“You just did, is that it? For no reason?” Her voice trembles. “I don’t remember much, but it was quick. Something knocked me down, and there was indescribable pain. That’s it. That’s all I recall. I should have died. I should have died, but you saved me, and now here I am.”
I cave, the human and the angel. Her emotions, her fear—it’s too much for me. Snatching her by the waist, I pull her into my arms. “It wasn’t for no reason. There’s something about you. I should have flown right on by, but something hooked me.” My nose burns with the memory. The smell was foreign. “The scent of your blood, something . . . it called to me. I didn’t have a choice.”
I shake my head, frustrated at having so many questions, and so few answers. Vivienne grimaces. “Is there something wrong with my blood?”
The answer to that would open a whole new can of worms. One issue at a time.
“There’s nothing wrong with you or your blood. I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. Trust me, I’m afraid I killed you by saving your life. I thought I could erase your memory, and everything would go back to normal. I didn’t expect a psycho reaper or these feelings.”
Her eyes light up. “I thought feelings were a weakness?”
“As a human, they are. They make you soft. As an angel, though . . . the angel is smarter than the human. He’s enamored with you. I can’t do anything about that, and I will protect what’s mine, Vivie.”
She leans into me, her hands settling on my hips. “So you are staking a claim.”
“How does that make you feel?”
She glances down, before raising her eyes to mine. “I like it when you call me Vivie.”
Her body against mine ignites desire, and I curl my fingers into her sweater as my wings beg for release. “Do you?”
She nods with a smirk. My head lowers; my lips find hers, brushing a quick kiss before drawing back.
Vivienne’s hands slip up my chest, wrapping around my neck and tugging me back. Her lips toy with mine, pressing small kisses back and forth over and over but never drawing me in. My pulse accelerates, and fire ignites in my veins, spreading quickly. Vivienne yelps as I pick her up and plop her on the kitchen counter behind us.
She leans back when I move to kiss her again. “Angel strength?”
“That, and you’re five foot nothing.” I wink and move between her knees, happy she’s somewhat level with me.
“We can’t all be perfectly built angels.”
I’m perfectly built? I study her. The delicate, heart-shaped face, her pouting lips, her silky hair, the graceful ballerina limbs on her petite frame. Anyone with a sinister mind could snap her in two without breaking a sweat. I brush my knuckles across her cheek, my fingers sliding into her hair and moving it from her face. “Everything about you is perfect. Too perfect for me.”
We meet halfway. Her mouth opens, allowing me a small taste. I mold my lips to hers, and her socked feet hook around my thighs, drawing me closer.
“What is happening between us, Breck?” she asks as her fingers lose themselves in my hair. “What is this?”
There’s so much confusion written on her face. I feel it, too.
“I don’t know.”
It’s the most honest thing I can say. A switch flipped last night when I healed her. No, before I healed her. Things changed when I heard her scream. I know plenty of shifters. I’m aware of how they find mates. Angels don’t have mates, we don’t imprint, but I swear to the maker, this girl imprinted on me. On all of me—the divine side, as well as my soul.
Demons at the Door
Vivienne
I toss and flip to my stomach, hiding my head beneath a pillow as thumping bass rattles my headboard. Why do the neighbors insist on blaring their music on the weekends?
Three raps at my door wake me further. “What?” I whine, my feet flailing like a kid having a temper tantrum.
“Hey, sleepyhead, you getting up?” Mom pops her head in.
“Sleepyhead?” I roll to my back, and my eyes focus on Mom’s jeans and sweater. “What time is it?” She typically sleeps until after lunch when she works nights. Why is she up this early? Even her blond hair is fixed in a no-fuss braid, instead of her usual work ponytail.
“It’s after noon. I thought we could go to lunch and do a little shopping today.”
After noon? I push up from the bed, and a wave of nausea hits me.
“I can’t believe you’re still sleeping. You’re usually the one waking me on Sundays. Did you and Zara stay out all night partying?” She steps farther into the room, no real accusation in her words. She knows us better than that, but . . . I clutch my stomach.
“Viv?” She’s across the room and pushing back my hair, the back of her hand on my forehead before I can blink. “Are you not feeling well?” She turns my face to hers. “You’re pale, but not feverish. You look tired.”
“I must have picked up a bug at school. I’m okay, just a little green.”
She leans in, her light eyes searching. “Well, shoot. We need to Christmas shop.”
“You go then. I can take care of myself.” Fear settles around me. I pull a pillow to my chest.
“I’ll shop tomorrow. How about I make my famous grilled cheeses and we find a good movie to watch?” She pats my knee as I nod. “I’ll start lunch.”
She crosses my room, grabbing a dirty cup from my dresser before turning. “You must have been tired to fall asleep in your clothes. You haven’t done that since you were six,” she says with a smile, pulling the door closed behind her.
My head spins, and I grab my hair to keep it in place. My clothes? I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. I bolt for my bathroom and lose the meager contents of my stomach.
We spend the afternoon watching movies on the couch. This is a normal Sunday for us, but everything feels wrong. I check my phone, re-reading the text I sent Zara last night:
Decided against going to the clinic. Went home instead, feeling okay but tired. Enjoy movie night and I’ll see you Monday.
I recall the Burger Bar. I have a vague memory of snow and being cold. A flash of fire—and nothing else. No memory of texting Zara. No memory of coming home. Mom laughs at a scene in our third romantic comedy, and I tuck my legs closer. My chest is empty, like something is missing. I close my eyes as they burn with tears. Whether from my raging headache or because of the gaping hole, I can’t be sure. What is going on with me?
By the time Zara arrives outside my apartment building Monday morning, I’ve run through every scenario imaginable. Maybe someone slipped drugs into my food Saturday night? Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve been sucked into some alternate universe, like in the last book I read.
“Your carriage, my lady,” Zara shouts through the open passenger side window as I lock the apartment and hurry to the car.
I toss my backpack over the seat and jump in. “You’re letting all the heat out.”
“Feeling better?” she asks as I buckle my seatbelt and get situated.
I consider confiding in her, then swiftly change my mind. What would I say? I keep seeing her standing beside me outside my apartment window, calling me paranoid. When was that? It must be recent, and yet I can’t recall. Nope. I can’t tell her.