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I cleared my throat and they both turned to me but my eyes were for Jackson only. I gave him my best impression of a pissed off Archangel. He swallowed, and seemed to have made a decision.
“Aaa..um.. I forgot I needed to visit my friend. He’s in the hospital. Very bad state,” he muttered.
Before Seraphina could lift her jaw off the floor, Jackson, the smart man that he is, left us alone again. Seraphina rushed outside calling his name but he was already gone.
I snickered, rather proud of chasing him away. The idea of her dating someone like him abhorred me. She deserved someone much better… like…maybe even an Archangel, who knows.
She whirled around, cold fire in her blue eyes. “I’m.Not.Going.To.Regent.City.With.You,” she declared, punctuating each word with hate.
Back to square one. I let out a deep sigh and shook my head. “Fine. But right now, I’m taking you home.”
This time I didn’t let her smart mouth get a word in. I strode forward, scooped her into my arms, and went airborne in a second.
A loud scream filled my ears.
“Boucingfuckbitchball.”
Seraphina
I hate Michael Strana. I hate his entitled guts. I hate his endless entreaties to return to Regent City. I hate his family for effectively ending mine. Except for my aunt, of course.
I hate how despite all the good reasons, it was hard to really hate him.
Not with that sincere look of remorse on his rather, stupidly perfect face. When those emerald green eyes focused on me, it was as if he could read every treacherous thought of mine.
I had to put up walls of steel or I’d cave in. But even those walls were a waste. After chasing Jackson away, a smirk flashed on his lips. His crooked, silly-smile momentarily robbed me of my mental faculties. I never saw his next step.
Boucingfuckbitchball.
My throat hurt from screaming. The wind whipped my hair in every direction, lashing his face as well. Goddess,I hate Michael Strana. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll believe it.
“Hold me tight,” he’d said and released my upper body, surprising me. “Your hair’s blocking my vision.”
I yelped and grabbed onto his neck for dear life.
He gathered my hair in a fist, pulling my head back a little, wrapping the locks around his fist. “There. Now I won’t fly into a mountain.”
I gasped at his touch. Sparks ignited between us and my belly dropped, not from the altitude. If I wasn’t running a temperature, my curiously, crazed mind very much would want to explore what he would do next. Or maybe because of my fever, I’m wondering if I could graze his chiseled chin with my tongue to see if it's as sharp as it looks. He loosened his grip on my hair a little.
“Did that hurt?” he asked, his voice rough.
I met his gaze. There was unnatural tightness in it. “Not many female passengers in the special Archangel flight, I suppose?” I tried to sound snarky but I couldn’t keep a quiver from my voice.
He rolled his eyes, adjusting the grip on my hair. I trembled slightly. Uncomfortable with how his closeness affected me, I dropped my gaze.
“What?” I snapped.
I pressed into him more, his blue suit jacket hardly a barrier to his body’s heat. “Are you cold?” he inquired, his hand on my waist tightening ever so slightly.
I’m not saying I liked being in his arms, but I luxuriated in the hardness of his abs. I shook my head and against my good judgment, laid my head on his chest. A sigh escaped me and my eyes drooped.
Yes, I still hate Michael but I’m allowed a break when I’m unwell.
I woke on my bed, under layers of blankets. I glanced at the window. It was still dark outside. Turning toward the clock, I noticed that it was little over two in the morning. But what had happened? The last thing I recalled was flying in his arms. My cheeks heated as I recalled the warmth and comfort of his arms. Had he put me to bed? With a gasp, I tugged at the covers, needing to see if he’d undressed me.
After noting the gown and stockings still covering my body, I kicked the blankets off and sighed as the cool air hit me. Blessedly, my fever had broken. On the table next to my bed, I found a bowl of cold soup. The muted spicy scent of it, still permeated the air. My mouth felt like a desert, but no water sat next to the bowl.
“Water’s on this side table.”
