Page 4 of Spicy Little Curses (Scared Sexy Collection #3)

Four

Petra

Sealed with a Kiss

I should have left New Orleans. I should’ve made the smart choice and written a fluff piece about fake hauntings and gone home to my overpriced studio apartment. But no. I had to go and get tangled up in something much worse than a ghost story.

Namely, feelings .

Why couldn’t Dax Rousseau be a hunched-over ninety-year-old with a leaky bladder and deadly halitosis? Why did my first brush with the supernatural have to be so handsome? So muscular?

So maddeningly hot ?

Luckily, his personality was revolting. At least that would keep me from getting in too deep.

I spent the next two days in fevered research mode, learning everything I could about the Rousseau family’s history.

I sought out local historians, consulted dusty library books, talked to old-timers who’d lived in the area all their lives, even visited a famed tarot reader who rudely insisted my aura was “too loud.” The more I uncovered, the clearer it became that Dax wasn’t exaggerating about the curse.

People spoke in hushed tones about the family’s past. There were stories of women’s ghosts wandering the abandoned Rousseau estate gardens, veils of long black lace covering their faces, tales of forbidden voodoo rituals that brought dark powers but ended in madness, legends of a long-dead ancestor’s ties to the occult.

Every lead I followed looped back to one thing.

Blood magic.

The only problem was that nobody knew exactly what the curse entailed. That knowledge was lost to the mists of the past.

Oh, except for the fun fact that any woman who fell in love with a Rousseau man was doomed to a tragic death.

So that was perfect. Nothing says “great idea” like falling for a man who might be my own personal grim reaper.

Not that I was falling for him, mind you.

I barely knew the guy. I was just ... mildly obsessed with figuring him out.

Journalistic curiosity. A professional need to uncover the truth.

Nothing to do with the way his voice sent involuntary shivers of pleasure down my spine.

Or how I found myself wondering what his laugh sounded like.

If he even had one, which was debatable.

So I definitely wasn’t falling for a stranger, but I was about to get the answers I needed.

Which was how I found myself back in front of the House of Ink and Blood just after midnight, standing in the damp shadows with my heart beating too fast.

The door to Dax’s shop was locked, of course. But I wasn’t planning on knocking this time.

I pulled the small tension wrench and rake pick from my pocket and crouched near the door handle. It wasn’t my first time picking a lock—occupational hazard of chasing stories where I wasn’t always welcome—so my fingers were steady despite my racing pulse.

This was stupid. I knew it was stupid, but my curiosity overruled common sense.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open an inch. I shoved the tools back into my pocket, pushed the door wider, and soundlessly slipped through.

Except for the faint glow of a lamp in the back, the interior was dark, still, and silent. The black devil cat was nowhere to be seen, but the eerie sketches on the walls were even stranger in the spare light, seeming to pulse as if they were alive and wanted off the paper.

Something rustled in the corner, and I whirled around, my heart in my throat.

And there he was.

Dax stood shirtless near the counter, the ink on his chest and arms shimmering, shadows coiling around his bare feet. Glittering and furious, his dark eyes locked on to mine.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he was faster. In a move so quick, it blurred, he closed the space between us and wrapped his hand around my wrist, his touch searing me like an electric shock.

“I warned you to stay away,” he said in the kind of voice that sent people running.

But I wasn’t running. Because, despite the threat in his tone and the fury in his eyes, there was something else in his gaze too. Something dangerous.

Desire.

A soft, shuddering breath slipped past my lips. His grip on my wrist wasn’t bruising, but it was unyielding, as if he had no intention of ever letting go. His fingers burned against my skin.

I had the unwelcome thought that his body ran on something far stronger than blood.

“You don’t scare me,” I whispered, staring defiantly into his eyes.

“I should.”

“Why? Are you going to hurt me?”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. He looked at my mouth. His lips thinned. I could tell he wanted to push me away. That he didn’t was deeply exhilarating.

“Women who get too close to me have a way of getting hurt, whether I want them to or not.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. People have a lot to say on the matter.”

He stiffened, drawing me even closer. “You’ve been asking questions about me around town?”

I tried not to inhale a lungful of his warm, delicious scent, but he wasn’t making it easy for me. My nose was inches from his throat. “I’m a journalist. Questions are my job. But maybe these damsels in distress of yours have nothing to do with a curse. Maybe you’re just a big bully.”

A low, dangerous sound of displeasure rumbled through his chest. Like a lion’s purr, only if the lion was about to snap my neck.

Ignoring it, I continued. I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me, no matter how much he growled. “And if you’d just talk to me, I wouldn’t have to go around asking other people, now would I?”

That muscle in his jaw twitched again. In the shadows, his eyes flashed with anger. “What you’re asking for, smart-ass, is a spanking.”

A jolt of lust rocked my body. Wide-eyed and breathless, my heart pounding, I stared at him.

Spanking? Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea.

But I gathered the shreds of my dignity, lifted my chin, and gave him my best withering You wish look. “No, thanks. But I’ll take a shot of whiskey if you have it.”

He did the one thing I wasn’t expecting. He laughed.

It was clipped and bitter, but definitely a laugh.

“You’re a reckless little thing, aren’t you?”

I sniffed in disdain. “There’s nothing little about me.”

It was his turn to scoff. I made a mental note to remember how annoying that was and never do it again.

“You’re nothing but a pip-squeak with a big mouth and a bad attitude, like a Chihuahua.”

“That would be a much better insult if Chihuahuas weren’t my favorite dog.”

“Of course they are.”

“Coming from a guy who keeps the furry embodiment of Satan as a pet, it’s hardly a diss anyway. Are you going to let go of me now, or do I need to introduce my knee to your testicles?”

His eyes narrowed until they were slits. He lowered his face so close to mine, our noses were almost touching.

“I could have you thrown in jail for trespassing.”

“But you won’t.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

I guess he was right about me being reckless, because I didn’t even pause to think before I rose up on my toes and pressed my lips to his.