Watcher Redeemed: Dark Angels Paranormal Romance (Watchers of the Gray Book 2)

by JL Madore

  “Ah . . . one moment,” she breathed, her voice breathless. The male grumble on the other side of the door reminded her that no matter their relative privacy, at that moment, she very much needed to end this disastrous evening.

  She wadded up a handful of tissue and wiped the moisture from her eyes and nose. The Watcher’s head had slumped conveniently to the side when he collapsed. Perfect. From inside his jacket pocket, she unsheathed the bastard’s Crystalline dagger. How many tales of slaughter had she heard as a child, where the Nephilim hunters slit the throats of unsuspecting Darkworlders? It was the stuff of childhood nightmares, the promise of what awaited disobedient children who stepped outside Otherworld laws.

  She held the mythical weapon to the light, watching the vibrant blue liquid within sparkle through the prisms of crystal. The deadly fluid, the blood of the Seraph, ebbed and rolled as she tipped it end to end. Ironic really, the beauty of a tool designed for slaughter. Light flashed along the razor-sharp edge of the blade and in a sickening moment of clarity, she wondered if this was the weapon used to take the life of her beloved sire.

  She pushed the thought down. She held the dagger at that moment, and the man lying at her mercy was an admitted killer.

  Kneeling beside him, she grabbed a fistful of rich brown hair and notched his weapon beneath his stubbled chin. Leaving him to bleed out on the bathroom tiles had its appeal. He’d certainly be a picture when someone found him: his face battered, her bite ragged and bloody on his shoulder, his mighty sex still hanging out, deflated.

  The sight of his nakedness sent a wave of fire through her. He’d taken more than he’d been welcome to. Admittedly, she’d been naïve to think she could control such a volatile and virile male with feminine wiles she knew naught of.

  However, if he died now, no one ever need know.

  She let the blade’s bleeding edge take hold, her palms slick against the hilt. One quick slice. She inhaled deep.

  Do the deed and be done with him.

  A thin scarlet trail brimmed across the intricate swirls of his Mark. It sparked inspiration. Humiliating and leaving him to die tickled her, true, but the man who killed her father must be made to suffer as Stryker had.

  Yes. She cracked his head off the floor, disposed of his cock’s rubber sheath, and struggled with his hips to refasten his pants. She gathered his ruined shirt, wiped down the smattering of blood around the space and stuffed the fabric into the trash bin. After ensuring that the room held no account of her involvement, she spun the outer ring on the face of her watch and retrieved the warrior’s jacket from where it hung on handle of the door.

  Great ghosts, the thing must weigh two stone. She was still inventorying his cache of weapons when the low mumble of her prisoner’s baritone broke the silence. His words were incomprehensible, muttering in ancient tongues.

  She kicked his toned belly once more and he curled like a shrimp in a boiling pot.

  A gust of heat warmed her cheeks an instant before the Bolthole opened. She checked herself in the mirror as Devious stepped through to escort her home.

  “Grab him,” she said, pointing to the heap of tattooed assassin laid out at her feet. “We’re taking him with us. I want him locked in one of the holding cells.”

  Dark brows arched as his mouth fell open. “Capture a member of the Watch? Why in the name of the Dark Prince would we do that?”

  “Because he killed my father.” She drew a deep breath and regained control. “You were wrong, Devious. The Sumerian didn’t kill Stryker. He did. And he will suffer for it. And when he begs us for the mercy he surely never offered another, we shall cut his filthy head off. Sweet irony. To decapitate him with his own blade. Have you any objection with that?”

  The male scrubbed a scarred hand over his military cut hair and shrugged. “I suppose not, but you’ll end up with a riot on your hands. Half the castle will be terrified you brought a Nephilim into their homes, and the other half will want a go at him themselves.”

  “That is my problem to face, not yours.”

  Devious struggled to hoist the muscled frame of the warrior over his shoulder. Like a large sack of feed, the Watcher was slung. Devious grunted and bowed under the load. It was the first time she’d seen the male falter under the weight of a fallen.

  Giving him a moment, she smoothed the Watcher’s jacket over her arm. When he stood to his full height, she asked, “And which of those two options do you fall under, Devious? Are you wary or vengeful?”

  He tossed a glance over his shoulder and stepped through the shimmering plane of the portal. His eyes flashed wild with what could only be described as cruel excitement. “Oh, definitely the latter, Mistress. Consider me first in line to draw Watcher blood.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kyrian’s consciousness came on line in a slow wave of flutters and sputters. Bound to a wooden chair, his shoulders screamed while his stomach did a remarkable impression of a sock tumbling in a dryer. Awareness washed in and out like a lazy ocean tide breaking against the reef, his mind caught in the swirling eddy of fill and flush, fill and flush.

  After years of battle, Kyrian’s base instincts roared to the foreground and took stock of his surroundings before betraying his return to consciousness. Most often, when captors realized their prisoners had woken, that’s when the fun began in the torture department.

  The rhythmic whisp, whisp of a blade scoring wood to his left, brought the image of a guard whittling to mind. “Finally, the mighty Watcher awakes.”

  He was about to say something witty when his arms tensed, and he retched. The convulsive lurch caused the plastic cable-tie bindings to cut deeper. His insides were doing back handsprings and his skin was on fire. He tried to remain still.

  After another round of out-you-go, he almost blacked out. When his mental lights stopped flickering, he spat the foul chemical taste from his mouth. “Poison is a coward’s weapon. Unimaginative really.”

  “Seems effective enough. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  When his head settled, and he’d blinked his watering eyes clear, he inventoried the room. Stone floor, walls, and ceiling, with a sewage trough running along the wall, releasing the reek of sulphur. Homey.

  “Consider yourself lucky. If I had my way, you’d be dead.”

  Kyrian followed the snide tone back to a shadowed corner as a brute of a man cracked his knuckles. Dressed in black camo pants and a wife-beater muscle shirt, his keeper stepped into the light. Cords of muscle stretched and tightened, bulged and flexed—hell, he might’ve even been as big as Zander.

  He recognized the guy. It was the Incredible Hulk he’d taken on in the Shedim cave the night Austin was taken prisoner and bled dry. Sweet . . . a reunion.

  Stalking closer, the guy held up a small video recorder, pulled his stool from his corner, and set the recorder down, facing it toward him. Yep, this was going to get ugly.

  He’d seen a Shedim snuff video once before, and it hadn’t ended well for Tanek. His brother-in-arms, and former garrison commander, had been carved up and dumped on their doorstep in pieces.

  “From one soldier to another,” the Hulk said, “you should know, I’m going to kill you. It will be slow and excruciating, but it will be by my hand.” Sincerity rang in his captor’s voice and he cursed. He remembered the beatdown the bastard had delivered the last time, and that was when he was in top form, armed, and had backup.

  Ignoring the drug-induced hangover buzzing in his skull, Kyrian cleared his throat the best he could. If the video of his slaughter was hitting the World Wide Web, he’d be damned if he went down looking like a pussy.

  “I see your nose healed,” he said, his words garbled by his cut and swollen face.

  Quick as a lightning strike, Hulk rammed his red-metal carving knife into Kyrian’s side and twisted. Searing agony stole his vision as the bastard’s voice growled close to his ear. “Yeah, and so did the seven puncture wounds you gave me. I owe you six more holes, Watcher.”

  H
e left the knife where it was and drew another from a thigh sheath.

  Kyrian’s head lolled forward. He managed to laugh as a stream of warmth flowed down his hip and soaked into his jeans. The sadistic fuck watched the plasma exodus and licked his lips. Oh, hells no. “I don’t know what kind of a bromance you’re envisioning here, dude, but if you start licking me, I’m going to hurl again. For reals.”

  The strike to Kyrian’s face snapped his head back and his side screamed. Damn, the guy had a fist like an iron anvil. Blood rushed from the split lip he’d suffered in his bathroom brawl with the female and his mind stopped dead.

  The brunette. Ahh, warmth returned to his veins as the fog cleared a little. “Where’s the bitch from the bar?”

  Crack. Another get-acquainted moment with a straight punch to the gut. Kyrian gasped for oxygen as round three of the quivering heaves took over and white spots flashed behind his eyes. Stepping back, Hulk reached over to the camera and the little LED light came on.

  Right, things were about to go to shit.

  As the guy unleashed a series of fists to flesh, Kyrian fell back on millennia of experience and distanced himself from the pain. His body was a vessel. He retreated to that part of himself, buried deep within, where he was all animal and not a man.

  Base instinct. Survival. Strength.

  He and his brothers-in-arms called it their beast. Fathered by archangels, there was a part of each of them that raged violent and vengeful. Embracing that part of himself, he didn’t feel pain. He felt rage, strength and . . . hunger?

  “You begin without me, Devious. Eager, are you?”

  Kyrian’s head snapped in the direction of the feminine voice. The battery of blows ceased, and his beast’s awareness surged forward. Her? No. Was it?

  He studied the gait of the female who approached. Wearing a simple, pale green gown with a brown, velvet bodice and no make-up, her natural beauty knocked him stupid. She had the same long sweeping stride as the woman from his encounter, but the midnight blue eyes had been replaced by the saffron yellow of the Shedim. Still, if her appearance before had been that of a hot seductress, this visage was one of true radiance.

  He swallowed, but his throat remained dry. “Not a brunette I see.”

  She raised a delicate hand to the ginger braid lying over her breast. “That was for your benefit. I learned you have a particular affection for brunettes.”

  A knowing look filled her eyes and his beast growled.

  “You look a little the worse for wear, Watcher.” She stopped mid-step a few yards away and eyed him head to toe. Her gaze lingered on his neck longer than necessary and her lips parted. The searing pleasure of her feeding from him struck him like a runaway train.

  Shit. His focus flipped to the stone of the far wall. Breathing deep, he ordered his body to remain unaffected. The last thing he needed was to rise to her attention and get his cock cut off by Hulk or Devious or whatever the cocksucker’s name was. Thankfully, the paralytic from the Demon-steel blade still stuck in him seemed to overwrite his sexual instincts.

  Her hand raised in the air between them as she studied the intricate flourish and swirls across his bare chest. “Do you know which parts of your assassin’s mark come from which life you’ve taken?”

  Yes. “Why would I care?”

  “Why indeed,” she said, on a heavy exhale. “I’m certain we are all the same to you. Nothing more than a bunch of filthy Darkworld scum, to be snuffed out like scurrying insects beneath your mighty boot.”

  “Sure, let’s go with that.”

  “Am I wrong?” A sculpted brow arched, the disdain in her voice visible in her expression as well. “Tell me, Watcher, how long have you served your immortal fathers?”

  “Long enough.”

  As she sidestepped a crack in the floor, Devious shifted in front of the stool. “Watcher, truly. I ask with genuine interest.”

  He pegged her with a glare. “Why do you care? I’m just a filthy assassin out to snuff you like a scurrying insect, right?”

  “Touché.” She took a step back and he lost sight of her.

  Damn. He followed the soft rustle of her skirt as she circled him. “To that end, I could point out that it was you who admitted to the torture and killing of our beloved leader, Stryker. If we retaliate, it seems more an act of justice than rampant violence.”

  “Killing,” he said, sounding as bored as he could manage.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed. The Demon-steel blade lodged in his side continued to drain his strength. “I admitted to killing your psychotic leader, not torturing him. I don’t work that way. There is no honor in torture.”

  He pegged Devious with an icy glare and hoped that he understood the ocular “fuck you”.

  She covered her mouth and chuckled. “Honor? You expect me to believe you live by some noble morale code? Do you think me such a fool?”

  “Honestly, I think you are a thousand kinds of fool, bitch, but it makes no difference. You’ll believe what you believe.”

  Devious’ fist launched, and another anvil punch sunk into his gut. “Watch your mouth.”

  She waited for his focus to return and squared off to look directly at him. “You and your fellow assassins force desperate actions in the name of survival. Your highhanded restrictions and ignorance are to blame for my race, and others with unique feeding requirements, betraying Otherworld laws. Perhaps you do so simply to put yourselves in a position to forfeit lives.”

  He snorted, resting his head on his manacled arm. “Unique feeding requirements? You chop humans into sections and eat their internal organs.”

  She stepped around another broken stone in the floor and worked the room. “You speak as if we have a choice in the matter. Humans slaughter livestock for consumption, do they not? No one avenges farm animals, yet we are deemed monsters. We feed only as physiology demands. Should we simply starve to death until the Shedim are no more?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Devious slammed the hilt of the blade embedded in Kyrian’s side and consciousness abandoned him for a moment. When the darkness abated, he searched for—there.

  She was leaving. At the steel door of his cell, she glanced over her shoulder, her smile sad. “Devious, enjoy your interrogation, but leave him alive. His execution shall be a grand event in the courtyard. I think everyone within the castle walls would do well to witness our justice realized. It will be good for morale after Stryker’s loss.”

  ***

  Zander shifted out from under the loose weight of Austin’s arm and drew the duvet around her shoulders to keep her warm in his absence. He lifted Stetson from his dog bed on the floor and set the chocolate lab next to his beloved to guard her in her sleep. Stepping back from their bed, he waved his hand over the Divinity candle on the bureau alter. Three wicks on the wide, ivory pillar burst to life and the amber light danced across her skin.

  He brushed his fingers through the length of chestnut hair strewn across his pillow. Touching her brought him a peace he never knew existed, a balm which eased every moment of death and disgust he’d survived. She was his heaven.

  After forcing oxygen into lead lungs, he weakened the flames, waiting until he was certain the golden glow posed no threat. With a gaze to the heavens he sent up the prayer that had become his nightly mantra over the past months.

  Watch and protect her, milady. I beg of you.

  His cowgirl was the heart beating behind his ribs, the blood in his veins, and the marrow in his bones. She’d been targeted because of him. Twice. If she died—

  He couldn’t bring himself to finish that thought. He had to keep faith. Otherwise he would lose his motherfucking mind. When the subtle scent of tallow filled his sinuses and Austin’s breathing sank back into a slow, deep rhythm, Zander knew it was time to get gone.

  After checking his watch, he exhaled heavy and turned from their bed. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t watch over her 24/7. He couldn’t. He was
a garrison commander, and had responsibilities to his men and to the innocents living within his streets. Annnd she would probably try to kill him.

  Chuckling to himself, he grabbed his black jeans from the floor where Austin tossed them earlier and padded quietly to the door. He stomped his mighty thighs into his jeans and covered his naked ass before heading out to the hall. Since the arrival of his wings two months ago, he rarely fussed with shirts around the loft. He needed a few of the custom tunics the Seraph wore. He’d have to get Kyrian to score him some—

  “You okay, bossman?” Seth whispered, emerging from the door across the hall.

  Not even close. He nodded and the two of them headed toward the dining room. “What do we know about Kyrian?”

  “Nothing worth bragging about.”

  Shit. Zander scrubbed his jaw and exhaled. “I don’t want Austin to get even a hint that Kyrian is AWOL. If she does—”

  “She’ll be in full-tilt Texan panic. I’ll make sure everyone keeps it in the vault.”

  As the two of them made their way through the loft, Seth filled him in on what was on the table tonight. Lot of shit stirring in the Otherworld. When they arrived at the long harvest table in the dining room, Zander grabbed a bottle of JD from the bar and Seth took his seat next to his twin. Liquid sedative in hand, Zander closed the doors and looked over his warriors.

  Shit, the room felt empty.

  Hark poured a dram of Scotch into his coffee, the Nubian’s expression as dark as his skin. Brennus flicked his lighter and lit a cigar. The Celt exhaled a puff of pale-blue smoke and swung his General’s braid out of his face.

  Z did the math and cursed. He hated seeing empty chairs.

  The head of the table was now his, but it still it felt wrong sitting in Tanek’s seat. And to his left, well that one should have the Greek sitting in it as his second-in-command. Tanek—dead. Kyrian—missing. And— “Where’s Danel?”