by ML Guida
Scythe arched his back and cried out, “Mine.”
A blinding light illuminated from Scythe, overtaking her, caressing her. The fresh scent of olives filled the room. A hot poker sensation blazed above her right breast like someone branded something into her skin. She screamed and tightened her grip on his shoulders and tightened her legs around him. An intense, pleasure shook her. Scythe’s hot semen released deep inside her, shaking her to the core. He collapsed on top of her, and she could feel his rapid beating heart.
The light dimmed and her familiar studio surrounded her.
She stroked the back of Scythe’s hair as slight tremors still rippled through her body. He was still inside her, filling her. Nestling his head in the curve of her neck, his lips brushed the side of her neck. “You belong to me.”
Heather froze. What exactly did that mean? Was she a slave? Not something she’d ever want.
She looked at a painting of Rosemary and her sister’s portrait stared back. Regret filled her. A lump formed in her throat. Tears threatened to burst through her. She just betrayed her sister by having mind-blowing sex with an angel of death, the same one who stood by and watched her sister die. He had the power to save people and chose not to use it. She should hate him, condemn him—not have sex with him like some wanton slut.
Chapter 12
Smiling, Scythe quivered from aftershocks. No woman, angel or human, had ever filled him with such joy—he who always looked at life with cynicism. When nothing through the ages of existence had been for him, the feel of Heather’s hand had almost sent him over the edge. He had branded her, sealing her fate, making her his forever.
Beneath her crushed breasts, her heart drummed to the rhythm of his—beat per beat. How could this be? No wonder angels fought to the death to protect their mates. The sheer pleasure of taking her had blocked out every thought, except for her. Her silky skin had tasted sweet, but he wanted more. For once, all his memories of hurt, anger, and betrayal had been wiped clean. All that mattered was the tiny slip of a woman beneath him, his angel-mate.
Fire blazed through him and his cock jerked. Still buried deep inside her, Heather’s feminine muscles clutched him, her body stretching farther to accommodate him. He slid back and forth, wanting to imprint his scent on her, needing her—and everyone else—to know she belonged to him. The scent of his angel-mate engulfed him, called him, demanded, and his erection hardened again with the need to take her again. He’d never get enough of her. Lust and love consumed him, one not separated from the other, this woman, this human female, capable of painting his true essence, courageous enough to fight for her life, even when facing down his demon brother.
Scythe kissed her again, a slow taking of her soul, wanting her spirit and heart, knowing he possessed a small piece of her, binding her to him. No man would ever touch her writhing body, not unless he wanted to experience an agonizing death. He kissed her, drugging her, not giving her time to protest, only to feel him. Her pleading moans were soft and alluring, and he swallowed each one, burning them into his soul.
Her breath quickened, and he smiled. She rocked her hips and dug her nails into his back. He glided back and forth in her wet heat. Nothing in heaven or earth had ever penetrated his stoic wall, but she did. Buried inside him, his hidden feelings released. A growl emerged from down deep in his throat as his fingers slid to the vee of her dark curls above her moist clit. He rubbed her in rhythm to his raw thrusting, releasing another cry from her. Her gentle moans caressed over him, igniting tremors throughout his sweating body.
With each thrust, a blinding white light filled his vision. His release was savage, the fire ripping through his spine and snaking around his bell. Her inner tunnel squeezed and gripped his cock, wrenching every bit of hot semen. An explosion of feeling hit him, launching overwhelming power to every limb. He should have been sated, but lust gripped him, his cock thick and full had thrust inside her, wrestling cries of passion from her lips.
She arched her hips matching his tempo, never faltering. The friction between them, raw and wild, sent hot vibrations through him, plunging him into a fire of sensation. Her body vibrated, drenching him with sweet fluid. She trembled beneath him. Her rapid heartbeat slammed against his chest, but it was her flushed face that made him want her more and more. A guttural roar tore from his mouth as another brutal release hit him and he came inside her one more time. Even for an angel of death, this left him spent and worn. How this tiny woman drove him to be a weak man tied to her for eternity, he’d never know.
He wanted to hold her forever. With this binding tie, she was immortal. He glanced at her face, ready to tell her, but tears glistened in her doe eyes. She stopped moving her hands down his back and she tensed beneath him.
“Relax love.” Scythe brushed his fingers down her cheek. He nuzzled her neck and kissed her sleek, hot skin.
“Rosemary,” she whispered.
He lifted his head and peered at her face. Tears streaked down her face and lower lip trembled. “I shouldn’t have done this.”
He frowned. “What?”
She tilted her head. “She’s watching.”
“Who’s watching?” He followed her eyes and spotted the painting of Rosemary, not the same woman he saw stepping in front of moving RTD bus. He kissed Heather’s neck, wanting to take away her pain. A slew of emotions poured from her and as her mate, he could read her soul—guilt, sadness, betrayal.
“Rosemary.”
“No, she’s in paradise.”
“I want to believe you.” Doubt mirrored in her eyes. “But I…”
“You don’t believe me?”
She looked away from him. A liar? She thought he was a liar, his mate. Not something he had expected, but with Heather, all his assumptions jumped to the wayside. He pulled out of her then rolled off her shaking body. He brushed her hair away from her ear. “How can I prove that I’m telling the truth?”
She moved away from him and sat. He ran his fingers down her wet back. Glancing over her shoulder, her pained face seized his heart. “Simple. You can’t. Rosemary’s dead.”
Turning away, she trembled. An uncontrollable sob escaped her lips, and she buried her face into her hands. Each of her guilt-ridden sobs tore into his soul like a hot knife. He wrapped his arms around her, but she jerked away from him.
“Heather.” He reached to touch her, but she jumped to her feet.
She glared, her breasts heaving up and down. Sweat glistened on her hot skin and discolorations marred her skin where he had kissed, licked, and tasted her. Sleek white fluid stained her creamy thighs. She was a sinful goddess except for the dark scowl on her beautiful face.
She widened her stance and clenched her fist. “Don’t you get it! I fucked the man who watched my sister die.” Her loud voice turned venomous.
He flinched. “That’s what you think?”
“Yes, damn it. You’re an angel.” She snatched her discarded clothes and yanked on her underwear. “Angels are supposed to help people. I don’t care what Michael’s stupid book says. How could you do that? Was it fun for you? Did you get off on it?”
She might as well as have thrown a bucket of ice water on him, dousing the passion within him. Growling, he jumped off the floor. She backed away. Fear flashed into those beautiful brown eyes.
She held out her palms. “Stay away from me. I don’t want you touching me ever again. Do you hear me?”
He backed her into a wall. “I’m afraid that won’t happen.”
She tilted her head. “Why is that?”
“Because I made you immortal. You’re mine forever. Look at your right breast.”
“What?” Her face reddened. She glanced down and went still. There above her nipple was his mark—a tiny pair of silver feathered wings. Looking at it, a swell of pride filled him that this beautiful creature belonged to him.
Not breathing, he watched her face, praying for a similar response, waiting for a declaration of love utter from those bruised lips, but a f
lutter of emotions crossed her face—fear, surprise, sadness, and anger. No love shown upon her. She gritted her teeth and met his stoic face.
Without hesitation, she slapped him across the face. Pain wrecked his cheek, but what hurt more was the pain brewing in his soul. She had spurned him, like his brother. Hell, he should have known. For the first time, tears threatened to shed. No fucking way. He steeled his resolve, forcing an immobile face to hide the misery throbbing inside him, burying his tears like Michael. He’d be damned if he’d let her know how much she hurt him. He might be tied to her for eternity, but that didn’t mean she got to rip his guts out. Forget that crap.
“You bastard! How dare you do this? I will never be with you.”
He seized her wrist. “Don’t. Ever. Hit. Me. Again.”
“Why?” She stamped on his bare foot and beat on his hand with her other hand. “Are you going to kill me like you did my sister?”
“No, I’m not. Quit hitting me. And for the last time, I didn’t kill your sister. Get it through your thick skull.”
“Let go of me.” She dug her nails into his hand, drawing blood.
He winced and released her.
“So, you keep telling me.” She darted out of his reach, like she could ever escape him.
She scanned over him, disgust in her eyes as if he were vermin. “Actually, I would respect you more if you had killed her rather than standing there with your thumb up your ass watching her die.”
The hate coming from her lips stunned him. Being bound to a woman for eternity with a scornful tongue repelled him. What had he done? He couldn’t undo it. Angels had always bragged about what bliss they experienced after claiming their angel-mate and never regretted it. Well, yippy-ki-yay for them.
Storming away from her, he bit back a retort. He wanted to forget he ever met her, abandon her, but she was in his blood, an incurable virus. Whether he liked it, the bond cemented together for eternity. He yanked on his pants. Behind him, clothes rustled. His anger weakened at the sound of a biting sob.
Heather stood in front of her sister’s panting. She slid a finger down her sister’s face. “I’m sorry, sis—for everything.”
He bristled. Fucking great. Bless it, Blade! Because of him, the woman he loved detested him, accused him of being a coward. He snorted. Now, that was a word no one had ever called him.
Leaving her to her thoughts, Scythe threw on the rest of his clothes. Her sobs subsided, and she braced her shoulders. He ached to run his fingers through her long, dark, silky hair, reassuring her that Rosemary had forgiven her but kept himself poised. Even if he told her, she wouldn’t believe him. She’d think he was justifying his cowardice. Until a human soul passes into heaven, humans don’t truly understand. “He’s not done yet.”
Heather stiffened and wiped her tears from her red face. “What do you mean?”
“Blade. You’re still not out of the pit yet.”
“So, I’m stuck with you until this is over?”
Her hard voice chipped at his hope to win her over. “Yes, you’re stuck with me until we see this through.”
“See what through?” She headed toward the door.
“Blade still wants you dead.”
“Yeah, I got that part.”
“Do you? I don’t think so? We’ve got to beat him at his own game.”
“With you? Not happening. I won’t let my sister down again.” She whipped open the door. “I don’t want to see you again. Angel of Death or not, I’m settling this my way.”
She stepped into her office and slammed the door. Cursing, Scythe followed her. He flung open the door. Heather froze. He followed her gaze and groaned. Like a bad omen, Mason and Hewitt stood there smiling at her.
“Why, hello, Ms. Bowen, we were wondering when you would finish.” Mason smirked.
With long strides, Scythe moved at angel speed and seized Mason’s shirt, lifting the man off the ground. Mason’s eyes widened, his hands clawed at Scythe’s. Scythe shook him until his teeth rattled. “You ever speak to her like that again and I promise you will know what pain is.”
“Put him down,” Hewitt ordered.
Scythe dropped him and the man scooted away.
Mason straightened his tie and shirt. “Did you see that? He threatened a police officer.”
Hewitt looked at him. “Shut up, Mason.” He turned his focus to Scythe. “How did you escape?”
“Yeah, how did you escape, hon?” Heather folded her arms across her chest, a smirk on her face. By her half smile, she enjoyed this.
Scythe shrugged. “Now if I tell you all my tricks, then I won’t be able to use them another time.” He wouldn’t tell these two assholes more than he needed to.
Hewitt walked up to him, stood nose-to-nose. If he knew who he was trying to intimidate, no doubt the man would shit a Hummer. “You want to play word games and piss me off more?”
Not flinching, Scythe met Hewitt’s you-are-lying glare head on. “I don’t care how you feel.”
“Now, you two, will come downtown.” Hewitt flicked his finger at both of them. “So you can either do it the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.”
Without hesitation, Scythe said, “The hard way.” He snapped his fingers and Heather and he vanished. They reappeared in front of Heather’s small, two-story yellow house. They stood on her cemented driveway in front of the two-car garage. She put her hand to her forehead and swayed. He steadied her. Putting her hand to her forehead. “I feel funny. You gotta quit doing this.”
“You’d rather be interrogated by Hewitt and Mason.”
She broke free of his grip. “No, but I prefer to travel by airplane, bike, or car, not like some sitcom witch.”
He gestured with his hand. “Fine. Let’s get inside.”
“We? We aren’t going anywhere.”
At her fuming face and sarcastic voice, he cocked an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’m going inside.” She shook her finger at him. “You’re not.”
“Oh, really?” He folded his arms across his chest. “How exactly do you plan to get inside?”
She stuck out her chin. “I have keys.”
“Ummm, where’s your purse?”
She gave him a quizzical face. “My purse?”
“Isn’t that where you keep your keys?”
She scanned the ground like it would mysteriously appear. “Ohhhh, shut up.”
“Now come on. I don’t want to be seen out here.”
She headed toward her wooden gate that led to the front door. “Why didn’t you materialize us inside the house, Sherlock?” She slammed the gate.
“Because I haven’t seen the layout,” he gritted his teeth. “You don’t want to materialize inside a wall, do you?”
“Whatever,” she mumbled. “Mattie would have probably taken a bite out of you.”
He followed her angry footsteps. “Yeah right, your vicious cocker spaniel. More likely, she’d pee all over me.”
“Shut up. Mattie’s a good watchdog. Wait, a minute.” She whirled around. “How did you know about my dog?”
“When we bonded, I learned everything there was about you.”
“What!” Her mouth hung open. She pushed on his chest. “That’s bullshit. Invasion of privacy.”
“Yeah right. Get over it.”
He stopped. The scent of sulfur lingered in the air. Something wasn’t right. No dog barked. He detected the stench of death. Blade. He seized her hand and vaulted to the door. On the security door glass, marked in blood, were the words, “Die Bitch.”
Chapter 13
Heather darted in front of Scythe to get to her front door. What the hell was his problem?
He seized her arm.
She slapped him. “Let go of me.”
Between gritted teeth, he growled, “Will you calm down?”
“I will when—” The words died on her lips. On her black security door, red liquid dripped down the glass. “That isn’t blood, is it?”
She stiffened, trying to see if the person was still here. A breeze brushed her hair into her face. The creek behind her house bubbled. A hawk screeched.
She held her breath. A lump formed in her throat. It was quiet, too quiet. Mattie always barked when anyone, human or animal, approached the door. Hell, if she spotted people or dogs walking across the trails behind their house, she went crazy. Heather referred to her as the dumb barker, but all she wanted to do was look into Mattie’s big brown eyes and hug her portly body. She could bark her head off for all she cared.
“Mattie,” she whispered.
“Stay here,” Scythe ordered.
She shook her head. “No.”
He dug his fingers into her arm. “Heather.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” She jerked free of his hold. She stared at the pattern that reminded her of tie dye shirts. This was something out of a horror show. “Maybe she’s sleeping.”
“I’ll check—”
“No, I’m going inside. She’ll be scared if you go in first.” Her voice raised an octave. Her stomach knotted into a big huge pretzel. Blood drained from her face and her fingers and toes tingled. “Mattie’s fine.”
“Heather, you don’t—”
“Stop! I’m fine.” But she wasn’t fine. Far from fine.
Mattie was asleep that’s all. She’d feel like an idiot when Mattie came lopping down the stairs after sleeping on her bed upstairs. Sometimes, the dog wouldn’t hear her car pull into the garage or the key turn in the locks. Mattie always had a bashful look on her face like she had fallen down on the job.
Scythe grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it, needing to feel him. He waved his hand and the door unlocked.