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Here lies a woman who fought the injustice against us. We love you always, The Cursed Angels.
That’s what she referred to us as. We were angels until we’d had everything stripped from us. Even though I believed I was broken, that I was less of a woman, she made me see I had traits that made me who I was. Strength, determination, and a will to live.
Each day, she would drill into my mind that I wasn’t broken. That I was a survivor.
“I knew you’d come.” A deep rumble of words comes from behind me, but I don’t startle. I knew he was there before he spoke. He’d been watching me from behind the tree. I’ve been trained in scoping out my surroundings, knowing if I’m alone or not.
“Of course, I would.” I turn as I respond, meeting those dark eyes that I’ve fallen asleep picturing for far too long.
“I need answers,” he grunts, frustration evident in his tone, in his expression. He’s gotten older, matured. Handsome, sexy, everything about him is manly. There’s no longer a young boy there.
“What are your questions?” I respond, watching him for any movement that could suggest he’s here to hurt me, but I don’t see it. He’s not angry at me.
“Why do I know you? Why can’t I remember you?” This time, his words are pained. He meets my gaze, as if boring his stare into me will burrow out the answers.
“You’ve been trained. Your mind is broken, Archer. They’re good at what they do. Manufacturing soldiers from kids.”
He watches me a moment longer before responding. “Who are you, Samara?”
My name on his lips grips my heart painfully. I recall how he would murmur it in my ear, telling me he loved me, how he would save me. “You really don’t remember?”
He shakes his head. Tentatively, I take a step closer, holding my hands in the air to placate him. He’s as wary of me as I am of him, but I don’t feel fear, or threatened.
“I’m not armed,” I inform him. As I near the man I love, I inhale his scent. The spicy cinnamon that used to calm me down all those years ago. I reach out, placing my one hand on his. The connection jolts through me.
He rears back. “What was that?”
“What?” I question.
This time, he grabs my hand, spinning around, and pressing me against the tree. My back arches in pain as the wood juts into my body. When he notices my wince, he steps back.
“I’m sorry, I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”
“Look at me, Archer,” I coo, hoping he’ll stop fighting whatever this is. Our connection.
He lifts his gaze, meeting mine for the first time without flinching. Lifting his hand, he gently strokes my cheek. My body trembles under the gesture, my nipples hardening for the man who brought me pleasure so many times before I even knew what it was.
He leans in, and I think he’s about to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he trails his nose up my neck, slow and calculated. When he reaches my ear, he pulls the lobe into his hot mouth. His teeth bite down on it, causing me to whimper.
His one hand grips my hip as he continues to suckle on my flesh. He presses his body against mine. His hard length against my thigh is evidence he’s as needy as I am.
“Archer, please,” I beg, wanting him to do it, to take me right here amongst the dead. He drops his hand to my core, his fingers pressing against the ripped jeans I’m wearing, applying pressure to my pussy. “Oh, please, please.” My whimpers are the only sounds around us.
He steps back, his fingers moving swiftly over the button and zipper of my jeans. Then his hand snakes its way into my panties, finding my slick entrance. I reach for his cock through the black combat pants he’s wearing and palm him. He growls like an animal ready to attack.
“Fuck, yes,” he grunts, bucking into my hand. My fingers fumble with the belt and zipper, but I manage to get my hand into his boxer briefs, finding him hard and hot.
“Do you remember when we used to do this on the roof?” I question as we bring each other pleasure.
“Tell me, vixen. Tell me our secrets.” His words alight my need to make him remember. He meets my eyes, dipping three thick fingers inside me as I jerk him off.
“You were the first and only boy to make me come on your fingers. You told me I looked beautiful with pleasure on my face. You tasted me on my sixteenth birthday. You spread my legs and licked me.”
As I recall the memory, something inside him seems to click. I can’t explain what, but he looks at me then as if he knows. As if he remembers.
