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That he wasn’t comparing himself to me, putting himself on some angelic pedestal compared to the scum that was my existence.
How was I to know?
It all made sense—his hesitation and how he punished himself for being with me.
Hell, if angels could be imperfect, then I didn’t feel so bad.
His wings were magnificent, spanning almost the entire reach of the apartment, a display of steel and lighter grays, all flowing together and creating a wall of power around him. I felt the tears come when his eyes shifted from the supernatural white back to his blue, and I couldn’t stop looking at him. All I wanted to do was to touch him, to have him wrap me up in his arms and take me away from this place.
He had come for me.
That was huge.
I didn’t know how he knew where I was and if he had been watching me this entire time, but that did not matter. Because just when I felt a spark of hope inside me, a will to live, to keep going, there he was. He was my salvation, and I wanted to be his.
“Zaqiel,” I whispered, my lip trembling.
Tyson pushed the blade harder against my neck. He had reached out to get the blade near me before Zaqiel could react, and since then, he had moved behind me. His breathing was ragged and heavy against my ear and shoulder, and I hated him being this close. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hated Tyson right now, and that was saying something. It burned through me like a white-hot rage, and I clenched my fingers over the arms of the chair.
“Is this the fucker who took you away?” Tyson almost laughed. “Well, fuck me, Evie, you sure do keep some interesting company.”
When Zaqiel told him to drop the knife, his voice dark and foreboding, I was surprised Tyson had the gall to press it harder against my throat, drawing blood that trickled down my neck and chest.
“Drop the knife, Tyson,” Zaqiel demanded.
“Get fucked, you freak. If I can’t have her, no one can.”
Zaqiel met my eyes before they slid to Tyson behind me, and I saw something in them, something that I’d be afraid of if it were directed at me.
He moved so fast he was simply a blur of gray as he shot toward me. I screamed as the knife was dragged across my throat, not deep enough to kill, but perhaps would be another scar to add, before the knife was dropped uselessly to the floor. Ducking my head, I cowered as the window next to me shattered in an explosion of sound.
Then there was silence, and I was left in the room, empty save for one of Tyson’s still unconscious goons in the corner. Frantically, I searched outside for any sign of Zaqiel, but he was gone, Tyson as well.
Working my hands against the ropes, I was still unable to get any give from the binds. Eyeing the knife on the floor, I started to rock the chair to the sides until it tipped over. I was ready for the impact, but it didn’t make it any less painful against my already bruised shoulder, and I hissed air through my teeth.
I was inches from the knife, my fingers stretching across the carpet as I tried to hop the chair closer when I heard the scream. A man’s scream pitched with terror.
I froze and waited.
Nothing.
Scrambling for the knife again, I cried out when a boot landed on it.
“What are you doing?”
Zaqiel.
I hated it, but I began to cry, relief flooding through me. Not only at being saved from Tyson, but being saved from this life, being saved by this man. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t leave me again. I had seen him, everything he was, and I was his now, and he was mine.
He kneeled, grabbing the chair and lifting it back up as though it weighed nothing before taking the knife and carefully cutting through the binds. His eyes were swimming with concern when he looked at me, brushing his thumb across the thin line of blood on my throat. I shuddered under his touch.
He grinned, and I melted. “Did you really think I’d leave you tied to this chair?”
Rubbing my wrists, I shook my head, managing a small smile in return. “I don’t like to wait.”
He helped me to my feet. His wings were no longer visible, and when he saw me looking for them, he tilted his head but said nothing. When I reached out to touch his shoulder, he unfolded his wings, appearing on his back and splaying out, knocking over a table.
Gasping, I reached toward him, and when he didn’t stop me, I brushed my fingers delicately against the feathers. For some reason, I had expected them to be soft, but they felt stronger than I thought, offering resistance when I pushed my fingertips against them. When I took one of the feathers in between my fingers and stroked it, he hummed, and I watched as his eyes closed. I smirked—he was like a damn puppy.
