That, Revenant thought, had been some of the best sex of his life. He’d always liked to fuck the way he fought; messy, with no holds barred, and this definitely counted. Blaspheme’s desk had skidded across the room, shoved into a now-dented file cabinet, and her neck was streaked with blood. When he pulled out, his seed would spill out of her, marking her with his scent.
Normally, now would be the time when he would zip up and leave the female sated and sleepy, and he’d go find another.
But he didn’t want another. And he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want empty sex with females whose names he didn’t know or wouldn’t remember ten minutes later.
It made no sense. Well, it did if Blas had used her False Angel powers on him, but he’d watched, waiting for her to engage her charm or aphrodisiac, and nothing had happened. She’d asked him for sex, but not to seduce him or even to have a good time with the closest dick. She’d needed him, had laid herself bare, giving him access to her body and soul.
In thousands of years, no one had done that, and his heart fluttered with a foreign sensation that made him feel like he’d guzzled a dozen bottles of the best French champagne.
Shit. He had genuine feelings for her, didn’t he? And wasn’t that some damned inconvenient timing? Even if he didn’t have both Heaven and Sheoul breathing down his neck, he didn’t want the kind of complications emotional attachments brought. No, those strings got knotted real fast, as his relationship with Reaver proved.
Retracting his fangs, he licked the punctures in Blaspheme’s throat, lingering a little longer than was necessary as he lapped up every drop of her sweet blood. She shuddered as he pulled out and carefully released her so she wouldn’t fall.
She immediately gripped the desk to support her shaky legs. He knew the feeling. His own legs were liquid with spent passion. Sure, he’d fucked harder and longer in the past, but somehow, in this brief, intense encounter with Blaspheme, his mind and body had given over more than they ever had.
Stepping back, he mentally cleaned himself up, tucked his semihard cock back in his pants, and zipped. With another mental tweak, he tidied Blaspheme as well, and then bent to gather her clothes.
“We should go see Gethel now,” he said, fully engaging business mode in an effort to leave the emotional shit behind.
He tossed her scrubs, lab coat, and stethoscope onto the desk… and casually slipped her destroyed underwear into his pocket. He’d never been a sicko who kept souvenirs of his conquests, but for some reason, he hadn’t been able to let go of Blaspheme, and he thought that maybe keeping something of hers would help.
Yeah, that’s some loaded rationale. Keep something that belongs to the female you need to let go. That’ll help you forget.
Irritation at his own stupidity made his voice harsher than he intended as he barked, “Come on. Gethel’s not getting any less pregnant.”
Blaspheme’s shoulders heaved, and she made a sound that froze him in place.
“Blaspheme?” She made the sound again, and alarm shot through him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she croaked. And then, “No.”
Suddenly, sobs racked her body and she slid to the floor in a crouch, her face buried in her hands as she cried.
Raw emotion seized him, scrambling his insides and setting him on the edge of hyperventilation. He couldn’t handle seeing a female cry. Memories of his mother huddled in the back of her cell as she rocked back and forth and wept brought him to his knees in front of Blaspheme.
Very gently, he pulled her against him and used his body to buffer her violent sobs. He didn’t say anything; what was there to say? He wasn’t even entirely sure what was wrong. All he knew was that she was in pain, and he was fucking helpless to do anything about it.
After what seemed like hours, her crying let up enough for him to reach onto her desk and fumble around for the tissue box. He found a slip of paper with some sort of cryptic writing on it, and then his fingers found what he was looking for.
He pressed a tissue into her hand. “Hold on for a second, okay?”
She nodded, turning away to blow her nose as he stood and gathered her clothes. He tucked the piece of paper and her cell phone inside her purse, and then he lifted her into his arms and flashed them both to his bedroom.
He expected her to argue as he carefully tucked her into bed, but she went as limp as a cooked noodle, which was a measure of her exhaustion.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was a muffled whisper into the pillow. “I don’t usually have breakdowns like this.”
“It’s okay.” He climbed into bed and drew her against him as her sobs became sniffles, and finally, she didn’t make any noise except soft snores.
Closing his eyes, he relaxed. Truly relaxed for the first time in… he couldn’t remember. But what he did know was that this felt right, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself that it didn’t. And when the wing anchors on his back began to itch, he once again had the most bizarre desire —
That’s when it happened. His wings sprouted from the slits near his shoulder blades. The left one, blocked by the mattress, lay useless against his back. But the right one spread out in ebony, gold, and silver glory, and he didn’t fight instinct as it lowered over Blaspheme’s body, covering her in a protective cocoon of feathers.
He’d given her the Angel’s Embrace, an act of affection, promise… or love.
Gods, he was a fool.
Blaspheme woke to the mouthwatering aroma of grilled meat. She opened her swollen eyes, wincing at the dry, gritty aftermath of a crying jag. It had always seemed strange that an excess of tears could produce such a parched sensation.