Hell's Redemption- The Complete Series Boxset

by Grace McGinty

  When he was happy that my hair was clean, he stepped back into the stream of water, rinsing the suds from my hair, ensuring not a single soap sud went near my eyes. Then he moved onto the conditioner, repeating the process, but this time his thumbs rubbed tiny circles on my temples, releasing tension I didn’t know I held.

  He let the conditioner sit in my hair as his hands ran down my back, pressing me to his chest as he kneaded the muscles of my neck and shoulders, and the tight muscles in my back. He reached out and soaped his hands again, making sure to work every knot from my muscles.

  When he was done, I felt like I was boneless, and the only thing keeping me upright was the firm press of his hand on my lower back.

  “Close your eyes, love.”

  I did as I was told, and let him step me into the third stream of water, smelling more than feeling the perfumed soap running down my face. I stayed there, under the steady beat of hot water, pressed into the chest of my Alpha, perfectly content in this moment. Despite the throbbing hardness of his cock against my stomach, Romanus didn’t try to turn the embrace sexual, just as happy to hold me as I was to be held.

  Finally, when my fingers were rough and wrinkled, Romanus reached out and pressed the button to turn off the shower heads. He stepped from the cubicle, the water sliding from his body like he was some kind of sea god rising from the ocean. He made me breathless.

  He held out a fluffy white towel, and I stepped into it. Large heated lights poured warmth down onto my body. His mismatched eyes shone beneath them. Fuck, he was beautiful.

  “I will leave you to the rest of your nightly rituals,” he murmured in a low, rumbly voice filled with emotion. I kissed him, pouring my love from my lips to his.

  “Thank you.”

  He bowed his head low, his eyes on the floor. Deferring to me. I caught his chin, lifting his face to mine. “You shouldn’t bow to me, Romanus. We are equals. All of us.”

  I imprinted the look on his face at that moment into my memory. He looked at me like I was a goddess, with so much love it hurt to breathe.

  “What did we do?” he asked, but he wasn’t talking to me. “How did we get so lucky?”

  “I have a feeling in five hundred years you’ll be asking that exact same question with a significantly different connotation,” I laughed.

  He chuckled, kissing my cheek and leaving me alone in the bathroom.

  I completed the rest of my nightly routine quickly, drying my hair the best I could even though it stood on straight out and made me look like I’d been electrocuted.

  I walked into the bedroom, and grabbed the first thing in my bag. I pulled on one of Romanus’ shirts. It smelled of him, and hung to my knees, and I loved it. Although, there was a suspicious stain near the hem that my new super senses told me was blood. We really needed to do some laundry.

  I walked out into the living room to see that they’d completely transformed it. Or destroyed it, depending on your point of view. All the furniture in the living room had been pushed back, and someone had piled all the duvets and pillows onto the floor in front of the TV. There was a big ice bucket, filled with champagne, and several six packs of beer sitting on the coffee table, as well as several domed serving dishes filled with god-knows-what. Naz was already there, sucking back a beer, propped up on three pillows. He’d lost his shirt, and had his jeans unbuttoned. His tattoos undulated on his torso as his spoke, and looking at his body made me hungry. But not for food.

  In deference to the other guys probably, Rouen was in a fluffy bathrobe that barely belted across his hips. When he moved, I got flashes of his dick, and it made me laugh. Best peep show ever.

  I sat down beside Naz, and Rouen passed me a glass of champagne. Charlie was still working furiously, headphones on, his fingers pounding the keyboard.

  Romanus moved toward our wayward fourth, tapping him on the shoulder hard enough to get his attention. Charlie pushed his headphones from his ears.

  “Enough for now, Charlie. Come and enjoy some time with your pack.” His words were gentle, merely a suggestion to the casual listener, but I could hear the alpha power beneath the words.

  Charlie pressed a few more keys and slipped his headphones from his neck. “Sure thing. This can run by itself anyway.” He stood, stretching his arms above his head, and giving me a good eyeful of his hard stomach. I had a vivid flash of running my tongue down his abs only days ago.

  Heat grabbed at my core and I gave it a stern talking to. Down girl. You need a rest day too. Chill the fuck out and just let me enjoy them.

  Charlie grabbed a beer, and tiptoed his way through the pillows to my side. I was snuggled in beside Naz, who had an arm wrapped around my shoulders, so Charlie just laid down, resting his head against my thighs.

  He grinned up at me, then waggled his eyebrows as he lifted the hem of my shirt.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be looking up girls skirts, Charlie Mulligan?” I chastised as he groaned and flopped back against my thighs

  “Never. But damn.” He looked at Naz. “She’s not wearing panties under there.” He sounded both happy and in pain. I laughed and slapped away the hand the tried to sneak up my thigh.

  “We a keeping it G rated tonight,” I warned.

  “G for g-spot?” Charlie suggested, curling his finger suggestively.

  Rouen laughed, coming to sit beside me too, resting his legs on Charlie’s abs. “G for Gargoyles-do-it-better.”

  Charlie’s amethyst eye twinkled in the light. “Hey, I’m part gargoyle too.”

  Rouen held out a fist for a fist bump. “Hell yeah you are.”

  Romanus sat down on the other side of Rouen, closest to the door, and handed Charlie the remote. “Do whatever it is humans do to get the movies on the TV.”

  I laughed. I guess Hell didn’t have Pay-per-view. Rouen grabbed one of the silver domed trays, and revealed tiny little pastry parcels. “Lobster puffs,” he said, placing one to my lips. I bit into it, making sure my teeth scraped the tip of his finger. He did that intense thing, like watching me eat was some kind of foreplay, until I was done chewing.

  “Ah ha!” Charlie yelled, and the screen changed to the opening credits of a movie. It was an old classic with Meg Ryan and Nicolas Cage. City of Angels.

  “Very funny, Charlie,” I said, running my fingers through his hair, scraping my nails across his scalp until he was all but purring.

  I was happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The mayor's secretary looked uncomfortable. Like her sky high heels were pinching, or she was worried she might have shit herself in public. That kind of uncomfortable. I knew the source though. It was the towering hunk of muscle beside me doing his best to look like a serial killer.

  “Seriously, Rom. Stop. You are going to make the poor girl wet herself. You may mentally scar her for life if you don’t stop staring at her like that.”

  I only felt marginally sorry for her. It was her own fault really. She’d insinuated that I was one of the Mayor’s mistresses, before I’d even had a chance to introduce myself. I guess maybe I was dressed like someone's side-chick? The first button of my blouse was a lot lower than I’d initially noticed, and you saw the bow of my brand new lingerie. And if I stepped too long, you could probably see the lace trim of my thigh highs, and the decorative lace of my garter straps.

  Rouen had very attentively helped me rolled on my stockings this morning. With his teeth. We'd almost run late for this appointment.

  My cheeks heated at the memory of Rouen’s face buried between my thighs. Romanus’ nose flared at the scent of my desire, which effectively changed the object of his laser focus from the scared shitless secretary to me. I didn’t mind. I liked his eyes on me. I twisted my hands in my lap, pressing my breasts up and out. Romanus’ emerald and sapphire eyes followed the movement.

  The secretary’s phone rang, and she spoke softly into the receiver before hanging up. She cleared her throat. “Mr Trousseau will see you now.”

  I no
dded my thanks, and Romanus gave the girl another death stare on the way through. He really didn’t like the way she spoke to me. Protective bastard.

  Louis Trousseau was a dapper guy, in his late forties. He was just getting a little grey along his temples, making him look distinguished and sexy, rather than old. He had on a plain white dress shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up his tanned forearms. He looked like he worked out.

  He gave me a wide smile.

  “Please, Miss Jones, come take a seat. Does your guard want to wait in the reception? I’m sure Cecelia will get him a coffee, maybe something to eat?” he offered.

  I laughed. Romanus was more likely to eat Cecelia. And not in the fun way.

  “If it is okay with you, I’d like him to stay. Don’t worry about him though. You won’t even notice him.” I smiled pleasantly at Louis. He seemed nice enough. He had a kind face and a very genuine way of speaking that reminded me a little of Hope.

  “Of course, of course. I was glad to hear from your personal assistant that you wanted to meet. I’ve always had a great respect for your parents foundation, and their goals. Very noble, no?” He had a heavy french accent, and it probably made him seem more charming than he was. It reminded me of Valery, one of my fathers. He had been french nobility once. Even after all these years, he had retained a little of the accent of his home country.

  I made a sound of agreement, and watched appreciatively as he sat down behind his wide oak desk.

  “We are very thankful that the NRH has taken an interest in Calais. As you know, the sables mouvants has been in Calais for nearly a decade now, as people flee the ecological disasters of their home countries. And the rate of eco-refugees is rising. We would welcome any solutions you and your foundation can provide.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “I’m sorry, my french is very basic. Sable…?”

  “Ah, sable mouvants, uh, it means quicksand, no? It is what the locals call the camp. Because people come to Calais, to France to try and cross the Channel, but their laws are strict, and it is not so easy, so they become stuck here forever. No going forward, trying to cross into the UK, and no going back to where they come from.”

  “Stuck,” I repeated. Like fish in a barrel. I nodded. “What are you doing about the situation currently?”

  Louis Trousseau let out a dramatic sigh. “We try to provide them with what we can, but every day, the camp grows. For every one that leaves, two more arrive. It has grown to over one hundred and fifty thousand in the last year. Our police force refuses to go there, for fear of being injured or worse. It is lawless place, filled with barbaric practices and desperate people.”

  “Are there any other organizations there now, trying to create a little order in the chaos?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation.

  “They have tried, but very few remain. Shine stays with a skeleton crew. Enough to help those who want to be helped. The Red Cross provides rudimentary free healthcare to prevent the spread of disease. John Pierre Romaine is as close to an overseer that the camp has and he speaks on their behalf, coordinates the resources to those who need it most, but he is fighting a losing battle. He is a far better man than I. I would have given into despair many years ago,” Louis said, shaking his head sadly.

  We spoke for another thirty minutes about what the NRH could provide this Quicksand camp. A complete lack of formal education was going to hinder the next generation, so schooling was the first point of business. The Red Cross desperately needed more funding and more hands. Better housing and sanitation were necessary to prevent the current level of death and mortality in the camp.

  I found myself writing notes, storing this all away, as if I were really here as an ambassador, and not in Calais to hunt down and murder a bunch of human traffickers.

  There was a knock on the door, and Cecilia the secretary poked her head around the door. “Excuse me sir, Mademoiselle. The press have arrived down in the conference room.”

  I stood and smoothed down my skirt, and Louis Trousseaus’ eyes followed the movement. I could hear the low rumble of Romanus’ growl behind me, and resisted the urge to smile. I hoped Louis thought it was a truck outside the window, or a helicopter, and not a jealous gargoyle who wanted to eat his face.

  Louis grabbed his suit jacket, shrugging it over his broad shoulders and pointing out to the elevator.

  “After you, Mademoiselle.”

  Cecilia was holding the lift open for us, either because she was an efficient secretary, or because she was eager to get rid of us. I was betting on the latter. I gave her a little finger wave as the door shut between us, and Romanus pulled me back toward his body and away from Louis. I let my fingers brush his. I would kiss every inch of him later to assure him that I had no interest in any other men outside our pack. Especially not a French politician, no matter how attractive he was.

  The elevator stopped, and Louis stepped out, ushering me toward large double doors. Another efficient woman met us there.

  “Mr Trousseau, Miss Jones. Just a little press conference. If you could talk about the issues you discussed, Miss Jones, and perhaps some solutions NRH is willing to provide, that will be enough. I have warned them that question time will be limited, so don’t panic. This is basically a photo opportunity. Don’t forget to smile,” she said, giving me an exaggerated smile, showing artificially whitened teeth so bright I thought she may have injured my retinas.

  “Thank you, Rebecca,” Louis purred, and I looked between them. Yeah, they were definitely banging like french monkeys. Le chimps?

  Louis pushed through the doors, and stood in front of the mic, greeting the journalists by name, and making a very pretty speech about improving life for all in the fair city of Calais, blah blah blah. I zoned out, my focus drawn to the press out in the crowd through the gap in the doors. Apparently, press looked the same everywhere. Like bored pitbulls.

  “Please, welcome Estrella Jones, representative of the NRH Foundation.”

  There were a series of flashes as I walked out on stage, people snapping photos of my fake smile. This was why Hope did this shit. I was not a natural public figure, which was why I became a cop instead of going into the family business, so to speak.

  I gave Louis a bright, genuine smile. His shoulders fit his suit jacket well, probably tailored. My eye caught on his lapel pin and I froze.

  Uriel's Sigil.

  Louis Trousseau, the Mayor of Calais, was Tenebre.

  I don’t know how I made it through the rest of the conference. I must have answered the questions okay, even though my mind was reeling. I hadn’t picked up even a hint that Louis Trousseau was anything but concerned humanitarian. I’d liked the man. Thought he was attractive. Now I wanted to scrub out my eyeballs.

  I escaped the meeting as soon as I could after the press conference was over, with assurances I was going to be in touch. Not a lie. I would see Louis Trousseau very soon, and may Lucifer have mercy on his soul.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I was actually shaking by the time we got back to the hotel, though I wasn’t sure why. I’d been in deadlier situations in my life. Hell, I’d been in deadlier situations this week. It wasn’t fear that made me shake. It was this overwhelming anger, a red hot rage that was burning my gut, searing its way through my veins, demanding release.

  Like a lot of cops, I’d always trusted my gut. It had been my moral compass, my safety net, my judge of character for so many years, that the fact I had been so wrong about Louis Trousseau was making me question everything.

  Romanus had been quiet, his eyes hard as the gems they resembled, and Rouen and Naz seemed to intuitively know we needed silence.

  When we got back to the hotel room, Charlie took one look at my shaking hands and frowned. “What happened?”

  “I need to know everything there is to know about Louis Trousseau. Everything. I want to know if he pays his taxes, what brand of toothpaste he likes, who his mistresses are and whether he sleeps on the left or right side of the bed.
The fucker is Tenebre.”

  With that, I walked past him, running my hand over his arm so he knew I wasn't mad at him, and stomped off to the bedroom as fast as my sensible shoes could carry me. I tore open my shirt, letting the faux pearl buttons scatter all over the floor. I fumbled with the zip of my skirt, swearing when it jammed.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. What the fuck was I doing here? Who the hell did I think I was, some comic book antihero, meting out justice as I felt like it? Dragging four other souls to Hell right along with me because I was a selfish asshole.

  The door opened, but I didn’t look up. I was having a pity party for one. A hand reached out and lifted my chin. I looked up at Naz.

  “Why do you have Luc’s wings tattooed on your back? Who in their right mind would permanently etch Satan’s wings on their body?”

  Who in their right mind would stay with me?

  Naz’s eyes widened a little, but he shrugged. “When I was eight, the Archangel Raphael put Adnan back together after a rocket hit our apartment building and collapsed the whole thing down on us. Memphis and Ace, these two scary ass angels with these glorious wings rescued me from Aleppo and brought me to the States. They gave me a new life. But I was so scared. And so, so angry. They dropped me off with your Dad’s, these strangers. I know they were trying to fix your Mom now, but I felt abandoned.” He pulled me to my feet. He reached out and worked the jammed zipper of my skirt down, holding my elbows as I stepped out of the pooled fabric.

  “Then one day, I just snapped. I completely freaked, and Ace had to talk me down. But Luc was there, and I was transfixed. I wanted to piss myself, to run away, to cry and cry until I ran out of tears, just from looking at him. And I saw his huge black wings, his scary ass expression that weighed your very soul, you know the look?”