Revenge- House of Nephilim

by May Dawson

  Boy-o. I probably didn’t need to work very hard to make people at this school afraid of me, but she certainly seemed to be trying to undo every effort. I glance at the people passing by our table to see if anyone heard, but then Marcus and Dylan walking through the dining hall draw my eye. The two of them are all bruised up, and they sit together as if they’re hunkering down instead of trying to rule the school like usual.

  Julian follows my gaze and laughs. “Does that make you feel any more fond of Linc, Eden?”

  She glances at the two of them, and her eyes widen as she takes in their injuries before a faint smile twists her lips. “Aw, you did that for me, Linc? What a sweet psychopath you are.”

  I grunt. I can’t deny it—the only reason I kicked their asses was because they messed with Eden. They hurt her, and that filled me with a white-hot rage. But I don’t want her to think it means anything. “Oh, it was my pleasure.”

  Eden twists in her seat and waves to someone, and I sigh, already knowing who it is before Julian slides over into the seat by the window, making room.

  Ever looms by the chair across from me, setting his tray down with a clang as he hangs one handed to the back of the chair. He’s already off the crutches for some damned reason, although he hobbles awkwardly.

  “You still look like you lost a fight,” I tell him.

  He meets my gaze evenly. “Speaking of losing fights. Broken any more furniture because you have hurt feelings and no coping skills?”

  I open my mouth, but before I can tell him off, Eden cuts me off.

  “Enough!” Her bright eyes blaze with exasperation as she glances between us. “You two need to make up. I don’t want to get murdered because you two are distracted having a dick-measuring contest.”

  Julian glances around. “Damn, Eden.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “Am I embarrassing you by talking about murder attempts or by talking about dicks?”

  “You’re right,” I say, and Eden’s brows rise suspiciously. “Until we figure out what’s going on, you shouldn’t be alone. When you come out of your afternoon classes, you need to wait for one of us. We’ll swap off babysitting duty.”

  “When you put it like that, it sounds so sweet,” she says dryly. “I can take care of myself.”

  There’s a flash of dark emotion in Ever’s eyes as he looks at her, and I wonder what he knows. It bothers me to think that the two of them bonded in that cell, that once again, he knows her so much better than I do.

  “Sure you can. But you don’t need to take care of yourself all alone,” Julian says agreeably. He doesn’t acknowledge any of the tension rippling around the table, though unless Julian changed, he’s keenly aware of it. “You have us.”

  “How do I know one of you didn’t try to murder me?” she asks, propping her chin on her hand innocently. “I assume Ever probably wouldn’t have followed me into that cell, although he does get to feeling so guilty sometimes that I could buy it under some circumstances.”

  Her gaze meets mine, cool and assessing. “But you, Linc? You’ve made it clear you hate Ever. Maybe it would be no problem for you to get rid of us both at one time.”

  Anger tightens my chest. She thinks I’d hurt her? “You know that none of us were involved in killing Elliot.”

  “I’m ninety-seven percent on that,” she says. “I’d like to be a hundred before I put myself into any of your hands.”

  Even though I’m pissed at her right now, that stirs a quick image of her body in my hands and I only get harder, my cock aching in my jeans.

  “Whatever,” I say. “You can be stupid if you want. If you want to sleep in my room tonight, you can. I’m the most high powered of the three of us, so it would make sense.”

  I glance around the table, but Julian and Ever can’t deny that I have the most power of any of us.

  “And we still have training in the morning,” I add, and she groans.

  “Lincoln,” she protests, and I know for sure from the way she says my name that she knows damn well she can trust me. I’d been tempted to storm off, but when she says my name, something unknots in my stomach.

  I don’t give a damn what most people think about me, but I care what she thinks, damn me.

  “Your skills still need some work,” I tell her.

  “Your manners still need some work.” She rolls her eyes, but returns to twirling spaghetti with her fork. “This food would be decent if it weren’t laced with Break.”

  The words make me think of what happened to Elliot, and about how she seems to relive that day in her dreams. Whoever she sleeps with tonight might well be privy to one of her nightmares. I’m not sure she even realizes she has them. But I don’t want her to feel embarrassed.

  Not that she would want me to see her vulnerable. She’d probably prefer Ever, who she’s always loved, or Julian, who she’s always had that easy friendship with. She and Julian have so much in common. What do I have to offer her?

  Still, I think of the way she threw her hands out, trying to shield herself, and something protective and dangerous clutches my chest.

  “My room, tonight,” I press.

  She shrugs. “All right.”

  Julian and Ever exchange a quick, knowing glance. I scowl at Julian, who pulls a mischievous face but turns his attention to his roast chicken.

  When we go upstairs, I follow her into the doorway of her room. She turns to me, raising skeptical eyes to my face. “Are you going to shadow me like a bodyguard?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “I thought the Nephilim house was very safe,” she tells me. “That other students are scared of us…”

  “No one’s going to steal your CD player,” I tell her, “but that doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

  “I don’t have a CD player,” she says.

  I cross my arms, leaning against her doorway. “Oh?”

  Frowning, she turns in confusion and notices the alarm clock and CD player on her nightstand. Her eyes widen bemusedly. “Julian or Ever?”

  “Why do you assume it wasn’t me?”

  “It wasn’t,” she says, and I can’t argue with that. I shrug. She pats me condescendingly on the arm. “You just hurt people for me, Linc. It’s very sweet too.”

  Her body’s so close to me that I can feel her warmth, like sunshine on a clear day. “I’m never buying you a gift. You’re already a brat.”

  “Never say never.” There’s a mischievous lilt to her lips. “Why don’t you just sleep in my room?”

  “Makes no difference to me,” I say. “A bed’s a bed.”

  “Oh, you think you’re getting the bed?”

  “We can share.”

  “I’m not sharing my bed,” she says, grinning.

  She has that light, teasing tone I always found so magnetic, even though I’ve never been good at flirting with any girl, even her.

  Maybe especially her.

  “Then you’re sleeping on the floor of my room,” I tell her.

  “What if I’m a restless sleeper?” she asks me.

  I can’t tell from the glib way she speaks—which is sometimes a cover for her guarded nature—if she knows just how restlessly she sleeps.

  “I’m not scared,” I promise her.

  “Of course you aren’t.” She turns her back to me, stripping off her t-shirt.

  “Christ, Eden.” I should look away. I almost manage to keep my gaze off her body, but from my peripheral vision, I catch glimpses of her narrow, muscular back, the lacy lines of her bra. I sit down on the edge of her bed and try to look casual, like there isn’t a massive hard-on straining the front of my jeans.

  “I need to change into something more comfortable for bed,” she says. She throws the bra on the foot of the bed and pulls on a tight tank top. Turning to me, she holds her arms out. “Better, right? Bras are the worst.”

  I can see the outline of her nipples against the tank top. “What are you trying to do to me?” I demand.

  “
Nothing,” she says with a shrug. She slides her jeans down over her thighs. “I’ve never been anything to you, right? You’ve never wanted me.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What’s your game right now, Eden?”

  She props her hands on the tantalizing curve of her hips. The thin tank top is worse than the bra, clinging to the curve of her small perfect breasts, her narrow waist before it flares over her hips in silky, soft pink panties. I’d love to run my fingers over that fabric and feel the heat of her pussy through it, feel her soaking through those panties as I coaxed a moan from those beautiful, mischievous lips.

  “You never talk about your feelings,” she accuses me. “And I used to be like that too.”

  I almost laugh. “Are you shitting me right now? You’re the most guarded person I’ve ever met.”

  “You need to look in a fucking mirror.” For some reason, she seems to be getting mad, and it makes me mad too.

  “Don’t fucking curse at me,” I tell her, rising from the bed.

  Her gaze falls to my erection. Whatever. I cross my arms over my chest as I meet her brazen stare.

  “It turns out I haven’t gotten much out of keeping my own secrets,” she says. “And I used to ignore the way I liked you, the way things felt tense between us.”

  I stare at her skeptically. “The way you liked me?”

  My heart is beating frantically and I don’t know why.

  “Has it always just been lust?” She asks, her voice casual. She absently runs her fingers through her hair, raking her long, golden strands back from her face. Her skin seems to glow, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips red. She’s so beautiful that it hurts. “What you feel for me? Like it is right now?”

  “Eden.” My voice comes out a growl. I can’t talk to her about whether it’s lust I feel for her alone, or something more. “You’re with Ever, again.”

  “I liked you and Ever and Julian when we were kids,” she says, even though it wasn’t that long ago. But it does feel like we were young and stupid then in a way we aren’t now. There’s been a lot of pain and loss between those days and now.

  We should be different people now.

  She goes on, “But I thought I had to choose. So I chose, like a good girl. And Ever made it easy because he chased me. He always made it clear that he wanted me.”

  I scoff at that.

  “Is that part of why you hate him?” she asks curiously.

  “I don’t hate him,” I growl.

  “Mm.” She stares at me consideringly. “Well, I realize now I was never a good girl. And I wish I’d never chosen. I wish I’d claimed all of you.” A teasing smile arches her lips. “I think I could’ve convinced you.”

  “You’re crazy,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “Is there a better way to go through life than being a little crazy?”

  I rake my hand through my hair. I have all these feelings right now, and I don’t know what to do with them. I can’t talk about her crazy idea with her anymore. Especially not when the thought of having her in my arms is about to drive me mad.

  But I also don’t want to be away from her, either.

  So I growl out, “Do you want to fly?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Eden

  “Now who’s talking crazy?” I ask as I follow Lincoln’s broad shoulders up the twisting stairs of the clock tower that rises from the roof of the Nephilim house.

  He glances at me over his shoulder. “Why do we have wings if we’re not meant to fly?”

  “We don’t have wings like…”

  His shoulders tense, so I trail off. I know how much Lincoln despises the angels.

  He reaches the top of the stairs and turns to face me as I step onto the wooden landing with him. It’s a narrow room, with windows on all four sides. Dusk is setting, washing the sky a dark pink beyond the stark shape of the trees rising in the forest beyond.

  In the small space, I can’t help coming very close to him when I step off the stairs. The heat of his body washes over me, his golden eyes meeting mine.

  “They try to convince us that we’re small and twisted and damaged, and so are our wings,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying anyway. “But we let them. We believe them.”

  I would scoff, but he looks so intent that I can’t bring myself to disrespect him. Carefully, I say, “I’ve seen my wings, Linc. I know they’re twisted and damaged.”

  We Nephilim might be able to work hard to rise a few feet above the ground, to catch ourselves when we fall, but we can never soar like the angels.

  Then, as understanding dawns, I add, “But maybe it’s different for you.”

  Maybe he can fly, even if I can’t. Maybe that’s why he brought me up here, to hold me while he flies. The thought is terrifying. I’m not sure I trust anyone that much.

  “Because I’m Bred?” He prompts. “You can say it. I know where I come from.”

  I bite my lip. I know how much he hates being Bred—how much he hates the angelic father who contributed his seed to make Linc superpowered, but never his presence—at least, Lincoln’s father has never been present lovingly. Lincoln was bred-and-born to serve the Sent.

  He’s studying my face, those golden eyes so intense that I can’t bear to meet his gaze. I look out again, at the moon that’s already rising above the trees.

  “It would be beautiful to fly,” I murmur. I press my hand against the glass so I can look up, studying the black sky that stretches above us. “They must have some kind of wards to keep us from escaping.”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice husky as he watches me, but I don’t know why. “But we can still fly, even if we can’t run far enough.”

  We again. I swallow hard, against a sudden swell of hope and curiosity. I can imagine myself soaring above campus. I can imagine the wind caressing my face, catching my wings, how light and powerful I would feel. I can imagine freedom, or at least the illusion of freedom that I can lose myself in for a while.

  “How did you find out you could fly?”

  “I had to get away,” he says. “That was the furthest I could go.”

  Like all Nephilim children, I ran and tested my flimsy wings before giving up, shamed by adult scolding. Their fears for us were deeper than being caught; there’s shame bound in a Nephilim’s imperfect wings, and our adults raise us to feel that shame twisting through our bones. I wonder if he stood out there somewhere on the quad, his wings unfurling around him, knowing he’d be seen. Or if he threw himself from this clock tower, not knowing if he would fly or if he would die, not caring anymore. The thought wrings something inside my chest. “Where were you the first time you flew?”

  He smiles faintly and doesn’t answer. He turns his powerful back to me, opening the window sash, and carefully fits his big body through the window. When he’s sure of this footing on the roof, he offers me his hand.

  There’s a sudden light, giddiness in my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s from the height or the image of soaring or from being so close to Lincoln. Maybe it’s all three things, combining into one terrifying blur of magic.

  But terrified or not, I take his hand and slide out onto the roof with him.

  He makes sure that I’ve got my footing, watching my face, and then he releases my hand and backs away. His feet are sure on the roof as he takes a few steps back.

  Then he closes his eyes, a look of peace coming over his face, just before his wings fly open with a snap. White and spreading and gorgeous, the moonlight seems to reflect rippling and silver and across the beautiful feathers. I almost gasp.

  “My wings aren’t like yours,” I murmur softly.

  “Let me see them,” he commands, his voice gentle despite the order in it. Lincoln can’t help but command. It’s his nature.

  I shake my head, that same sense of shame that was ground into me as a child flaring again, deep as my bones.

  Whatever he sees in my face, his own softens. His reaction makes me frown. Somehow, my guard must have slipped.

&n
bsp; “Another day,” he suggests, or maybe it’s a command too. Whatever it is, I’m thankful to deter the argument to another day. His wings are beautiful; I’m sure he really can fly.

  He holds his hand out again. “Eden.”

  “Show me how you fly,” I say. That would be enough for tonight, to sit here on this roof, hidden from the campus below, in the sweet night air, and watch Lincoln soar.

  “Come with me,” he says, still holding his hand out.

  “What if you can’t carry my weight?” I argue.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “I think I’m offended.”

  “Flying is a delicate proposition,” I say.

  “How would you know?” He gives me the faintest smirk that immediately makes me furious.

  “I know how birds fly,” I shoot back. “And you’re already a lot bigger than a bird.”

  “A compelling argument, Greyson,” he says. “Now take my hand, if you’re brave enough.”

  Brave enough immediately amps up my fury, but he knows that damn well.

  “Don’t manipulate me,” I warn him.

  He scoffs at that. “I’ll stop manipulating you when you stop manipulating me.”

  “Do you think we could spend five minutes together without you starting a fight with me?”

  “Sure,” he says. “If we’re flying.”

  I hesitate, and he says, “I know. You don’t have it in you to trust me like that.”

  His voice is so confident, so certain. He doesn’t even sound like he resents me for it. It’s as if he’s just accepted me and all my shortcomings.

  I close the distance between us and take his hand, giving him a look of challenge.

  “I trust you,” I say. “So loan me your wings.”

  His long fingers wrap around my hand, and he draws me toward him, wrapping his arm around my waist. My heart is racing desperately. I haven’t felt so scared, so alive, until I came to the academy as I do with these men.

  “Jump with me,” he says, his voice husky. “I’m not going to pull you off your feet. I want you to jump.”

  I close my eyes, feeling his body’s heat against mine, feeling his arm looped tightly around my waist.