“His submission: a formal declaration and intent to bind himself to you.”
The laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “Application, Malach. You want him to apply, not submit.”
“If you say so,” Malach mutters, leveling Luca with an appraising stare.
Luca rumbles low in his throat as he looks at me. “I’m not doing that shit either. What Celine and I have is between us, and I’ve made my intent crystal clear.” He focuses back on Malach. “Where she goes, I go. I will want her forever, and you can judge that however you want.”
“I’ll consider that your application,” Malach says. “Now, about the food closet.”
“It’s a pantry,” I correct him automatically, an idea taking shape. “I’ll help you find something you’ll like on one condition: stop me from getting past you.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I charge, pushing Luca to the side and feinting right and left as I face off against Malach. My hallway is narrow, and he’s about twice my width. I can pretend I’m going around him all I want, but the only way past my childhood sweetheart is straight through him.
I rock to my left, pretend to be off balance, then kick Malach in the gut with my full strength. He skids backward... a whole foot. That same kick would have sent anyone else flying.
Letting someone win is a foreign concept in both the Fringes and our home realm. Malach would consider it shameful to throw this fight, which means I’ll have to beat him fair and square. The challenge gives me a rush of energy I’ve been missing for years.
He reaches for me, and I rock back, losing a few inches of hard-earned ground. It’s smart to dodge, though. If I let him get those tree limbs he calls arms around me, I’ll have to destroy my apartment to get loose.
“You’re out of practice, My Truth,” Malach observes. His voice is pragmatic, and I punch him in the side as payback. I may not be as strong or practiced at sparring as I used to be, but I’m a lot more flexible than I was before.
I glance to Malach’s right side, then spring the other way.Planting one foot on the wall and the other between his ear and shoulder, I shove him, creating enough room to get by.
The only thing standing between me and victory is five simple steps.
I only make it three.
Malach snakes his arm around my waist and tries to toss me back, but I latch on to his forearm and take him with me. We collide with the drywall, Malach planting his feet just in time to keep us from going through it.
He pins me there, using the entire length of his body to hold me in place.
A ripple of awareness runs through me. My blood runs hot, and a telltale burn stirs low in my abdomen. Malach gasps—no, that’s me. Absently, I hear my breath coming in loud, ragged pants.Good gods.My reaction to him is mortifying. I can only hope he thinks I’m winded.
“You can yield at any point,” Malach says. “Your skills are still there. You’ll be back in fighting shape in no time, My Truth.”
There’s something about the gravelly way he assures me I’m not permanently pathetic that makes me furious. Suddenly, the most important thing in the universe is proving to Malach that I’m still the best fighter he knows.
I grind my ass against his crotch, a move I’ve never once thought about using in combat with him before, then drive my elbow into his gut. He freezes against me, and I spin, shoving him into the opposite wall before darting into the living room.
When I turn around to celebrate my victory, the words dry up on my tongue.
Malach hasn’t moved an inch away from the wall. One hand supports a painting we must have dislodged during our scuffle. The other is fisted at his side. And his eyes... they burn. Pure, vivid green. He rakes them over me hungrily. It’s as unfamiliar and dangerous as grinding my ass against him.
This is uncharted territory for us, and judging by his slack-jawed expression, Malach is as stunned by his body’s reaction as I am by mine.
“I’ll find you some food anyway,” I say, clearing my throat to banish the breathlessness. “Let me show you my organizational system so you don’t mess it up.”
Malach grumbles in the language of his specificthatshabloodline. I used to understand it, but I’ve been gone too long to pick out the individual words.
Heart pounding, I show him the pantry and let him taste my assorted cereals until he finds one he likes. He chooses a bright blue box of sugary corn flakes, the sickeningly sweet ones that Ciprian snuck into my last grocery order. I wince.
Grabbing a loaf of wheat bread for myself, I toss a couple of slices in the toaster and do my best not to think about the two-faced demon. Luca wants answers, and I guess I do too, but not yet. I’m not sure I can stomach an explanation until everything else settles down.
“Baby, you need to hear this.” Luca’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts as he enters the kitchen. He’s chewing on his lip ring, fingers clenched around his phone.
My heart leaps to my throat. “What now?” I ask, slumping against the counter. Gods above, I’d rather get slapped in the face once an hour than keep fielding constant surprises.
“I talked to Alistair.” Luca runs the fingers of his free hand through his damp hair. “He can get you in touch with the owners of the Mouth of Hell...”
