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“Stop,” he said, his voice raw, husky, as if filled with pain. He gripped my wrists tighter. “I’m not him.” Laying my head back, I closed my eyes. He shifted on top of me, angled for a better hold. “Who else in this world or the next bears that mark?” I asked again. I looked at him, accused him with my glare. “The mark of the beast. Who else has the key to hell branded on his body? If not him, then who?”
“His son.” He looked at me then, scrutinized my expression, tried to decide if I believed him. “I am his son.”
“But, you’re his son,” I said, trying really hard to hate him. “You’re the son of Satan. Literally.” “And you are the stepdaughter of Denise Davidson.” Wow. That was a bit harsh, but, “Okay, point taken.”
I stared a long time at the nickname he’d given me the day I was born, wondering if he could still come to me, if we could still be together. Then I felt him brush across my mouth, and I knew my life would never be the same again.
