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He sets the mug on a rough-hewn wooden coffee table strewn with paperback books and grabs some dusty pillows he’s shoved off the couch.
He’s gentle as he helps me lean slightly against one arm of the couch, pushing the pillows behind my head. But he doesn’t bother unburying my arms from the blankets. He just lifts what looks like a heavy mug to my lips. I open my mouth tiredly.
But as soon as the warm but not-too-hot chocolate hits my tongue, I blink, a little more invigorated. These are the first calories I’ve had in a while, and the heated liquid is welcome as it slips down my throat.
My body is so cold, I can feel the path the hot mocha takes into my belly. It’s an unsettling but welcome feeling.
Like liquid strength.
I bring my arms out from beneath the blankets, still carefully keeping my breasts covered, and I take the mug from him. The chocolate is bitter, dark, barely sweet at all, especially combined with the coffee. But I don’t care. It’s life.
I drink more, and more life seeps into me. My chest warms even more.
I cry as for the first time in an hour, I think I might actually survive this.
The old man smiles at me.
Then he starts to chatter at me again in his language. Now that my head is a little clearer, I try to parse out what I’m hearing.
I listen as I swallow the entire cup of hot mocha. I’m not sure if it’s having the heat in my belly, the sustenance, or the caffeine, but I feel about a thousand times better than I did even being dragged in here.
I think he’s speaking a Slavic language. Which I guess makes sense considering the snow.
I’d been hoping I was still in North America, but I think that’s out of the picture now.
“Where am I?” I try.
He just looks at me blankly.
My arm is still weak as I gesture around. “Where?”
He chatters at me again.
I sigh and look back to the blazing fire. Then wince, because my eyes hurt from the snow.
But then, to my everlasting shock, he disappears for a second, and then comes back with a satellite phone.
This place looks like little more than a fortified shack in the middle of nowhere, and he has a freaking sat phone?
“Politsiya?” he asks, looking ready to dial.
My mouth drops open. Do I want him to call the police? In some Slavic country? Jesus, what if I’m in Russia? We’re all but in another Cold War with them now.
But if he has a sat phone, I can call anywhere in the whole world.
I reach for it, and he hands it over easily.
Chapter Twenty-Five
MONSTER
My little consort was… perfect last night. I feel my lips curve upwards as I fly back home, my arms full.
The feeling inside my chest is such a foreign one at first, I don’t know how to name it. And then it strikes me.
Happiness.
Fuck. She’s making me happy.
A century ago, I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was ever a possibility for one such as me. Creator-Father cursed me the day I was born. Said I was useless. Nothing. Even as he tried to discipline me day after day into being something he could—
I shake my head and let my smile overtake my face instead.
There is no point in memories anymore.
There is only the future now.
I let myself spiral in the air, simply for the joy of feeling the wind in my feathers. It’s almost a giddiness.
I chuckle. Romulus would surely not believe it if he could see me now. But she has made me so happy.
She is my…
Miracle.
I grin wider, feeling the wind in my teeth. Last night was the culmination of all I could not hope to dream for. When I brought her to such climax, and I implanted my gush in her, and felt my seed spurt—
My chest fills with such— such—
The angel spark within me starts to glow, a danger as I fly for it breaks through my normal cloak of darkness. But I’m close to home now so I don’t even care. Close to her. My grin grows wider.
I think I will fuck her first thing. Yes, my cock aches at the thought. She will probably have cleansed herself. She is quite peculiar about her cleanliness.
I will delight in dirtying her again.
The castle comes into view, and my glow grows brighter. I must look like a shooting star, for the winter sun set a while ago.
I spiral down toward my home, the bizarre happiness growing in my heart at the thought of seeing her. At wondering if she will hold her hands on her hips again and challenge me with that fire in her eyes. She challenges like a petulant kit with tiny claws. And then when she gives in, that fire is passion between her legs.
