words to herself. She didn’t want him thinking she was still bitter over his desertion. A girl had her pride, and a Chastain witch had more than most.
And even though it appeared as if he’d just walked through the fires of hell, he still looked damn good. Gone were the boyish looks that had made all the girls in Sacred pant after him when he’d been nineteen. He’d matured over the years, and he wore that rugged maturity well. He was attractive in a dark, sinister kind of way, his long body wrapped entirely in black—black jeans, black boots, black shirt. His thick black hair was spiky from the wind, his mouth almost cruel, but sensual. And then there were those ice-blue eyes that should have looked cold, but burned like smoldering flames instead.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked, changing the subject as she eyed the wicked-looking scar that was still healing on his forearm. She didn’t want to think about how hot he looked, or how badly she wanted to strip off that black T-shirt and see for herself if he was even half as muscled as he appeared to be. He was all sleek, predatory strength, ripped and hard and mouthwateringly gorgeous.
“I got bit,” he finally forced out in response to her question, the memory of the event clearly not a good one. Not that she had expected it to be.
“By what?”
“A bastard.”
“You kill him?” she asked, lifting her brows.
“No.” For such a simple reply, it held a wealth of emotion. Fury. Regret. Maybe even a touch of desperation.
“Weren’t fast enough?” she murmured, clucking her tongue. She was being a total bitch, but she couldn’t help it. It was as if the sight of him had cracked the cool, calm, nothing-can-hurt-me attitude she’d been hiding behind for years. With every second that went by, a little more of that fragile veneer was crumbling,