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“Devils,” she says. “We’re all devils. Me. Fredrik. Nora. Victor. Hell, even James Woodard is his own kind of devil, has his own dark secrets, I’m sure. And Dorian Flynn, he was the most like you, but not as close to human as you are.”
“Flynn?” I laugh out loud, recalling that asshole. But the laughter dies when I remember that he’s dead, and I kinda feel bad for the way the guy went out.
“You’re telling me all this because you know we’re gonna die, aren’t you? Getting all sentimental; rolling that thirty-minute-long part of the episode focusing on a character’s backstory before you kill him off?”
Izabel shrugs.
“A part of me believes that,” she says. “But really, I think they’re just things I’ve wanted to say to you since we came back from Italy.”
“Since I kissed you and betrayed my brother.” I point at her. “And you said I was incapable.” I laugh under my breath.
“You didn’t betray him,” she says, “no more than I betrayed him in Mexico. You were just doing your job.”
“I didn’t have to kiss you for the job,” I point out.
“Maybe not, but it never would’ve happened otherwise.” She looks away, and her breath falls lightly between us. “And besides, I kissed you back.”
A grin tugs one corner of my mouth.
“Wanna do it again?”
“No thanks.”
“Oh, come on. Two people alone with death at our doorstep—Victor would want us to!”
Izzy is on her knees in front of me before I realize what the hell is going on, my cock crushed firmly in her hand from the outside of my jeans.
She raises her body on her knees toward me, the sweet scent of her hair, skin, and breath wrapping me up in a fucking cocoon as she brushes the softness of her wet lips against the side of my neck. I swell and grow hard beneath her hand.
“You’re right,” she whispers near my ear, “he’d want us to.” Her tongue traces the contours of my lips and slips stealthily into my wanting mouth. It tangles with mine as I kiss her hard, my hands probing her thighs, fingertips pressed against her warm flesh.
“I want you to fuck me, Niklas,” she breathes, “right here on this hard fucking floor, in this tiny fucking room, at the end of our fucking lives.” She straddles my lap, pressing herself against me, and myfuckingGod, I don’t think I can handle it. The want. The need. The control. It feels like my soul is unraveling.
She kisses me harder, and I kiss her back.
She presses deeper, and I pull her closer.
Then I grab her arms, push her away, and look into her eyes; her dark-red hair cascades her shoulders, partially covering her face.
“No,” I tell her. “I can’t fucking do it. I hate myself because I can’t, but…no.”
Izabel smiles.
“And I knew you wouldn’t,” she says, moving off my lap—mission accomplished.
7
Izabel
Niklas Fleischer’s heart is made purely of gold; his loyalty of steel; his devotion of fire; his emotions of chalk. He hides them well, his emotions, but on the inside, I can only imagine the crumbling and powdered chaos.
I knew he’d never in a million years fuck me and betray Victor, even here at the end of all things. He’d kill me before he ever fucked me. And I’m glad. I don’t deserve him, nor does Victor—none of us deserve him. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll fight like hell to make sure at least he gets out of here alive.
Faint footsteps echo down the hallway outside the windowless door; we fall silent and divert our attention, expecting someone to come inside any second, but after a few moments, they pass the door and fade away. Minutes later, the same thing: footsteps, some booted, some heeled, walk past without stopping. After thirty minutes, so many people move up and down the hallway that it sounds like we’re in an airport terminal. But still, no one enters the room or so much as stops in front of it.
I get up and move toward the high window.
“I need your shoulders,” I tell Niklas.
