by Tess Oliver
"My beautiful guardian is back," he slurred.
I ignored the comment and went straight to work. I knew he was watching me with those intense jade eyes, but I kept my focus on my task, a task that was going to prove a greater challenge than merely getting the man into the cabin and onto the couch.
I untied the leather lace in his buckskin pants, drawing each loop out carefully and reminding myself to take a breath in between. It would be the first time I'd seen a grown man undressed, completely naked, and I had no doubt that this particular man was going to leave me speechless and dizzy.
"What are you doing?" he asked without lifting his head from the pillow.
"I'm taking off your pants. And you are in no shape to protest."
"Who said I'm protesting? Strip away. My cock has been twisted up in those buckskins for long enough." A short laugh followed. "In fact, it was hoping to be twisted up in something much more pleasing, but that sure as hell didn't happen tonight."
It seemed he was trying to shock me, having a little sport with the girl who he was certain was a pure guardian angel. One thing was for sure, he was not a mere, unassuming mortal. He knew too much about the other worlds.
"You sure have a sharply dirty mind for someone who, by all accounts, was dead just a few moments ago."
He laughed but it was cut short by the gaping wound in his chest. "Fuck that hurts."
I grabbed up a sterile cloth and blotted the fresh drops of blood brought on by the jarring movement of laughter and then returned to my job of undressing him. It took some effort to yank the pants down below his hips.
"Your pants are soaking wet with snow and blood and there is a putrid smelling yellow substance on them," I continued, somehow convincing myself more than him of the necessity to strip my patient naked.
"Ah ha, that would be wraith blood, or puke or puss or whatever the hell comes out of a wraith when you blow their head in two."
I stopped and looked up toward his face. "Wraith? You killed a wraith?"
He lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the glowing light in the hearth, and that's when I saw the tattoo. Without thinking, I took hold of his wrist. I pulled his arm away from his face and looked at the black ink letters scrolled along his upper arm. "Wynter." The word rolled off my tongue. I looked up toward his face. While I was busy surveying the tattoo, he had been taking a long look at my body. His pale eyes met mine.
"You are one of the Boys of Wynter? You patrol the underworld?" I released his hand, and he used it to salute me.
"Stryker, wraith killing warrior, at your service. And everything you've heard about us, like that we're just a bunch of immoral, hard ass degenerates, it's all true."
I yanked sharply on his pants. "If you're trying to shock me, you're wasting what little energy you have left." I stated it all with such confidence, but the second my eyes strayed to the thick appendage, which seemed to quickly be growing into an erection, my tenacity crumpled. Instantly, I imagined what it might feel like to wrap my fingers around it, to push it against the ache between my legs, the tingling grew so intense I had to take a quick succession of breaths just to cool the heat swirling through my veins.
I reached to the arm of the couch, grabbed the throw blanket I kept there and dropped it over his lower half.
"What's your name?" I shouldn't have been moved by the deep, almost thunder like tone of his voice, but it stirred every inch of me. Damn my hybrid heritage.
"Willow," I managed to croak out as if I'd been choking on dry sand.
"Willow," he repeated. "It fits. " The toll of his wound was still evident. He lifted his arm as if it weighed a thousand pounds. I sucked in a sharp breath as he unexpectedly rubbed a callused knuckle along the side of my mouth. "It's sad and pretty like these lips."
I mentally reminded myself he was just a man. Yes, a gloriously built man who dripped sexual power almost as much as he dripped blood from his wound, but he was just a man. And he was poison for me. Pure poison. If I let my guard down even for a second, I risked getting swept up in the addictive erotic hunger that constantly threatened to consume me. He lowered his hand, but his touch, even with icy fingers, left a searing heat on my skin that made me instinctively lick my lips to cool them. A gesture that did not escape his notice.
He watched in silence as I strung the needle with the suture. It had taken a great deal of begging and pleading to receive proper medical equipment for the animals I watched over. Sabre and the others had laughed at my request more than once, but when I'd taken the pains of dragging, by sled, a dead grizzly bear, a mother bear wounded by a hunter's arrow, a bear I could have saved with the right tools, and dropping the animal at the door of the angel's realm, my point was made. Sabre seemed to understand that to send me out into the middle of nowhere was one thing, but to send me without any of the necessary supplies was another. Occasionally, I could reason with her, but on this, on having a man in my cabin, I was sure no amount of debate was going to appease her anger once she found out. And she would find out.
"Is that catgut?" he asked.
"A synthetic version. They won't dissolve as fast."
"Nice to know the guardian angels have moved into the twenty-first century." His head moved back and forth on the pillow. "Although, looking at this cabin, it seems they might have forgotten this particular angel. Or maybe you're not an angel at all."
"Think what you want." I refused to let his questioning throw me. I needed to sew him up, so he could heal and get out of my cabin for good.
I placed the needle on a piece of sterile gauze while I leaned over to the rolling table to mix up my antiseptic solution. I was normally bent over the long wooden table in the kitchen, staring down at an injured raven or snow hare. My newest patient was entirely different, and it seemed he was trying to make my task that much harder.
"I think—" he continued, undeterred by my sharp, succinct reply. "I think I'm looking at the face of a pure angel, jewel toned blue eyes, skin that is as flawless as the newly snowed landscape and golden as if she was dipped in honey, and pink lips that know exactly how to sulk just enough to make a man go slightly mad. I'm looking at a perfectly innocent face, an image that I will never forget, an image that would make my journey into that eventual pit called hell that much easier just because I had the pleasure of seeing it."
Each word tightened an invisible hand around my chest. The angel side in me was feeling affection and empathy for a man who nearly bled to death in the freezing snow, all in the name of keeping the mortal world safe from the monstrous creatures that dwelled on the edges of humanity. I'd heard stories, many stories, some lurid and not fit for an angel's ears, about the Boys of Wynter, but a part of me had always held them in higher regard, one not earned through notorious, bawdy behavior but earned out of being a fearless, selfless warrior. Up until now I'd never met one of the mythical guards of the underworld, but this one was certainly living up to both sides of the stories.
Stryker's lashes temporarily fluttered over his eyes, as if keeping them open took a great deal of effort. "Only here's the problem," he continued in long stretched speech. His half-closed eyes focused slowly, but weak as he was, he managed to rake his gaze down my body. The cotton pajamas were nearly dry from the heat in the cabin, but he had already seen far more than he should have. Then, without warning, his hand reached forward and he dragged his fingers along the side of my breast. I froze, not from fear or revulsion but from worry that my reaction to his simple gesture had been too profound.
"These curves . . ."
I held my breath and closed my eyes as his hand traveled along my waist and over my hip. "They don't add up. I've never met an angel who could stir a dying man's blood. I've never met an angel who was so perfectly made for sin."
I tossed the bowl of stinging antiseptic on his gaping wound. He jerked upright with a howl of pain. "Fuck."
"Sorry, I forgot to mention that the solution stings. Now, I'm going to get cleaned and then I'll stitch you up. I've go
t some formaldehyde if you need me to knock you out before I sew."
He blinked at me. The stinging antiseptic had awakened him from his half-drowsy state.
"No need. Just sew me up or hand me the needle and I'll do it myself."
Chapter Six
Stryker
My head was filled with a confused grogginess that could not have been brought on by just whiskey. I reached instinctively to the sharp pain in my side, and my palm was met with soft cotton gauze. The long night came back to me in one dizzying wave. No whiskey. Just the drugging effects of battling a wraith and being at the wrong end of its razor sharp claw.
The tiny room was bathed in heat from the fire in the hearth. Willow had piled it high with wood to keep the glow going throughout the night. The fox slept curled like a plush white donut in front of the fire. Pebbles of light popped around the edge of the curtains on the cabin's front window. I'd slept through until dawn.
Questions ricocheted back and forth in my haze filled head. Why the hell had that wraith headed up the mountain, away from civilization, away from the many opportunities to wreak havoc that a densely populated town or city might afford? It was almost as if it had planned all along to lead me away from Cliffmoor and from my pack mates. If that had been its goal, it had worked. I was out in the middle of an ice covered, no-man's land feeling as weak as a half-starved puppy.
I was sure Willow was already done with me taking up her couch and spilling blood on her floor. And she was the source of at least a dozen other questions. I'd met a few angels in my life, but I'd never met one like her. Angels were normally waifish, pale and prim to the point of being listless and dull. Their lack of color and distinction worked well as camouflage when they moved amongst humans, like a white rose in the snow. They were beautiful but went easily unnoticed. That was not the case with Willow. Her sapphire blue eyes stood out like gems in contrast to her black hair. There was nothing waifish or pale or prim about her. Willow was a bright red rose in a carpet of white snow, exotic, beautiful and impossible to go unnoticed.
I lifted the trim on my bandage. Each stitch had been done with the precision of a trained surgeon. The pain of being sewn up had grown intense enough that I had faded in and out of consciousness as Willow sat, stoic and confident, as she jammed a needle through my flesh, slowly sealing up the gash. Once she'd finished, I slept peacefully with only Willow's beautiful face and luscious curves to fill my dreams.
I knew my taunting and teasing had irritated her, enough, it seemed, to prompt her to toss the antiseptic unceremoniously into my wound. A stinging slap of pain I'd deserved. But I couldn't help myself. I was going to blame it on blood loss and fatigue. It felt as if I'd just downed four bottles of whiskey, only I'd surpassed the pleasant buzz and gone straight to stone drunk.
I lifted my head and looked toward the rustling sound coming from the bedroom. Willow had left the door ajar, but I couldn't see her. The movement startled the fox awake. He hopped up and trotted in the direction of the bedroom. The animal hopped up on back legs and pushed the bedroom door open wider with his front paws. Willow hadn't noticed.
A kerosene lamp bathed the room in muted light. Her raven black hair hung around her shoulders. When the light hit her hair just right, it looked as if she had tiny opalescent beads woven through the silky black strands.
She pulled the top half of her pajamas off, exposing the honey-kissed skin on her back and side. I knew damn well I should look away as she pushed off the bottoms, but that didn't stop me from staring into the shadowy room. She leaned down and rolled off the pajamas, now giving me a clear view of her naked body from behind. It was all I needed. I had nearly bled out in the snow and I was collapsed on a couch half my size with at least two hundred sutures holding me in one piece, but I still managed a respectable hard on. In fact, my cock ached more than my side as I watched the naked angel reach for the clothes on her dresser. And then the light of her kerosene lamp illuminated the glittering silver tattoo, like a string of leaf shaped diamonds, running from the delectable cheek of her round ass, twisting erotically around her hip and along her tiny waist, ending along the curve of her breast. All my questions about her were answered. I knew now why my cock had been solid as rock since the moment I saw her standing over me in the snow. I knew now why she looked and acted nothing like a guardian angel. I knew now why she had dangerous wild animals treating her like a companion and friend. Just like the red star on her arm was the angel's mark, the vine of glistening silver ink on her side was the nymph's mark.
And just like she was no ordinary angel, Willow was no ordinary nymph. The nymphs I knew were the ones who lived in Feenix's realm. They were his servants, both in and out of bed. For the most part they were silly, flighty beauties who took more pleasure in teasing and toying than anything else. Of course, the nymphs who lived with Feenix and his dangerously clay-brained brother, Paygon, were castoffs from the nymphs' meadow. If a nymph was proven to have no skills or common sense or talent for protecting nature, they were sent to work for Feenix. The expert stitching in my side and the fact that Willow filled the room with a stark, real sensuality that was far beyond anything I'd ever sensed from Feenix's muses made it clear that she was no ordinary nymph . . . or angel. It was a rare combination considered both intoxicating and dangerous, especially for a mortal man. And the night before, as I lay in the snow feeling my life drain away, I'd proved myself to be just that.
Willow pulled on a pale blue sweater. My body relaxed in relief and disappointment as she covered her naked body. My cock would have a harder time of it. I adjusted the blanket around me to hide the obvious.
Her blue eyes rounded as she walked out of the hallway. "Oh, you're awake. I'll scramble you up some goose eggs." She walked across the room and leaned over me. The ends of her hair brushed my shoulder, and the fragrant scent of her skin, or whatever it was that made her smell like perfume, drifted over me. The sweet scent, her nearness, the warmth of her breath on my skin only made my cock tighten more.
Instantly, I was in that uncontrollable state where I couldn't keep my tongue or my manners civil. It was her aura, her nymph's aura that was beckoning me and teasing me, even if she had no idea it was happening.
Thoughts left my mouth before I could comprehend what I was saying. Even my actions were no longer controlled by my head. Instead, the deep seated erotic drive that was always there, just waiting for the right trigger to set it off, took over my mind and body. I was caught in a fucking trance, a nymph's trance, only this sweetly innocent half-angel had no idea she was causing it.
As she inspected her handiwork, I reached up and dragged my thumb across her bottom lip and then pushed the tip of it between them. "I wonder just how fucking hot it would feel to have these lips around my cock."
Her reaction was slow. She looked more pained than shocked at my boldness. Her round breasts rose and fell, pressing seductively against the blue fabric of her sweater with each shuddering breath. I lowered my hand, working to get back in control of my own actions. I pulled in a deep breath and quickly remembered the searing pain in my side and how the woman standing over me had saved my life.
I curled my fingers and kept my hands to my sides. I was no longer controlled by the roguish, wild urges broiling beneath the surface.
Willow's lips remained parted, as if my thumb was still pressed between them. I half expected her to reach down and rip out the sutures she'd spent hours sewing into my skin. I would have deserved it. Instead, she stepped back, out of my reach. The honey glow of her skin had turned pink with a blush, a blush that only made her more beautiful.
"You're a nymph," I said quietly, but I might as well have shouted it.
Her face shot up. "How did you—?" Her blush deepened. "You were watching me dress."
I lifted my arm to point out the tattoo I wore, which still gave me no right to have watched her dress but which was a damn good explanation for my ungentlemanly behavior. "Besides, your little friend there was the one to open the d
oor. I just happened to be looking that direction."
The rosy blush cooled back to golden honey, and her blue eyes turned cold. Or at least her attempt at looking angry. Her small chin thrust forward. "I'll make those eggs, so you can be on your way."
She marched into the kitchen and set to work on breakfast. Kindling rattled into the wood burning stove and Willow lit it. The flames roared to life.
I pushed up to sitting and stopped to catch my breath as the movement renewed the pain afresh, almost as if the sickle were still slicing me open. I should have been healing faster, but something still muddled my brain. I braced my hands on the cushions of the couch and waited for the cabin to stop spinning.
It would be a long walk back to Cliffmoor, and nothing about the way I was feeling made me confident I could make it there on my own. I'd left the motorcycle in a snowdrift a few miles back, and if new snow had covered my original tracks, it would be hard to find. I wondered if Maximus and Wilder had gone out looking for me. Chances were, they had gotten drunk with whiskey and fallen into their beds with one or two of their favorite women long before they'd given me any thought.
It would be up to me to get back home. Once my head felt clear, I would try and summon Rogue. It was rare for our horses to emerge from their motorcycle cocoons in the human world, but my connection to the stallion was deep. And if I conveyed to the animal just how much trouble I was in, he would make an appearance. It was possible Rogue would even sense my need and come on his own.
Willow clanked the frying pan down on the stove with much more force than needed. She had been up all night tending to me, and I'd repaid her with rudeness.
The little fox watched with shiny black eyes and a slight snarl on his muzzle as I pushed up from the couch and wrapped the blanket around my waist. Just a day ago, I was chasing down wraiths like the Wynter warrior of the fucking world. Today, I was frail and moving as if I'd just woken from a hundred year nap.