Unchained Desire

by R. C. Alvarez

  “We all come from the same place. One big fucked up family with the same mommy issues. We need to leave.”

  She gripped her elbows, hugging herself. “Where are your wings?”

  “Did I ask you how much you weigh?”

  What does that have to do with his wings? “No, but you did ask about my age.” She met his steely glare and held it.

  Going for another beer, he dipped his head. “Rule one. Don’t ask me about my wings, ever. Or anything else. Rule two. Don’t touch me.”

  “What? I haven’t—”

  “No touching.” Another can of beer was gone. He went to the window, ignoring her. She had too many questions. About him, about how to find her father. And his vague answers offered no real help.

  “I should go.” No response. Her skin prickled with the urgency to keep moving, to keep searching. “I’m going, Ramiel. My dad needs me. Are you coming with me or not?”

  Still no answer. She marched over to grab his arm and force him to look straight at her but must have moved too fast. The world spiraled.

  Strong arms eased her to the edge of the bed. She took a deep breath. God, he smelled good. She leaned closer.

  “I know you want to get to the ranch and find your father, but Bishop’s right. You’re too weak to try flashing right now. And without any training, you’d probably drop us somewhere dangerous. If you managed to flash at all…” His voice ran low and rough against her ear, brushing skin. So much for his no touching rule.

  “What about…driving?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She caught a hint of tender concern in his scolding. Or maybe she really was that burned out.

  “I can sleep on the way there.” Dad was her priority. Not the crazy sexy way Ramiel’s mouth was so close to her.

  “You need proper sleep. In a proper bed.”

  Her eyelids drooped at the alluring mention of sleep. “You call this a proper bed? It’s basically cardboard.”

  “It’s proper enough…” Lips, soft and slow, skimmed her neck. Proper enough for what? All sorts of raunchy ideas came to mind. Mostly involving the use of his yummy abs. Crazy sparks ran along her spine and right between her legs. Then cool air replaced the warmth on her throat.

  She shook her head and opened her eyes. When had they closed? He stood across the room scowling at her. She must have imagined it.

  She sat up and lightly smacked her cheeks to wake herself up. “This sucks. I don’t have time to be weak or hungry. I need to find my dad. And for you to stop smelling so good.” Oh God, did she say that out loud? Her whole face burned up, and pressure stung her eyes. Blinking, she bit down on the inside of her cheek.

  He stepped away from her like she was the starting point of a plague.

  Her brows pulled together. “What?”

  Ramiel shook his head. “Nothing. You need to eat. And sleep.”

  She was nothing more than an inconvenient damsel interrupting this lone-wolf warrior. Where was a sturdy wall or heavy door when she needed to slam something? If she gave in, they would end up paying a huge fee to replace a door that already belonged in a trash heap. His face was still set in stone, unreadable.

  What would it take to see a gargoyle smile? She sighed. “Fine. I am exhausted. And starving…” She pointed. “But we go first thing in the morning.”

  “Crack of dawn. For now, I’ll go get you some food. Don’t leave this room and—”

  “Don’t open the door to anyone but you. I know the drill. Do you have a code word, too?”

  He stared as if she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had.

  “While you get food, I’m going to take a shower and get the last forty-eight hours of grime off my skin. When you get back, you can tell me about all the other dangerous things out there. Plagues. Locusts. Any other monsters stalking us. I’d rather avoid another surprise.”

  “Make sure the door is locked.” Ramiel was out the door, ignoring her completely.

  Limbs throbbed with fatigue and her heart ached from the mysterious absence of her father, pushing her into an emotional burnout. I need to find him. I have to. But I need sleep…does that make me weak?

  Exhausted. Worried. Frantic and confused. What would clear her head enough that she could start formulating possible ways to find her dad?

  Scrubbing herself clean with hot water again sounded good. A quick shower wouldn’t kill her, right?

  Chapter Twelve

  The sound of water hitting Kyria’s body greeted Ramiel as he unlocked and slipped into her motel room. As he bolted the door behind him, his mind filled with unwanted images.

  Not sure what Kyria preferred to eat, Ram bought one of everything on the lunch menu at Lung Fung. Except for the soups—they were a waste of time and harder to transport. Wait. What if all she liked was soup? I should go back.

  No, don’t be stupid. Food on the dresser, he avoided the bathroom. An innocent female, nude and wet, had no business being anywhere near him.

  Standing stiff at the window, he surveyed the parking lot for any threats. At his back, the door stood open. Agitation prickled the back of his neck.

  The Nephilim was clueless. And too naive. How had she stayed alive so long? This kind of trust in her surroundings would be the death of her. Or more likely him.

  A soft thump came from the bathroom. Without thought, he went to the open door to ensure she was safe and saw the outline of her body clearly through the foggy curtain. Every curve… He jerked his head away and came face to face with his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t meet himself in the eye, disgusted with what he saw.

  It wouldn’t take any effort to walk in and take the blood he needed, to please her body in a way he couldn’t remember ever wanting.

  He leaned against the wall near the door frame as she ducked under the water. A strange pull ran deep in unfamiliar places, a longing for the warmth her soft skin offered. He wanted to touch her and trace the lines of her neck to her shoulder. The curves that joined her ribs to her hip took his attention hostage.

  Snarling at his own weakness, the doorframe under his grip creaked. He pushed away from the temptations she stirred.

  Blood.

  He’d go back to get the soup…and the waitress. She was safe. He’d leave her with a good memory and great tip. All I need is blood.

  He knocked on the wall. “Food is here. I forgot the soup.” What if she was still in the shower when he returned? “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Be dressed and ready before then.”

  She didn’t respond, and he didn’t wait for her answer. As he opened the door to leave, another thunk shook the wall.

  This time it was a body hitting the old ceramic tub. She had fallen.

  Shit. Less than a heartbeat and he was at her side, on his knees. One pale arm hung over the side of the tub, and her head tilted back, resting on the wall as water continued to beat down on her.

  He turned off the shower. “Kyria.” No response. He looked down at her, and his breathing stopped. So small and helpless. He touched her neck. A pulse. She had a pulse. His chest tightened.

  Leaning down, he gathered her wet body close. Her ribs pressed against his chest, and her heart beat faster. Or is that mine?

  He took her out of the small bathroom, barely fitting through the doorway, and carried her to one of the beds.

  “Kyria, wake up.” What if she didn’t?

  Ensuring that she ate should have been a priority, before Bishop. He forgot the fragility of half humans. Whereas angels didn’t need to eat, Nephilim had to.

  Easing next to her, he lifted her head and pushed her wet hair back. He fanned it over the pillow with one hand and checked for injuries with the other.

  Her lashes fluttered.

  A soft moan came from her parted lips. He leaned closer. Her clean ginger scent anchored him to her side. “Kyria, open your eyes.”

  Confusion clouded her golden-blue eyes. He averted his gaze. That was a mistake. Standing, he searched for something to cover her naked form.
Towel. “Ram? What happened?” She struggled to sit up. “Oh. My. God.” Snatching the edge of the blanket, she pulled it over herself. Flawless ivory skin turned red.

  “Here.” He handed her a towel he retrieved from the bathroom. “You fainted in the shower.”

  She immediately sat up, using the towel to hide the temptation from his sight. “I’m so sorry. I swear I don’t faint, ever.”

  All his attention stayed glued on his boots as his fangs throbbed. Hunger ate at him. He should have just used the smoking waitress in the back alley, but Kyria waiting for him messed with his mind.

  “The food is there.” He needed to leave. “I forgot the soup.”

  “I don’t want the soup. Please stay. You haven’t eaten, either. I’m really sorry about…”

  “Don’t be.” He picked up her bag and sat it on the bed. “Get dressed.”

  With the cover wrapped around her, she bent over and tucked her hair into the white towel. Turning her back to him, she dressed.

  The right thing would be to do anything other than watch her. But what if she falls again?

  He pinpointed a random spot on the back of her head, Bishop’s words playing in a loop. Kyria was his salvation. Tracing the line of her neck, he stopped at the mark on her nape.

  The tattoo called him, disturbing his memory. The symbol was familiar, from another lifetime. He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth.

  His fingertips grazed her skin. She turned, clutching the front of her shirt. Just a few inches and he could claim her lips.

  “Ram, what are you doing?” The sweetness of her voice was lost behind a roughness.

  What was he doing? The tip of her tongue caressed her lower lip.

  “I want to kiss you.” He narrowed his eyes. “I think.”

  Blood rushed to her face, and it tempted him further. Careful not to touch any dangerous zones, he moved his hand to cup her jaw. The fucking chains rattled.

  “Damn.” He jerked back. Breathing hard, he stared at her. It’d be so easy to blame her. But I can’t. Why?

  Kyria blinked up at him a couple of times before turning from him. Red splotches crept over her skin again. Grabbing the duffel bag, she plucked out a common sheathed hunting knife with a wood handle, carefully sliding it under a pillow. Smart move.

  Avoiding eye contact, she dug through the white paper bags of food. “I’m sorry.” He needed her to understand. “You can’t touch me.”

  “Right. Rule number two.” A bitter edge lined her voice.

  Words fumbled through his brain. How did he explain it to her when he didn’t understand himself?

  Digging through a bag, she pulled out a golden egg roll.

  Her teeth sunk into the soft outer layer. Closing her eyes, she swallowed. “Wow, you should try this.” Lifting her lashes, a glint in her eye dared him to look away. She was messing with him.

  A groan caught deep in his chest, and he nearly went to his knees. What was wrong with him? Contaminated.

  He moved to the door. It was the middle of the day and it would be harder to find someone to feed from that wasn’t strung out. “I don’t need food. I need blood.”

  “You mentioned blood earlier.” All the color drained from her face. “So, you’re like…a vampire.”

  “No.” He snarled with irritation. “But we aren’t human. We need to consume human blood regularly to sustain our physical form. Some stupid shit about the Last Supper and a flesh-of-the-lamb curse put on the fallen. Eat my flesh. Drink my blood for eternal life.”

  Color left her face, no sign of the mischievous glint from earlier. “You eat flesh?”

  “No. A cup of human blood is sufficient.” He stood, restless and plagued by the sudden craving to bite and taste her precious blood. “Finish your food.” She had to know how dangerous he was. “When you’re done, get some rest. I gotta go feed, but we’re leaving in the morning.”

  Without another word, he stepped out the door. The freezing wind hit his face, reminding him that his home was in hell now. He had no right to touch someone so good.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kyria passed out the moment her head hit the pillow, but her brain was having none of it. All night she suffered nightmares. Monsters giving chase, and demons with black wings and spider arms that stretched way past their bodies to grab at her.

  A broken gasp from her own lips finally shook off the bad dreams. She sat up in bed. Sweat-drenched clothes clung to her skin.

  Heart pounding, warm memories of Ramiel’s touch slowly replaced her fears. She closed her eyes. It should have horrified her after finding out he needed human blood to live.

  But it doesn’t.

  Unable to fall back asleep, she tossed the covers off and swung her feet to the floor. Pale fingertips touched the base of her throat. The idea of him sinking sharp teeth into her neck sent a chaotic thrill through her body.

  The door eased open. She stilled and peeked through her lashes. She slipped her fingers beneath her pillow and gripped the handle of the hunting knife hidden there.

  The orange glow of the sunrise silhouetted her big archangel as he stole into the darkened room. The temperature dropped as the chill of the morning air pushed its way in alongside him. He picked up a bottle and sat across from her on the other bed, taking a large gulp of straight whiskey.

  Her pulse jumped, and her jaw locked, thinking of him biting some other woman’s neck. “So, did you…feed?”

  “Yes.” He took another swallow from the bottle.

  “When you take the blood, does it hurt the person?” His silence was broken only by another swig of whiskey. Chin up, she tried again. “Is my dad sick because he needs blood?”

  He swirled the last bit of liquor in the bottle, studying it as if it held the answer to all her questions. With a sigh, he finally lifted his gaze. “If your dad is sick, he either needs blood, or he’s been hit with some sort of curse. My guess would be it’s a demon-manufactured virus. But I can’t help with either, not anymore, so I don’t know why he was looking for me.”

  She still couldn’t read him very well, but there was something hidden in his grim expression. “Can’t, or won’t?”

  He said nothing.

  “Why are you in hell if you’re an archangel?” She waited. Again, nothing but silence. It wasn’t much more helpful talking to him than it was Bishop. She persisted. “A friend of mine used to tell me stories about the layers of heaven and hell. Layers within spheres.”

  He sighed and scooted up on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Yeah. With minds of their own.”

  What a curious thing to say. She sat up. “Which layer were you from?”

  “Fifth. I was a general.” The now-empty bottle went to the nightstand between them. “You didn’t finish your food.”

  “Ramiel is listed as a watcher. One of the twenty Grigori archangels. Is that you?”

  He muttered something irritable under his breath.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. So, you’re a true warrior of God. One of the originals.” Her brain couldn’t even begin to imagine everything he had seen.

  “I’m a slave. Not your protector or knight in shining armor.” He lay back on the bed, one leg dangling off the side.

  “Ramiel…responsible for divine visions and guiding the souls of the faithful unto Heaven.” She listed the information off like she was reading it straight from the text. “The book of Enoch, right? You’re all in it. The watchers. Each of the archangels had a specialty. You guys are like a special ops unit.”

  The deep lines ran between Ramiel’s brows.

  Her instincts were screaming at her to move closer and hold him until he remembered he was created in greatness. She managed to restrain herself. “You were created with the sun and the stars. To fight for justice.”

  “Look at us now, dumped on Earth and forgotten.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

  Unshed tears burned her throat, but not for herself this time. Her world was gone. Everythin
g in her life was a lie, but he was so much more wounded than anyone she ever knew.

  “So, you have powers.” Powers that strengthened him. “But you can’t flash? Bishop didn’t have wings, but he did.”

  “Bishop is different. Rules don’t seem to apply to him. For the rest of us, no wings mean no flashing.” Ramiel’s dark eyes reflected the light like the gaze of a wolf in moonlight. “They start off pure white and get darker with each sin. It goes from golden white, to gray, to coal black. And the thirst for blood will grow stronger every day.”

  Everything inside her froze. Blood. I have to drink blood from people? The slick coppery warmth of revulsion coated her tongue… “No. I can’t do that. I’d rather die.”

  “Most do.” Perched on the edge of his bed, facing her, her angel was mere inches away. He made no attempt to touch her. Didn’t even say a word. He put her social awkwardness to shame.

  His lips parted, showing teeth white and beautiful and sharp. She waited for words. Nothing.

  “Will I get fangs too?” This couldn’t be real. She wanted to reach out to touch him.

  “Same as your wings. They should appear when you turn thirty-two, but apparently you’re an exception.”

  She couldn’t resist any longer. The short black hair at the base of his neck seemed so soft in contrast to everything else about him. Her hand gently wrapped around the warm flesh right above the cold metal band. He stiffened and slowly pulled her hand away, pressing it to his upper chest. The rapid beating of his heart startled her.

  She froze. “What happened to you? Why don’t you—”

  His voice was strained. “Don’t touch my neck.”

  My lips are so dry. She licked them. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to comfort you. I promised not to touch you, and I did.”

  “Stop apologizing to me.” With a slight tilt of his head, he averted his eyes. “I just don’t know how to…not hurt you.”

  “Oh.” He was worried about her, not himself? She leaned in, confused by what he meant. The spice of whiskey on his breath spun her in light-headed bliss. Say something.

  Nothing came out; she was struck speechless.