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I nodded. “Sure. Of course.”
“With skills like that, it’s no wonder Apollo still thinks you’re nothing more than his innocent little princess,” she said sarcastically.
I huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”
“What’s up?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just feel…confined. More than usual. Like the walls are closing in.” I sighed. “Like time is running out.”
“What time?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I laughed humourlessly. “The time until I can’t deal with this anymore, I guess.”
No matter the consequences, no matter what Apollo and I agreed, I knew there would be a point where I couldn’t do this anymore. Something would have to give. I just had to hope it wouldn’t be my sanity or someone’s life.
“So, Operation Khaleesi is on?”
I gave her a small smile. “Maybe I’m tired of doing all the work.”
“And telling him that is out of the question?” she guessed.
“I can be Harlow with you, and I can be the princess with him,” I told her. “There is no in between.”
She nodded, understanding. “And he loves the princess.”
“What small part of him loves me loves the princess. I can’t risk losing that, Floss. I can’t risk being tied to a man who has absolutely no love left for me.”
Florence sighed resignedly. “Okay. I don’t like it, but I accept it. As your best friend, it’s my job to help you live your best life. If this is your best life, let’s do it!”
“It’s the best life I can hope for...for now.”
She gave me a smile. “Then let’s knock his overpriced socks off.”
When I was dressed and primped and primed, Florence walked me to the quad, just to see exactly what had kept Apollo, and she wasn’t to be disappointed.
The Saints were gathered in a circle in the centre of the quad around two bare chested fighters. One of whom needed no introduction. He was also the one who was giving the epic beat down. Why the other guy had bothered, I don’t know.
There were always four Angels.
Four Angels shall there ever be, to help uphold God’s sovereignty.It was more than just the unofficial Saint Benedict’s motto.
It had been that way since we’d started at Saint Benedicts. Always four. You wanted a spot? You had to challenge another Angel. And that’s exactly what was happening now. Had to be. It wasn’t a ridiculously rare occurrence. Someone challenged an Angel probably once every couple of months, though most were pushed into it for the spectacle.
Few dared challenge the Angels’ leader. It was virtual suicide. Of course it was. But this idiot had done it. It made this a real challenge. But why on Earth would anyone challenge a man who had been trained from birth to be the leader of the Angels of Saint Benedicts?
Because that was Valen Kincaid. Like Apollo had been trained to be its God, Valen had been trained to take his place at God’s side. He was Apollo’s avenging Angel, born for sin and so much more.
His body was magnificent. It should have been, the amount of time he was made to spend keeping himself in peak physical condition. It was his job to always be ready no matter what kind of threats were posed against Apollo.
Emblazoned on his back for all to see were the marks of his trade. His oath in ink. Two striking angel wings. A cross with the Callahan coat sitting in the middle of them. It was a barbaric and ridiculous hark back to days of a bygone era when that meant something to the world. But, while most parts of the world that cared were disappearing, enough was left for it to mean more than a bit of ink should. To me, all it served was to highlight every ridge and contour of Valen’s highly muscled body.
His right arm was covered in more tattoos. In pride of place on his shoulder was a wolf. Howling. Valk. The wolf. A clever nickname based on the first letters of his name, though I understood the Kincaid’s ties to Russia were flimsy these days at best. The rest of his ink, I’d never braved staring in his even semi-naked direction for long enough to discover. And I certainly didn’t now.
It was amazing what doors money opened. When you had enough, you could find someone willing to ink a kid no matter what the law said. And the little I knew about the Kincaids, they started getting inked by thirteen. They didn’t believe in starting them too early.
As Valen spun, there was the usual flash of silver on his chest. Like all the Saints, he wore a cross around his neck. It wasn’t a cult thing. They weren’t all identical. Growing up in families who’d grown up in a school run by nuns, it just kinda came with the territory. You didn’t have to be a Saint to wear a cross, but you did wear a cross if you were a Saint.
Despite his opponent wielding a knife, surprisingly like he knew how to use it, Valen needed no weapon. Going without made it the closest to a fair fight the poor idiotic challenger could ever hope for. Even still, had I been the betting type – and many of those gathered were betting on the match – my money would have been on God’s tame wolf. It was boring in how predictable the outcome would be.
