“Get rid of the pants.”
His pants received the same treatment as his shirt and her panties. She didn’t have to ask about the boots because he kicked them off and pitched everything out of the stall. Water pounded his flesh and gathered into rivulets to course over his pecs, and between the deep ridges of his abdominal muscles.
And his erection. That proud jutting member demanded her attention.
Amaya picked up her soap, a floral bar of designer soap she loved. She started with his chest, lathering both pecs, lingering over his nipples. With each caress, his chest rose and fell, even though he didn’t need to breathe. She didn’t meet his eyes, to do so would give him control, and she wasn’t ready to concede yet.
Instead, she glided the soap over his abs and followed with her fingertips, scraping the ridges with a feathery touch. His muscles bunched with each trace. He cupped her cheeks. She didn’t fight him when he brought her lips to his. Their tongues dueled as she reached low and with one hand, she cupped him, with the other, she stroked his shaft. A sharp moan dipped into a hiss issued from his clenched teeth.
It wasn’t enough. Amaya wanted him mindless, lost to the lust, yet aware of the woman who’d brought him to that point. She yanked her mouth from his, but kept a grip on his cock as she pushed him into the wall between the jetting water.
“What are y—” His words died on a strangled shout when she dropped to her knees.
His cock was beautiful. Long and thick, and fucking perfect. Her core throbbed. First, she soaped him, gently sliding the suds along his shaft. After she let the water wash him, she circled her tongue around his tumescent head.
The taste of him on her tongue went to her brain. Blow jobs had never been her favorite activity. With Bane, she turned his cock into a lollypop, licking up one side and down the other. Languid strokes of her tongue had his hips rocking, especially when she mixed her licks with deep sucks. He grunted, moaned, his fists pounded the wall, then he threaded his fingers through her hair to guide her to take him slower. Instead, she took him to the back of her throat.
Their gazes locked as she flicked her tongue over the sensitive ridge at the base of his shaft. Slack-jawed, his voice was a hoarse growl. “Amaya.”
She eased back and let him glide against her tongue. Just before he slipped free, she caught the head between her teeth.
“You’re gonna make me come,” he threatened with a hiss.
She chuckled and gripped him firmly. “Do you need a target?” She laid the tip on her tongue and nailed him with a sultry stare.
His expression agonized, his hips jerked forward and he spurted into her mouth. She drank him down and loved every drop.
He hauled her up and her back met the wall, but then he traded places. Her wings shielded them from the spray, creating a special cocoon. He palmed her ass again and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her wet core kissed his still hard shaft trapped between their bodies. Bane shifted and buried himself deep within her on a single, powerful thrust.
Bliss seared every nerve. Three hard pumps, and fireworks exploded in her groin. She broke into pleasure drenched pieces as her orgasm knocked her brain into the back of her skull. A primal scream ripped from her and she sank her teeth into his pec just short of breaking the skin.
“Yes,” he murmured and bit down on the tendon along the side of her throat as he plunged inside of her. Bane stiffened. His hips stilled and shudders traveled through him. His fingers dug into her ass, marking her. His cock jerked deep in her walls. He released her neck to groan, long and loud. “Amaya.”
They held each other, connected not only by body parts, but by something deeper. She felt it, the threads weaving together, binding her to him. His lips pressed to her temple. She tipped her head back because she wanted his kiss, needed another few seconds of their connection. Regret speared her when he slipped free of her body and she regained her footing.
He kissed her slowly, sweetly. “Now, you can take your shower. And hurry.” He swatted her ass and darted out of the stall.
Too satisfied to snap that she would’ve been done if he hadn’t distracted her, she grabbed the soap off the tile and got to it.
She exited the bathroom to find a Post-it stuck to her cedar chest at the end of her bed.
Come armed for war.
“I can do that.” She crumpled the yellow square and dressed in jeans and a deep blue cut out tank shirt to accommodate her wings. The cedar chest kept her stash of throwing stars, knives, and holy water bombs; with multiple designs, the latter wasn’t practical to lug around.
Her favorite leather jacket underwent surgery. It was the first expensive thing she’d ever bought, yet she didn’t hesitate to cut the back off. Trapped wings weren’t comfortable. Next, she strapped her holsters to her arms and attached her favorite knives, two on each. Her throwing stars went into the specially lined pockets in her jacket, which also had two granola bars. Her stomach howled. She couldn’t unwrap both fast enough. As she stuffed her face, she scrutinized her handy work.
A Project Runway contestant she’d never be, however, her butchery had a purpose. A purpose that wouldn’t be necessary if she could just figure out how to make her wings vanish. How did those winged asshats make their wings appear and disappear, at will, without destroying their clothing?
And where was the sword Michael gave her? The damn thing had its own time schedule. Uggh!
What was the point of having all this power if she couldn’t control anything? Now wasn’t the time for self-analysis. She shoved all of her issues to the back burner and gave herself a pat on the back. The entire process from shower to ready to exit the bedroom took fifteen minutes. Not too bad.
Three hard booms rattled the bedroom door, startling her. “Are you decent?” Riél shouted through the door.
“Damn it, Riél!” She yanked open the door. The former Archangel of Purity held up a hand, halting her building tirade.
“Normally, I wouldn’t rush a woman at her toiletries, I know how arduous the process can be, but this shit you have got to see!”
Please let everyone be alive.
Amaya rushed downstairs to the empty ground floor. Riél swept past her and led the way to the basement. She pulled up short at the sight of Malphas behind a full-sized bar curving along the left wall, pouring drinks for Rimmon and Ioath—when did they add that?—and Gideon seated between Zed and Daghony on the sectional, playing Assassin’s Creed on the one hundred and ten-inch flat screen.
Riél glanced at Bane on the far side of the room and something unspoken passed between them. Then, they gave their attention to the rest of the UnHallowed. One by one, including Gideon, the UnHallowed made eye contact with Bane and the same unspoken something was said. A plan she wasn’t a part of.
Zed had a controller in his hand and Assassin’s Creed played on the flat screen. He paused and tipped his glass to Amaya, but his gaze was on Bane. Again, that something passed between them and it fucking pissed her off.
Until she saw Malphas, sipping an amber liquor from a tumbler. Their eyes connected over the rim, the hint of a smile on his face. Elbows on the bar, he seemed completely at ease, except for his cold, dead eyes. He wasn’t fooled, not one tiny bit.
Malphas arched an eyebrow, in invitation? For what, she hesitated to guess. Amaya looked away. “What happened?” she said to no one in particular.
“Differences will be shelved until the Cruor is found,” Bane said.
“So, who gets to tell Kush about the new arrangement?” Riél rubbed his hands together in glee, more than anxious for the coming mayhem.
“Fuck Kush.” Ioath’s head kicked back as he laughed. “Who tells Sam?”
Chapter Ten
Archangel Michael landed with a gentle thud on the windswept plains of the Salt Flats, his surprise masked at Sammiél’s early arrival, an occurrence that had never previously happened. Death appeared calm. His flaming skeletal head was concealed beneath his human façade. Wavy dark hair, indig
o eyes clear of any crimson, even his wings were hidden, giving the UnHallowed Archangel of Death an average—unthreatening—Joe appeal.
A bit of relief coursed through Michael. These sessions were difficult enough without Sammiél in a rage. But why was he so calm? Given the present circumstances of all the UnHallowed, one would think Sammiél would be perturbed. A modicum of visible distress would be natural, even for one mired in death and destruction.
Ah! He must want something, and presenting this calm and collected version of himself was his bargaining attempt.
For a fraction of a second, Michael wallowed in satisfaction. If this was the moment Sammiél’s indomitable hubris caved, Michael would savor the groveling as much as a human savored air after nearly drowning. “Have you blocked your connection to the UnHallowed and the shadows?”
Sammiél nodded once.
The tri-cord whip formed in Michael’s hand. With a flick of his wrist, the empyreal coils unfurled. Sammiél glanced at the whip. His nostrils flared and crimson bled through the indigo of his pupils. “Amaya,” he said. “What is He up to?”
The question caused a deep frown to crease Michael’s forehead. “Why do you believe I’m privy to that information? Razuel was the Keeper of Secrets. Since his fall, Father keeps his secrets to himself.”
A tendril of smoke curled from Sammiél. “Did you not think to stop Braile?”
Michael quelled the instinctive flinch at hearing Braile’s name leave Sammiél’s mouth. “The die was cast twenty-two years ago. Be grateful his essence is still amongst us.”
Sammiél snorted. “In that useless female?”
Michael took exception to that description of his protégé. Unfortunately, defending her would only strengthen Sammiél’s low opinion of Amaya. “Braile chose her.”
“Sentimental fool,” Sam muttered with a dismissive shake of his head.
Michael expected no other reaction from Death. He wasn’t created to see the value in human life. His purpose, and that of his Reaper minions, was to lead humans to their proper place after death. Before the Fall, Sammiél was the only archangel with unfettered access to Hell. Then, for a time, he and the rest of the UnHallowed became residents. Why Father granted the betrayers mercy, Michael couldn’t understand.
Ours is not to reason why but to obey and die in grace and with faith.
The unwritten, unspoken motto of the Celestial Order. It chafed, especially now when he’d been banned from further assisting the UnHallowed or Amaya.
“His sacrifice was pointless. You, and Him, think to ram this child down our throats and expect us not to choke. Maybe that’s your plan all along, to see who doesn’t gag and accept this bullshit. Did you consider that some of us will chew her up and swallow the pieces? What will you do then? Rescind the offer that was already rejected?”
“Not my decision to make.” A stiff breeze moved between them, stirring the whip, as if it were a sentient being, preparing to strike. How ironic when the weapon used to belong to Sammiél. “Prepare yourself.”
At Michael’s command, two salt pillars shot from the ground. Salt vines snaked from the top and base, the latter twined around Sammiél’s ankles.
“Is the sweater of sentimental value?” Michael asked as vines drew closer to Sammiél’s shoulders.
A single shake of Sammiél’s head and the vines shredded the fabric, ripping it from his body. After stripping him from the waist up, they twined around his wrists, burning the flesh it touched, and drew his arms up, anchoring each to a pillar. Salt burned demons as well as UnHallowed equally.
A quiver ran down the length of the coils and Michael detected a responding quiver in Sammiél’s exposed flesh. This was a most disturbing instance in the symbiotic bond between weapon and owner since the empyreal whip no longer belonged to Sammiél.
It belonged to no one since it refused to accept another master. Michael used it for this purpose because he was the only archangel strong enough to command its most basic use.
The whip was so much more in Sammiél’s grip. It could chain a demon and yank the soul out of a human. Yet, it was only a whip in Michael’s hands. As was Metatron’s sword strapped to his side. Just a sword, yet so much more in its master’s possession.
“Recite the oath,” he commanded of Sammiél.
Red flared in the UnHallowed’s eyes, dominating his indigo irises. How he hated this part, Michael knew, yet the recital was necessary. It gave purpose to his actions and Sammiél’s sacrifice and sealed the bargain between Heaven and the UnHallowed.
“With my body, I submit to the will of my Father. With my submission, I give my disgrace in the place of my brethren’s life, so they may live, UnHallowed, until their grace is restored and Light replaces their blighted existence,” Sammiél sighed.
The whip cracked, anxious to touch the flesh of its master. Not yet. All was not done. “Finish it,” Michael commanded. He, too, was anxious, but for another reason.
“My obedience guarantees their safety. Should I ever falter in that obedience, the UnHallowed are forfeit, their existence extinguished in the same hour as my failure.”
The whip sailed through the air, the sound worse than a banshee’s cry. Both Sammiél and Michael braced for impact because while the whip slashed the skin of the recipient, causing excruciating pain that burned for weeks, the same amount of pain raced up the coils to the one who inflicted the pain.
A symbiotic bond tying the weapon, Sammiél, and Michael together in an unbreakable circle of agony. To keep the UnHallowed safe from their Father’s wrath, this was the bargain enacted in the nanoseconds after the Fall when the foolish followed Metatron. Sammiél wasn’t amongst that initial number. He saw the stupidity and recognized the sacrifice necessary to save the archangels he loved. It was he who begged Father to still his hand, to forgive the UnHallowed. To punish and not smite. And eventually, give them a reprieve.
In exchange, on the sixth of every month, Sammiél met Michael on the Salt Flats of northern Utah, to bleed and continue the pact that had saved them.
And the UnHallowed never knew of his sacrifice. And they never would.
The whip bit into Sammiél’s flesh and Michael felt the slice in his own. Without cease, he continued to flick the whip across Sammiél’s back and chest. The amount: Ten blows for each UnHallowed. Not only the ones he’d formed bonds with stronger than the disgrace polluting their bodies but all of the UnHallowed. The ones remaining in the shadows included.
Michael didn’t stop until chunks of flesh littered the salt flats and Sammiél’s back lay exposed down to his ribs. He hung limp between the pillars, his spilled disgrace turning the pristine Salt Flats black for a square mile.
Precious moments passed as Michael waited for Sammiél to get his bearings. The vines released their hold of his arms. Sammiél slumped against one of the pillars until he got his feet under him. When he pushed away from the column, he stood tall, erect as the structure that had supported him, even though he had to be weaker than a newborn.
“I need a…favor.” The last word had lodged in Michael’s throat. He almost had to reach down and forcibly remove it.
Sammiél’s head kicked back and a brittle, mirthless sound erupted from his mouth. “You flay me and now you need a favor?” He took an unsteady step forward and spread his arms wide. “As always, on this salted field, I am at your mercy.”
His smooth words were in deep contrast to the flames fanning his head and his sunset colored wings arching over his shoulders. The pain or the request, Michael wasn’t sure which one pushed Sammiél to the edge.
Regardless… “There is someone I need to find, in Hell.”
Sammiél’s brows stitched together and the distinct scent of brimstone filled the air. The skin on his face hadn’t peeled back to reveal the black skull behind it, so he wasn’t completely enraged, Michael noted.
“Who?”
“Not for you to know.”
One of Sammiél’s eyebrows lifted. He folded his arms
and leaned against the pillar, which burned him.
“I need a Reaper to retrieve this person.” Michael continued.
Sammiél held up a single finger. “First, humans go into Hell and never come out. Second”—he held up an additional finger—“Reapers do not enter into Hell…unnecessarily.”
Michael pinned his hope on Sammiél’s last word. “What would be a reason that would change?”
Sammiél raised a third finger. “I don’t control the Reapers…anymore.”
“Do not lie.” Michael scowled.
Sammiél shrugged, admitting nothing. “I haven’t controlled the Reapers since the Fall. They don’t seek my counsel or my company, for which I am grateful. I assumed someone had taken over their care.”
“There wasn’t a need. All continued to perform their duties without complaint. You trained them well.”
Sammiél jerked as if struck by an unexpected blow. “A compliment? Sounds strange on your lips.”
“I give praise when praise is deserved.”
“Not when you’re trying to manipulate?” Sammiél’s lips quirked. “What is so important about this human, Michael?”
He had no choice. He had to answer. “I never said it was a human.”
Sammiél’s brows lowered. “An angel then, because you wouldn’t trouble yourself over a demon. Again, I ask, who?”
“A warrior class angel. One you do not know.”
“He gained rank after the Fall.” Sammiél scrubbed a hand across his jaw, answering his own question.
Michael nodded, choosing not to correct Sammiél’s use of the wrong pronoun. Their gazes met. Michael was sure Sammiél was assessing how to make him pay for needing his help. The archangel suffered in silence and waited.
“Can you not control the Reapers?” Sammiél snickered, clearly happy Michael wasn’t as powerful as humanity and angels thought him to be.
“You know I cannot,” Michael snapped, in an uncharacteristic loss of control. Sammiél and Metatron were the only ones who did that to him. “I am, and always will be, the Light.”
Only You (UnHallowed Series Book 3) Page 7