Her Guardian Angel_A Demonica Underworld/Masters and Mercenaries Novella

by Larissa Ione

“No, sorry. I never thought about taking a picture of him.” She looked down at her drink. “And honestly, I don’t think that’s his real name. It’s just what he told me.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  She hesitated, and he wondered if this was painful to talk about. “Hold on.” She took off her sunglasses, reached into the bag next to her chair, and pulled out her phone. Her painted nails clicked on the screen as she tapped a few things, and then she read silently for a moment before finally nodding to herself. “I do this YouTube cooking show, Angel in the Kitchen. It’s kind of niche, so it attracts some crackpots. He started leaving comments a few months ago, and he seemed nice enough at the time. But then he started showing up at some of my live, on-location tapings.”

  “Where do you do those?”

  She pulled one shapely leg up and propped her arm on her knee. “I did one episode about camp grilling, so I went to a campsite near Abilene. And I did a beach cookout one at, you know, a beach. I tell my viewers ahead of time where I’ll be in case they want to come hang out.”

  “That seems safe.” It probably wasn’t wise to pop off with sarcasm within minutes of meeting his employer, but he’d never been good at self-censorship.

  “I can take care of myself,” she said in an irked huff. “And besides, I usually have Cipher with me.”

  “Cipher?” The people around her had the oddest names.

  Her chocolate eyes flared, but only for a second. “It’s a nickname. He’s my agent-slash-tech guy. Anyway, Adam showed up to both, and he was very pushy.”

  “And what made you decide you needed a bodyguard?”

  “He started sending me progressively weirder emails. It was like he thought we were dating. He knew things he shouldn’t know. Where I’d been that day. Who I’d seen. He started threatening the people around me, and then a couple of weeks ago he threatened me if I didn’t start acting like a proper girlfriend. I can show you the emails. I mean, I have proof.”

  What an odd way to phrase that. Did she think he wouldn’t believe her? Tag had mentioned she hadn’t been to the police for that reason.

  “Thanks, I’d like to see them. I might be able to trace a location with the metadata.”

  She waved her hand. “Cipher already tried. If he can’t do it, no one can.”

  Declan didn’t know Cipher—what a fucking moronic name—but he did know guys at McKay-Taggart who were good enough to work for freaking S.H.I.E.L.D...if the fictional espionage, counter-terrorism, special law enforcement agency existed outside of the Marvel universe, anyway.

  “You never know,” he said simply. “Does he know where you live?”

  She pulled her other leg up and wrapped her arms around both knees. “Last week he was standing down the street when I came home from shopping.” She glanced down at her painted toes. “I bought the cutest gold Jimmy Choos.”

  Of course she had. And her legs probably looked amazing in those shoes. “Did he try to make contact?”

  “He just stood there. I pretended I didn’t see him. I came right inside and locked the gate. Then I decided to hire you.”

  “Where do you usually do your cooking show?”

  “In my kitchen. My old kitchen,” she added quickly. “I just moved into this house and haven’t done an episode from here yet.”

  “Okay. Is that all you do?”

  “What do you mean, is that all I do?” She studied the multitude of bejeweled rings on her fingers. “I’m very rich. I do lots of stuff. Like get pedicures. And shop. Isn’t that what rich people do?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Actually, he did know. And she was right. When vastly wealthy people weren’t putting their money into politicians who would keep them rich, they were taking vacations, buying shit, killing shit, or chairing boards that either made them look good or gave them a voice in policies that benefitted them.

  God, he hated rich people.

  What was strange was that Suzanne, despite sitting in all the trappings of wealth, didn’t seem rich. Like it wasn’t what she was. More like it was something she had to live with.

  The patio door opened, and Sexy stepped out. Her name was bizarre too, but he had to admit that it fit her. He wondered if she was single. His buddy Steve would love her. He’d always had a thing for platinum blondes and glasses.

  “Suz,” she called out, “you got a message from Cipher. He wants you to flash—call! I mean, call in as soon as you can.” She offered a brief smile and made a hasty retreat back inside.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I have some exploring to do. Hawkyn showed me around, but he didn’t seem to know much about the place.”

  She rolled to her side to fetch the cover-up she’d tossed over the table beside her, and he nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of her perfect ass, round and hard as a peach, just an arm’s length away. His groin tightened and his mouth watered, and damn, he could spoon against that fine backside all fucking night.

  “Is there something specific you want to know?” she asked as she rolled back toward him.

  “Actually, yes.” He shifted to make room in his jeans for the semi-erection trying to become a fully engorged, embarrassing hard-on. “There’s a doorway beneath the grand staircase. Where does it go? It was locked when I tried it.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure. Show me what you’re talking about.” She rose to her feet in a graceful surge that he couldn’t help but appreciate. A lot. Feeling like a gawker, he averted his gaze as she threw on her shimmering cover-up that did very little to actually cover her. Which he knew because he only had enough discipline to avert his gaze for a few seconds.

  Those legs. That ass.

  Declan had spent time with some of the most beautiful and pampered women in the world thanks to both his upbringing and his job with McKay-Taggart, but there was something about Suzanne that blew them all out of the water. Yes, she was gorgeous. Yes, she was physically fit to the point of perfection. But there was something else. A quality he couldn’t quite define. Like maybe she should be surrounded in a golden glow. Whatever it was, it drew him with an almost physical pull, and it had since the day he’d first seen her at the coffee shop.

  He followed her inside, proud of the way he only fantasized about gripping her ass during sex once during the walk, and then he led her to the door he’d mentioned.

  “Huh.” She frowned at the door. “I’ve never even seen this before.”

  He snorted, but quickly realized she was serious. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Not long. A couple of months.”

  She’d lived here for months and hadn’t noticed the freaking door under the stairway? He tugged on said door, but it wouldn’t budge any more than when he’d tried it earlier.

  “Here, let me try.” Her slender fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and the thing swung open with no effort at all.

  “I must have loosened it,” he muttered, and she looked at him like he was a dumbass. That was fair.

  She flicked on the light and gasped.

  Declan wasn’t a man who was easily surprised, but damn if his jaw didn’t hit the floor. The rubber floor.

  “What...is this?” She stepped inside, her eyes wide with curiosity as she took in the dungeon decor.

  Stepping in with her, he catalogued the room from top to bottom. “It looks like a play room.”

  “Play? What kind of play?” She sounded horrified. “There are restraints. And there’s torture equipment.”

  “Well, yeah. There are clubs dedicated to this kind of thing.” He knew because he’d spent time at a BDSM club called Sanctum, where his coworkers liked to let off steam. He didn’t belong to the club, didn’t belong in that lifestyle, had merely been there as part of the security team, but he definitely understood the draw.

  “Do people really play with saws and hammers?”

  Frowning, he followed her gaze to a tray she’d pulled out of a drawer on the far wall, and a chill went up his spine. She was right. The res
traints were commonly found in BDSM play, but some of the equipment went beyond “play.”

  Whoever set up this room was into blood or fear or serial killing.

  Not cool.

  He ran his finger over a set of cuffs with sharp metal spines on the inside. Jesus. This was disturbing. “Who did you buy this place from?”

  “I didn’t. It’s part of the family holdings. I think they rented it out.”

  “To who?” he wondered out loud. “Fans of Hostel?”

  “Hostel?”

  “It’s a horror movie where rich people get their rocks off by torturing and killing people.”

  She spun around and offered him a shaky smile. “Well, I don’t get off on that, so what do you say we lock this sucker up and forget it exists?”

  Declan seriously doubted he’d forget that there was a room in the house that could have been designed by Jack the Ripper, but hell, he’d give it a shot.

  “Sounds like a plan.” He ushered her out and closed the door behind him, noting that she looked a little unsettled, which likely meant she truly hadn’t known about the room.

  She didn’t meet his gaze as she pulled the skimpy cover-up tightly around her. “I’m going to shower. Dinner is at six.”

  She didn’t even wait for a response before she was taking the stairs two at a time.

  He had the strangest urge to follow her and stand outside her bedroom door so he could protect her from anything that tried to get to her. Yes, that was his job, but he could do it perfectly well from anywhere on the grounds. So why did he want to be that close?

  Man, he should have taken the fucking admin job.

  His pocket vibrated, and he checked his phone, smiling when he saw Ian’s number flash on the screen. The boss was checking in, and for once, Declan was grateful because that meant he didn’t have to analyze his desire to stand outside Suzanne’s bedroom like a dog waiting for scraps from its master.

  And yet, as he gazed up the staircase after Suzanne, two words came to mind.

  Woof. Woof.

  * * * *

  The savory scent of bacon, sautéed shallots, and garlic filled the kitchen, putting Suzanne in her happy place. At least, she was in her happy place until the phone rang and Cipher’s number popped up on the Caller ID.

  She didn’t even bother with hello. “Okay, Cipher, what kind of house did you arrange for me?”

  His deep voice rolled like thunder over the airwaves. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” Propping the phone between her shoulder and ear so she had the use of both hands, she dumped a big can of tomatoes into the shallot and garlic mixture she’d sautéed in bacon drippings. “There’s a room here. It’s a damned torture chamber.”

  “Oh, that.” He took a drink of something. Probably wine. He loved his dry merlot. “Yeah.”

  “Dammit, I splattered tomato juice on my pants.” The flowing cream muslin pants were her favorites, and they looked fabulous with the loose teal and cream lace top she’d managed to not spill anything on. Yet. “And what do you mean, yeah?”

  She could practically hear him shrug. “All of the houses in the angelic network have some sort of room where demons can be held. Or interrogated. If you were a full angel you would have been able to see the protective and restraining symbols painted on the floor, ceiling, and walls.”

  “Well, thanks for the warning,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “My human ‘bodyguard’ saw it and probably thinks I’m a sadist.”

  “You let him inside the room?”

  “I didn’t know what it was.” She dumped several slices of crispy bacon on a cutting board and started chopping. “You know, because you didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Ah, right.” Cipher didn’t sound chagrined at all. Amused, yes. There was lots of that. “How did you explain it?”

  Her face heated because she hadn’t known how to explain it. She’d never seen anything like it.

  “He thinks it’s some sort of sex room, but I told him it was here when I moved into the house.” Cipher laughed. Harder than he should have, the bastard. “Yeah, yeah, it’s hilarious. Bite me.”

  He laughed harder, so she did the mature thing and hung up on him. But she had to admit it was pretty funny. Or it would be if she wasn’t the one with the sex room/torture chamber in her house. Hell, she’d laugh until she choked if Cipher were in her situation. But then, he deserved it.

  Footsteps, as lightly laid as a cat’s, echoed through the hallway, easily picked up by Suzanne’s heightened senses. Declan, definitely. Her brothers and sisters could move silently, although she had to admit that Declan was super quiet for a human. Especially for such a big human.

  When he stepped inside the kitchen, his presence sucked all the air from her lungs. Damn, he was fine. Freshly showered, he was dressed in BDU-style khakis, an untucked, white linen button-down shirt, and leather flip-flops.

  He must have caught her looking at his feet, because he wiggled his toes and said gruffly, “Don’t worry. In the event of an emergency, I’ll kick them off. I’m more than capable in bare feet.”

  As a fan of bare feet, she loved that. She poked her shoeless foot around the side of the island and wiggled her blueberry-lacquered toes.

  “I get it. I have much better balance and body awareness without shoes. Depending on the situation, that can be a huge advantage.”

  He cocked a blond eyebrow. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Gymnastics,” she said as she checked the pot of water she’d started for the pasta. Almost boiling. “Dancing. Fighting. Sex.”

  She wasn’t sure why she said that last thing, given that she’d never had sex. But she wanted to. Soon.

  Another eyebrow joined the first. “You need an advantage for sex?”

  “You know what I mean.” Somehow, she resisted the temptation to eat half the chopped bacon as she scraped it in with the tomatoes. “We’re not conscious of it, but sensory input can help—and hinder—us in more ways than we can list.”

  There was a pause. And then a murmured, “You surprise me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re not what I expected.” Before she could ask what he expected, he gestured to the boiling pot. Time for the pasta. “What are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m cooking dinner.”

  “Don’t you have servants for that?”

  She shrugged. “Yes, but I like to cook. You?”

  “I grill a life-altering steak. I mean, the grill is totally my bitch. But in the kitchen? Nah.” He propped his hip against the counter and looked at her like she was crazy. “You really like cooking?”

  “For the longest time I wanted to make it my career. Plus, it reminds me of my childhood.”

  Most Memitim had awful childhoods by design. The idea behind leaving a baby with shitty parents or in shitty situations was to make Memitim tough. But she’d somehow escaped that fate and had grown up in a loving, happy human family. A family she missed, a family she’d broken rules to see while they were still alive. They’d believed she was dead, gone missing while at college. Suzanne suffered almost crippling guilt when she thought about how her parents had died believing she’d been abducted and, most likely, murdered. But five years ago, when her sister, Elizabeth, was in her final days in a nursing home, she’d seen through Suzanne’s invisibility shrowd.

  “Suzanne,” she’d whispered, looking at the corner from where Suzanne had been watching over her, “is it really you?”

  Suzanne had stepped out of the shrowd and into the room, clear as day, and held her sister’s hand while they talked about the past and the future her sister was about to have in Heaven. Suzanne had confessed everything to her dying sister, and to this day, it was the most soul-cleansing thing she’d ever done.

  “Wait, you wanted to make it your career? As in, this was in the past?”

  She sighed. All these years later and she still missed that life. She had power and eternal youth and
as much money as she wanted, but she also had massive responsibility, dangerous assignments, and very little freedom.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  He snorted. “Because you’re so ancient.”

  Funny. She was actually a baby angel in comparison to most of her siblings. “It’s because I wasn’t meant for it.”

  No, cooking was merely a hobby, but one she loved.

  He looked amused, his steel gray eyes glinting with humor. “And what were you meant for?”

  “Service to others.”

  Now he just looked confused. “What kind of service?”

  Oh, the kind that saves lives and preserves history. But really, why had she said she was meant for service? What kind of services did rich people do for others? Donate money? Sure, that sounded good.

  “I do a lot of charity work.” She didn’t want to see his reaction to her lame answer, so she concentrated on digging a serving dish from the cupboard. “I even donated to this year’s McKay-Taggart fundraiser for after-school enrichment programs. Your employers seem pretty cool.”

  “They are,” he agreed. “They also said you asked for me specifically. Why?”

  Still avoiding his gaze, she stirred the pasta sauce. “Because I knew you.”

  “You didn’t know me. You bumped into me now and then in the coffee shop and at Top.”

  “We did more than bump,” she pointed out, a little hurt even though she had no right to be. Had she expected him to obsess about her since the first day he’d seen her, the way she’d obsessed about him? “We talked.”

  He snorted. “About coffee. It wasn’t like we were engaged in deep conversation.”

  She looked at him from over her shoulder. “You flirted with me.”

  “Well, you are an attractive woman.”

  Hurt forgotten, she felt heat creep into her cheeks at the compliment. She wasn’t used to them. She’d spent most of her life in the company of other Memitim, and the Unfallen and True Fallen in Sheoul-gra didn’t dare make moves on her for fear that her father would turn them inside out. Literally.

  “I...I don’t know what to say.”

  “You can say why you hired me.”