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Not yet, anyway.
I stare at the unmarred flesh, trying to ignore all the questions circling my mind.
But I can’t put these thoughts in a box. Can’t stuff them away like all my dirty secrets.
Isthe Book of Grace wrong? Could it be just like the mortal realm Bible with its depictions of demons and angels? Did we get it wrong too?
I’d been willing to fall for Gael. If that’s what getting him out of the Syndicate’s claws took, I was prepared to do it. Hells, I thought I had fallen.
But I didn’t.
So what does that mean?
My head hurts, and I put my ring back on and end up lying on the bed in just a towel.
What if everything I was taught was false? Everything I believed a lie?
The yelling and crashing from the living room ramps up to a deafening crescendo.
“Do you think she would have been OK with all four of us at the same time, you idiot? I did you a fucking favor!” Axe yells over the rest of the noise.
I bury my head in the pillow and wish the Flames to take me away.
They’re fighting over who gets to defile me next.
I hardly know what to feel about it. Can I be terrified for my immortality, my power, while also delighting in the butterflies suddenly loose in my chestandconfused about why my body reacts just as strongly to these demons as it does for Gael.
Being with Gael is mind-blowing every time and I’ve always taken that to heart as another sign of our bond.
But it’s impossible for the demons to also be my soul?—
No. I’m not even entertaining the idea.
I’m not bonded to demons. I’m an angel and that simply doesn’t happen.
More yelling and crashing followed by grunts and the hard slapping sounds of fists connecting with flesh.
I add another pillow to the first, pressing it hard against my head.
“You don’t know how she would have reacted because you didn’t even bring it up,” Enzo growls.
“The first chance you had, you took. Just like you, Axe. Selfish to the very core,” Bastian grunts, words broken by the staccato rhythm of his punches.
I startle when the weight on my bed shifts, bolting upright to find Dashel perched on the edge. Blood oozes from his nose, dark and congealed, but the bone has already mended itself, and the knuckle imprint has nearly faded.
“Are you alright?” His question isn’t heavy with all the things I know he’s truly asking. He doesn’t put that in his tone, yet somehow still conveys it.
“Are you?” I deflect, nodding toward his formerly broken nose.
His lips lift into a smile, though the expression is just shy of convincing. “A scratch.” He asks me again if I’m alright with his eyes only.
“I am.” I’m not.
He nods. “Me too.” He’s not.
I lie back down, and Dashel stays perched on the edge of the bed, silent, staring at the wall.
He sighs, letting his shoulders fall forward. “I know intimately what this peculiar brand of regret looks like, Dove.”
