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

by JL Madore

  Bo shrugged, his jaw muscles clenching. “Azazel studied the samples we took him and said that by the craftsmanship, he’d guess that it was one of the ancient Blood Dwarves.”

  The room broke out into a raucous of speculation at the mention of Blood Dwarves.

  “One of? How many are we talking about?”

  Bo shrugged. “They’re a secretive species. Could be dozens. Could be thousands.”

  Zander cursed and scanned the kid’s notebook. Kyrian looked bad. And since the Shedim were the ones with the All Access pass to Watcher killing weapons, he’d bet every one of those hilts sticking out of him was a red alloy dagger.

  Heaven and Hell, what a mess. Keep your head down, Adelphos, we’re coming.

  Cassiane squeezed the bloody cloth over the basin and resumed her ministrations. The Watcher was unconscious or perhaps sleeping, she couldn’t be sure. The shallow stutter and hitch of his chest assured her only that he lived. In the mere twelve hours since she’d taken responsibility for the prisoner, she marveled at his body’s ability to regenerate. The whipping weals had scabbed, and then scabs had fallen. The only puncture wounds remaining stemmed from where Dougal had removed those strange red daggers.

  Those still oozed a milky, bloody goo.

  There were injuries inside him as well, she suspected. During the moments he’d emerged to consciousness, he tried not to show weakness but with each wince and grimace, she sensed his pain. That connection unsettled her more than what she’d been party to in the name of vengeance. How could she possibly feel anything beyond hatred for the man who killed her father? Was it his blood warming her veins? Guilt for her part in an act of torture?

  “Here you are, Mistress,” said Edmund, a leaner, less worn version of his father, Dougal. She nodded to the table in the corner and the boy set down the tray of broth. “Is there anything more I can fetch for you? You must be famished yourself.”

  Actually, she wasn’t. Though Nephilim blood was said to be poison corroding their rotten insides, the call of his blood had overwhelmed her in that moment of passion. It was a reckless impulse, which could have made her very ill, but she’d never felt stronger. She stepped over to the table, exchanging the bathing basin for a bowl of broth. “Nothing for me, thank you. Go now, dine with your family and come back afterward. If you could bring clean water and a fresh cloth with you then, I would appreciate it.”

  Edmund picked up the blood-soaked fabric and scarlet water, eyeing the Watcher lying deathly still on the cot. “Is it safe, Mistress? Should I send a soldier down?”

  Cassiane shook her head and tapped the inhibitor collar now clamped around his neck. “The prisoner can’t access any Otherworldly power or dematerialize while this collar is in place. He is no threat in this condition. Now, do as I ask.”

  Edmund bowed his head and stepped into the outer cell. After a last worried glance, he frowned and took his leave.

  Shifting her skirt beneath her shins, she settled onto the stone floor beside the cot. The surface of the broth sloshed in an easy golden tide and then settled once the bowl and spoon were laid on the low stool. She stroked the contour of his arm and her skin tingled warm.

  “Watcher, will you rouse to eat?”

  Sweet Prince, the heavens had chiseled the fighter with the precision of a master sculpture. From the rounds of his broad shoulders to his thighs and calves banded and cut with granite hard muscles. He didn’t possess the colossal physique of Devious or some of her other hunters. Instead, he had grace. The lines and ridges of his body drew an appraising eye over every olive-skinned, taut inch.

  His body ran warmer than she was accustomed to. Whether that was the biology of Nephilim or fever, she knew not. Her fingers ran an exploratory path down his chest, over the definition of his abdominal muscles, to the fine hair that disappeared beneath the sheet covering his hips.

  “If you’re playing naughty nurse, the payoff is a few inches further down.”

  She gasped and withdrew her hand. “I, uh . . . you’re awake. I have sustenance for you.”

  He blinked a few times, as if clearing his vision. “Pass. Laced with poison, I’m sure.”

  She couldn’t blame him for the hostility. “It is a simple broth, I give you my word.” She rose to her knees and swirled the spoon in the clear, gold liquid. Lifting the spoon to her own mouth, she sipped a spoonful. “Nothing to fear, Watcher.”

  He shifted a hand across his belly and winced. “Kyrian. Call me Kyrian. Watcher is my designation, not who I am.”

  She stared at his clenched jaw, his dark brown brows crimped into a harsh line. She too tired of people calling her Mistress. It made her feel isolated in a castle filled with more than a hundred people. “Here, let me feed you.”

  He turned his head and struggled to sit. The effort didn’t last long. He was far too weak to lift the heft of his warrior frame. He growled a low, menacing sound vibrating from his chest. It resonated inside her, tightening her insides. “I’m not a child.”

  “No, but with your hands secured to those boards, you can’t hold a spoon.”

  He glanced down to the splinting boards Dougal used to secure his fingers and hands. “At least you left me with both my hands. I suppose I should thank you for that.”

  Cassiane didn’t understand his tone, but wasn’t interested in sussing out his every thought. Dipping the spoon into the broth once again, she held it to his lips. He glared at her and something violent flashed briefly in his pale green gaze. A moment later, it was gone.

  “What is your name?” he asked, accepting what she offered.

  They fell into a rhythm then, her dipping the spoon and him relenting on his scowl long enough to open his mouth. “My name is irrelevant. I am Mistress of this castle, and you are my prisoner.”

  “You aren’t my Mistress—” Amusement rocked his chest and belly, his muscles tightening and releasing as he chuckled. “Well, technically you are, if we count what went down in that bathroom.”

  Having him laugh at the most shameful moment in her life struck her as sharply as a slap to her face. She focused on the bowl in her lap and fought back the tears stinging her eyes. He could destroy her, destroy everything her father built and wanted for her. All because she had lost control. Let his raw, carnal sexuality overwhelm her.

  “Hey there,” he said, his voice husky and low. “Look at me. Please.”

  She lifted her head and his eyes burned with emotion. “I don’t remember everything clearly about what happened between us. Maybe it was the drug in my system, the gallon of booze I downed before you got there, or maybe it was the days of torture since—but I remember the look on your face afterward. You accused me of taking more than I had right to.”

  She swallowed and blinked quickly. “Yes, well, there’s naught to do about it now.”

  They sat there, the world outside their gazes dissolving into a great, silent void. He lifted his hand, but then seemed to remember the board and cursed. “I understand regret but friend, foe, or complete stranger, I have never—would never—violate a female for any reason. My memory recalls things differently, but if you feel violated by me . . . shit, I am so very sorry.”

  “Do you intend to use it against me? Threaten to expose my humiliation in exchange for your freedom?”

  Hurt flashed in his pale green eyes. “You think that’s what this is about—what I’m about? Despite anything you’ve been told or concocted in that head of yours, I’m not a monster. I stand for a great many things, the abuse and blackmailing of females appears nowhere on the list. What happened between us was private. Whether we regret it or not, it’s nobody else’s business.”

  She brushed the moisture from her cheek. “You almost sound sincere.”

  In the past week, she’d thought of little else but those moments in that bar. What she could have done differently. She’d set the tone of their meeting and drugged an already drunken male. She knew what condition he’d been in. She wouldn’t deny there was fault on both sides. �
��If you swear never to use it against me, I shall accept your apology.”

  He shook his head and pegged her with an agonized glare. “On my honor, I do so swear.”

  Cassiane wiped her cheek with her sleeve and swallowed. Her throat was too thick to speak, so she focused on breathing.

  He slammed his head back against his pillow a few times and exhaled. “Christ, this is such a fucking mess.”

  She set the bowl down before she wore the soup in her lap. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  They stayed like that a long while, him tense and refusing to face her, and her crying silent tears. Though she thought it wrong to use her abilities on those not of her race, she reached out with her darker side and violated his privacy. The chaos of his emotional matrix confused her more than his words. Sadness and pain intertwined with regret and physical exhaustion, doubling and doubling again, folding in on itself until she wondered how he could breathe with the crushing weight of it. Yes. He deeply regretted their situation and though it wouldn’t help her if Devious or one of the others found out he’d taken her, it did help her.

  Tugging the ties of his braces, she freed his hands from the splints and set them on the floor. As he flexed and stretched his fingers, she stood and made her way to the cell door. After swinging the iron gate shut, she tested it’s hold.

  At the threshold to the corridor, she paused. Without looking back, she spoke over her shoulder. “Cassiane. My name is Cassiane Elizabet Thomasine. Now, eat your soup. I want you standing tall and healthy for your execution.”

  Kyrian followed the sound of her steps dissolving into the distance above. Cassiane. Fitting, he thought, considering the color of her hair. The origin of the name was Greek and meant cinnamon. He envisioned her warm, ginger-brown tresses bouncing around the cherubic face of a newborn child. She must have been the pride of her people when she arrived. Before being groomed to poison and torture people, of course.

  Meh, nature versus nurture and all that.

  He shifted and regretted the relocation of his limbs. Every muscle, bone, and cell hurt. Even his bruises were bruised. He reached up and gave the collar biting into his Adam’s apple a tug. Stupid. Fucking. Shedim. The collar would not only keep him trapped, it would also block his ability to heal at any rate beyond a snail’s pace.

  He shifted his legs beneath the sheet at his hips. Stiff. Sore. Nothing he hadn’t felt ten thousand times before. He swung his legs to the side of the cot and set them on the warm, stone floor. At least having a dungeon in the Hell Realm ensured you never needed bunny slippers to keep your feet toasty.

  The broth was cool, bland, and rather salty, but he tipped the bowl and gulped it down. The female was right. He needed to regain his strength and ready for his next battle. Somehow though, he doubted his greatest conflict would have anything to do with daggers and fighting daemons. If he was right, the hum buzzing like an airliner in his head and the pulsing of his cock meant he had fucked himself into one hell of a predicament.

  Stand tall for his execution. His beast paced within him, anxious and on edge. Could she really exact her pound of flesh from him? This Nephilim bonding insanity was new, but didn’t it mean she suffered the same pull as him?

  He chuckled. Just his luck that his beast bonded with a hater who wanted him dead. Maybe he could fuck someone else and get a mulligan. If he lived that long.

  If he didn’t, Zander would set things right. He’d see beyond their falling out and put Cassiane and her entire band of Shedim bastards down for what they’d done to Austin and now to him. He almost felt sorry for the bitch.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Zander’s grip had all but ripped from the tethers of his control by the time dawn hit and he made it home. He almost felt bad for the two drunken Darkworlders in the parking lot who’d made the mistake of challenging Meck’s ejection of them. Almost. You take a swing, you take your chances, right?

  Out of the elevator and across the marble tile of the foyer, his shitkickers beat out a hostile rhythm. He needed to fix things with Austin before he lost his mind and killed someone who didn’t deserve it. He needed to wrap his head around the baby thing. He really needed to get Kyrian back before she found out he’d been lying to her.

  Yeah, that one was going to come back to bite him in the ass. He closed the door and soaked up the reinforced steel of the frame and the engraved sigils surrounding the doorway. Phoenix was the bomb.

  The scent of a stranger hit him. His wings flared, and he outed his dagger.

  “Be at ease, Sumerian. I am Xxan of the Sixth Choir, here upon your request.” The warrior stood at the entrance to the bedroom corridor, hands clasped at his back, his strong frame relaxed yet at the ready. The luminescent gaze and silver aura pegged him as a member of the Powers. Good. He would accept nothing less for the guardian of his beloved. The male’s gaze narrowed on the blood running warm down his chin and neck. “Can I be of aid, sire?”

  Zander waved away the concern. “Thank you for coming. Did you introduce yourself to my mate?”

  The male adjusted the wide weapon’s sash hanging heavy from shoulder to hip. He wore his violet hair braided to his waist and it swung as he shifted. “We spoke in the kitchen as she toiled over victuals. A lovely human. She rests now, and asked that I wake her upon your arrival.”

  Yes, Austin had a Betty Crocker streak that reared when she was either extremely happy or extremely not. Tonight, would obviously have been the latter. “Okay, give me a minute and then send her out.”

  Zander headed to the kitchen for a bit of cleanup. The skirmish downstairs had left him with a broken nose. He’d rather not start his day explaining to Austin how letting a male punch you in the face ramped up the entertainment of a fight.

  She was annoyed enough at him as it was.

  To snap the cartilage back into place in front of the chrome exhaust hood was the work of a moment, then over to the sink to wash things off. Vest off. Water on. Hands first, and then he bent to the warm flow. In twenty minutes, his sense of smell would be back on-line and it would be like nothing ever happened. If only every mess in his life was this easy to clean up. He grabbed a dish towel from the stone countertop and patted things dry. He would fix this—his worries over the child, the lies of omission, tossing his bestie out on his ass, Kyrian’s kidnapping . . . he’d fix it all. He had to.

  His beast surged within and he gripped the edge of the countertop. Tossing around the appliances, no matter how satisfying, wasn’t going to change anything. Kyrian lived here. He belonged here. They’d just have to work through their shit and deal.

  A gentle whisper of bare feet and the rustle of silk settled behind him. His heart pounded. He didn’t turn. Austin was coming to him and he’d be damned if he rushed her and fucked this up. He closed his eyes, exploding with relief when two delicate hands slid around his waist and stroked his abs. Yes. This is what they needed. To reconnect. As the button fly of his jeans gave way, he backed against the softness of her breasts and she expanded her gentle sexploration.

  “That feels wonderful,” he groaned. Greedy fingers moved down his navel and teased the coarse hairs above his cock. He wanted to say he was sorry, to look in her eyes and tell her he handled everything wrong. He loved her. The thought of pregnancy still liquefied his bowels, but they’d discuss it.

  Figure out their next move.

  He growled as his shaft jerked in approval of the attention. He much preferred the making up part of this fight. “You could do that forever and I’d never complain.”

  “Then I’ll leave y’all to it.” Austin’s voice was hard and not behind him where it should be. “S’cuse the interruption.”

  Zander’s eyes flew wide and he spun. Shit. Austin was in the doorway. A Seraph angel stood before him, her fingers still wrapped around his cock. “Fuck. Rain, what are you doing?”

  His heart pounded in triple time as he crossed the kitchen, doing up his pants. “Austin, I swear on the lives of my men, I thought that was you. I would nev
er . . . I don’t want anyone else but you to touch me.”

  Austin’s eyes brimmed with liquid hurt and betrayal. “You didn’t seem to be sufferin’ too dang much.” She pushed past Xxan, her long hair flowing in the air like a sleek brown cape behind her. Stetson bounded at her side, as if this were some sort of game.

  Zander reached out but hesitated, afraid to grab her, afraid to cause more damage. “Cowgirl, stop a minute. Please let me explain. I honestly didn’t know it was Rain. I thought you’d come to me.”

  “I did.” She laughed over her shoulder. “Guess I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t know a line had formed.” The quiver of her voice twisted in his gut.

  Fuck. “I can fix this. Give me one minute to explain.”

  Outside the spare room he’d given her those first days she’d come as his guest, she squared off and faced him. “If you have one ounce of respect for me or my feelings, you’ll give me space. I’m fit to be tied right now and fixin’ to say something we’ll both regret.”

  Pictures rattled on the walls as the door’s slam echoed in Zander’s head. He fought the urge to smash the door into splinters and force Austin to listen to him. His beast demanded it. The lover knew better. He had to respect her needs, or they’d never build a solid relationship. Shit, everything between them had been such a whirlwind: their love, their marriage, now a child . . . they hadn’t even gotten a chance to really know each other yet.

  Fists clenched, he slid down the wall and ass-planted, prepared to camp out for the duration. Retrieving his phone, he called Danel. “Persian, tell me about the fucking meeting in Purgatory. What have you found out?”

  Cassiane stood outside the door to the Watcher’s cell, eyes closed, her head swimming. She’d been standing there too long. Any moment, someone could come down to the dungeon and wonder what was wrong. She wondered the same thing. Over the past days of the Watcher’s healing, she’d kept her distance, yet still she felt it. The draw. The wanton. The hunger.