Archangel's Consort gh-3

by Nalini Singh

  Jason.

  Watching over her.

  It would’ve annoyed her on a normal day, but today, she was too concerned about Raphael to bother. Instead, she made a mental note to ask the other angel to teach her some tricks about blending into the sky—she loved her wings with mad passion, but unlike Illium’s distinctive silver-edged blue, they didn’t blend into daylight skies. As with Jason, her wings were fashioned for the rich black of night, and perhaps most of all, for the hue of twilight.

  Finding a thermal, she surfed it like a young fledgling, giving her muscles a break in the process. The thought conjured up images of Sam, the child angel who’d been caught in the middle of a narcissistic adult’s attempt to grab at power. Elena couldn’t think about how she’d found him—his small body curled in on itself, his wings broken—without feeling a chaotic mix of rage and pain. The only thing that made it bearable was that he was well on the way to being healed.

  A rush of wind had her blinking furiously. When it passed, she saw Archangel Tower rising out of Manhattan, a proud, uncompromising structure that dwarfed the tallest of skyscrapers. Even on a day like this, with the sky a menacing slate gray blanket, it pierced the skyline, a gleaming column of light. She arrowed her way toward it using the last vestiges of her strength, certain Raphael would have headed to what was effectively the place from which he ruled his territory.

  The wide landing space of the Tower roof appeared moments later, seeming to float above the clouds. It was a stunning sight, but she didn’t have time to appreciate it—because she’d miscalculated the speed of her descent, and it was too late to rein it back. “No pain, no glory,” she muttered under her breath and, teeth bared in what her fellow hunter and sometimes-friend Ransom called her “kamikaze smile,” angled in for landing.

  She remembered to flare out her wings in short, sharp beats as her feet touched the ground, having learned from excruciating experience that kamikaze ways or not, she did not like crashing to her knees. Even with her increased healing abilities, it still hurt like a bitch. The end result was that she ended up racing across the roof even after landing.

  Think parachute, Ellie.

  Recalling Illium’s words of advice, she cupped her primaries inward, no longer riding the air but gathering it. Her body slowed. Slowed further ... until she was finally able to snap her wings to her back. “Well,” she said to the transparent wall half an inch from her nose, “that went well.” She’d ended up almost plastering herself against the glass cage that housed the elevator.

  Adrenaline continuing to pump through her veins, she pulled open the door and pushed the button to bring up the elevator. Of course, she could’ve attempted to land directly on the balcony outside Raphael’s office and suite, but she’d probably have broken more than a few bones in the process, given the limited landing area. And she’d had quite enough broken bones in the past year and a half, thank you very much.

  The elevator whisked her to Raphael’s private level in a split second. Getting out, she looked up and down the gleaming white corridor decorated with accents of gold—tiny, almost microscopic flecks in the paint, gold threads in the deep white pile of the carpet. It was the coldest elegance—her feathers sleeked against the tinge of ice in the air, a chill that was already neutralizing the adrenaline as it burned through to her very bones.

  Shaking off the frigid sensation, she walked into the large study that flowed through to the bedroom suite. Clouds caressed the glass that was the back wall, blocking out the rest of the world—and making her feel cocooned in nothingness. It was a disorienting sensation. “Raphael?”

  Silence.

  Absolute.

  Endless.

  No scent of the wind and the rain on the periphery of her senses. No whisper of wings. No hint of power in the air. Nothing whatsoever to tell her that Raphael was in the vicinity. Yet she knew he was.

  Taking a deep breath, she reached out with her mind. Raphael? She couldn’t control her thoughts like he could, couldn’t sense whether she’d reached him until he answered.

  This time, her only answer was more silence.

  Uneasy, she crossed the plush carpet of the study to enter the attached suite—rooms she’d glimpsed briefly when they’d first arrived. The suite occupied just under half the floor—the other half being set up with rooms for the Seven—and functioned as another home for Raphael. Stepping into the huge living area, she called out his name, but it echoed hollowly against the emptiness of a space that bore the masculine stamp of her archangel.

  There was no over-the-top decorating, nothing ornate. The furniture was an elegant black, strong and with sleek, simple lines that suited Raphael. However, it wasn’t a soulless place. In contrast to the relatively modern furniture, a tapestry depicting the rich hues of some ancient court adorned the living room, while when she pushed open the door to the sprawling bedroom, she glimpsed a painting on the wall to the left and—

  She whipped her head around.

  The painting was a full-length portrait of her, knives in hand, wings spread, and feet planted in a combat-ready stance as her hair flew off her face in a playful wind. The artist had captured her with her head tilted slightly to the side, a smile of mingled challenge and desire on her face, laughter in her eyes. Behind her lay the mountainous beauty of the Refuge, and in front of her ... That wasn’t in the portrait but she knew. It could only have been Raphael in front of her. She looked at no other that way.

  Her fingers lifted of their own accord, touched the thick strokes of oil paint, vibrant with color. She had no idea when it had been painted, was unbearably curious about it, but that curiosity, she thought, dropping her hand, would have to wait. The strange chill pervading these rooms only intensified her need to find Raphael.

  Pulling out her cell phone, she called their home over the water. “Montgomery,” she said when the butler answered, “is Raphael there?”

  “No, Guild Hunter. The Sire has not returned home as of yet.”

  “If he does, can you call—”

  Keeping tabs on me?

  Shivers running up her spine, Elena closed her cell phone and turned to the bedroom doorway ... to see an archangel with eyes of liquid metal and wings outlined by the lethal stroke of power. His hair, black as the heart of midnight, was wind-tousled, his body magnificent, but it was his eyes that held her.

  In those eyes, she saw age, cruelty, and pain.

  So much pain.

  “Raphael.” She closed the distance between them, ignoring the cold that raised every hair on her body. “I was worried about you.”

  I am an archangel.

  Unsaid were the words that he found the worry of a woman who’d been mortal not long ago—who was still not a true immortal—laughable.

  She refused to let him intimidate her. They’d made promises to each other, she and her archangel. She wasn’t about to stumble at the first hurdle—even if her pulse thudded hard and uneven in her throat, the animal part of her brain recognizing that this predator had no mercy in him.

  Reaching him, she tilted back her head, met the intensity of his gaze. The metallic shade was so inhuman it hurt, her eyes tearing up in instinctive defense. Blinking, she looked away.

  You give in so easily.

  The weight of the cold confidence she heard in him was daunting, but she’d always known he’d never be an easy man to love. “If you think I’ve given in, Archangel, you don’t know me at all.” Flicking away the tears, she stepped close enough that her breasts brushed his chest.

  Electricity arced between them, a white-hot whip.

  And the archangel came to life. Thrusting a hand into her hair, he tugged back her head to take her mouth in a kiss that was both a claiming and a warning. He was in no temper to play.

  Neither was she.

  Twisting her arms around his neck, she kissed him back with the same raw passion, stroking her tongue against his in deliberate provocation—because no matter how hot he burned, Raphael’s hunger she could han
dle. It was when he went cold, cloaking himself in the arrogance of power beyond mortal ken, that she thought she might lose him. Even as the thought passed through her mind, she sensed a change in his kiss, a subtle but unmistakable control. Not happening, Archangel, she thought and bit down hard on his lower lip, knowing it would set him off in this mood.

  His hand tightened in her hair, wrenching back her head. Do you think you are safe? He pushed his free hand up under her tank top at the same time, long, strong fingers closing over her breast in blatant possession.

  “Safe?” Gasping in a breath, she ran her own fingers along the part of his right wing she could reach. “Maybe not.” But I’ve always wanted to dance with you anyway.

  He squeezed and molded her sensitive flesh. Then dance.

  Her top was suddenly gone, torn off her body to leave her upper half bare. Spreading her unfettered wings, she tugged at his shirt. It disintegrated off him the next instant, and she found herself skin to skin with an archangel burning with a cold white flame.

  Real fear spiked for the first time.

  She’d never tangled with him when he was like this, never been so close to the deadly strength of him that she could feel the icy burn of it against her flesh. The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying. Ignoring the fear, she moved closer ... and rubbed the softness of her belly against the hard ridge of his erection.

  Raphael shifted their positions without warning, slamming her back against the wall, her wings spread out on either side of her. She sucked in a breath and then he was taking it from her in the most primal of kisses as he tore off her remaining clothes, leaving her naked and vulnerable. When he put his hands under her thighs and lifted, it was instinct to wrap her legs around his waist.

  The cold, cold burn of his power kissed her in her most sensitive place.

  6

  Shuddering, she broke the kiss. He refused to let her go, pulling her mouth back to his with the hand he had fisted in her hair. It should’ve scared her, but all it did was make her more determined to win this battle, to bring Raphael back from the abyss she could see in the wintry black of his eyes. She’d seen many colors in those eyes, but never that vast, forsaken darkness.

  Archangel, she whispered into his mind, trying to keep her sanity as he plucked at the taut peak of her nipple with fingers that knew her every weakness. Raphael.

  No response, the icy caress of his power so strong that she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She shoved her hands into his hair as her world became dark, squeezing her thighs around him at the same time. Something was very, very wrong, but she wasn’t about to be scared away, even if fear was a tickle at the back of her throat, a jangling accent to the hunger that turned her body damp and ready.

  Because lethal as he was, he was still hers, and her body knew him, knew the pleasure he could give. Today, however, that pleasure might well be spiced with a little sensual cruelty. It was tempting to surrender, to allow him to play her body with consummate skill, but instinct told her that that would be the quickest way to lose this battle. To lose him—to the demons that had turned the agonizing blue of his eyes to a harsh, unforgiving midnight.

  My lovers have always been warrior women.

  He’d said that to her at the start.

  Ripping away her lips from his with force, she turned her head to the side, gasping for air. He took a firmer grip on her hair, threatening to wrench her back. She blocked his arm with her own.

  A blaze of arctic white around them, so potent and blinding it felt as if her eyes were open, not closed. “Raphael,” she said, fighting to breathe past the press of it, so pure, so cutting, “either turn off the power, or give me my weapons.”

  A pause.

  Why would I give you your weapons? A silken whisper in her mind.

  “Because,” she said, feeling as if her lungs were being squeezed to emptiness, “you don’t get off on women who can’t fight back. You like warriors, remember?”

  Laughter in her head, tinged with a kind of ruthlessness that made her fear turn knife-edged. There is, I find, something exquisitely pleasurable in having a warrior helpless and spread before me.

  It was dread that licked through her veins now. There wasn’t any hint of the lover she knew in him at this moment, nothing she could reach or touch or reason with. “It’s hardly a challenge, though, is it?” she murmured, fighting the hunter within her, the part that told her to claw at those amazing eyes, rip at his wings, anything to get away. “I walked into your arms.”

  Lips along her neck, the fist in her hair tugging her head farther to the side. She felt teeth ... and lower, the rigid push of his erection. That, she understood. It was real and earthy and wild. Making a snap decision, she whispered, “Take me, Raphael. Take your warrior.” The words were deliberate, a reminder of the bonds between them.

  He froze against her. Giving in after all?

  Pulling up his head with the hands she’d clenched in his hair, she kissed him her way. All wet heat and wild passion . . . and a love that was becoming ever more intertwined in her heart. This power stuff is sexy, but I want you inside me, thick and hard and now.

  Raphael squeezed her thigh. Elena.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Because that voice, that tone, she knew it. Raphael. I need you. He was the only man she’d ever said that to in her adult life, the only man who’d won that trust from her. “I need you.”

  A shudder in the big body that held her pinned to the wall, the frigid bite of his power turning into a molten caress that was a thousand featherlight kisses over her skin, and then the blunt tip of his erection nudging against the entrance to her body. Sucking in a breath before he reclaimed her lips, she held on tight as he pushed into her with a slow, measured intensity, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt within her.

  Her body arched at the near-violent shock of pleasure. He took advantage of her position to play with her breasts, to bite and lick and suck until she rolled her hips in urgent movements, nails biting into his shoulders. “Stop teasing, Archangel.”

  Another pause, and suddenly he was pure male demand, his body slick and hard and very, very physical under her hands. Opening her eyes, she looked into his ... and saw endless, relentless blue right before he ground against her with the sexual experience of a being who had lived centuries upon centuries, and he sent her hurtling to the stars.

  Crying out, she gripped him with her body, claiming him, taking him with her.

  She came to lying on the bed on her front, with Raphael leaning on his side beside her, his gaze focused inward. “Hey.” She reached over to touch his thigh. “Don’t go away again.” It came out huskier than she’d intended, tangled with the fears of the child who’d been abandoned long before she’d been thrown out of the hollow elegance of the Big House.

  His thigh flexed under her touch. “Did I cause you any bodily injury?”

  She remembered what he’d said once. About breaking her. Knew that she had the power to savage him—but that wasn’t who she was. Who they were. “No. You just scared me a little.”

  Apologies, Elena. He ran his hand over the arch of her wing. I was not . . . myself.

  It was an admission she’d never expected, because though they’d been together this long, they were still learning each other. And the Archangel of New York had long ago learned to keep secrets—his own, his race’s, his Seven’s.

  And now, his consort’s.

  “I know.” Shifting up onto her elbow, she closed her hand over the muscle of his shoulder, needing the raw physicality of the connection. “Something is wrong, Raphael. That vampire might’ve appeared sane, but he didn’t act in any way rational when he attacked the school, and you should’ve seen that. But you didn’t.”

  “I remember little of my actions during that time.” A question without being a question as he nudged her down onto her back, one big hand warm on her abdomen.

  Knowing the loss of control had to be a vicious beast tearing him apart, she recapped
the events. “Do you remember executing Ignatius?”

  “Yes.” He dipped his head a fraction, and she took the invitation to stroke her fingers through his hair. “When you speak of the events, I do recall them—but there is a red haze over it all.”

  Thick and silky, the vivid black strands of his hair kissed a cool caress over her skin. “If I had to put a name to what I saw in your expression, I’d call it rage.”

  “Yes.” Moving his hand over her stomach, he settled it low on her hip. “But I have lived long enough that I can handle rage. This was ... other.”

  She went motionless, worried by his choice of words. “Outside of yourself?”

  His eyes gleamed adamantine blue beneath lowered lashes. “Impossible to confirm.”

  Elena wasn’t about to let it go at that. “Talk to me.” She knew what he was, understood that he held more power in his body than she would probably ever know, even if she lived ten thousand years. Equals, they weren’t. Not on that playing field—but when it came to the emotions that could tear a heart apart... “Raphael.”

  Nadiel, he said into her mind, exhibited such extreme rage.

  His father had also gone inexorably insane.

  “No,” she said, not even needing an instant to evaluate the thought. “You’re not going insane.”

  “So certain, Guild Hunter.” Formal words, a tone that told her he considered her statement nothing but a platitude.

  Lifting up her head, she nipped at his lower lip. “The taste of you is ingrained into my very cells. You’re the rain and the wind and at times the clean, wild bite of the sea. I’d know the instant something changed.”

  He rose off her, allowing her to sit up as he shifted to sit with his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her, his magnificent wings spread out. Each filament of each feather was tipped in gold, glittering even in the dull light whispering through the windows. A lethal temptation to mortals—and former mortals.

  Elena was reaching out to indulge her desire to touch when he said, “You lie to both of us.”