His eyes widened.
Or it might be because a trail of rainbow-coloured light shone in the wake of his touch.
He stared at it as it slowly faded, unable to believe his eyes.
“Is that normal?” Emelia’s low-spoken question barely registered as he moved his fingers, painting more rainbows over her skin.
He couldn’t find his voice to answer her.
It was far from normal.
He had heard of angels doing such a thing when they were experiencing strong emotions, but he had never seen it happen. It filled his head with a thousand questions, the loudest of which demanded an immediate answer.
How did he feel about Emelia?
He gently stroked her hand, his eyes fixed on it and that dazzling trail of colours as he probed the depths of his feelings for her and found them endless.
“It happens all the time,” he murmured, lost in how the colours pulsed and chased his fingers, lost in his feelings for her.
Ones that made him feel like the vulnerable one now.
Because it was clear he was falling for her, and he was falling hard.
He still wasn’t sure how she felt about him, and damn, that unsettled him, had him thinking up excuses to give her in case she asked him any more questions about what was happening as he touched her.
Not only because he wasn’t sure of her feelings.
But because he was certain that if she knew the reason why he left rainbow trails of light when he touched her, she wouldn’t understand, not after everything she had been through.
And he wasn’t sure he could handle the rejection.
He stared at their hands, the emotions she stirred in him surging stronger as he surrendered to them, to the deep and consuming love he felt for her—love that felt as if it might destroy him if she turned him away.
He had never felt anything like it.
It was empowering, and debilitating. It made him brave and a coward at the same time. It was beautiful and terrifying.
He couldn’t bring himself to risk his heart, not yet, but he would walk into Hell and face all it had to throw at him. He could do that, could risk his life without fear in that shadowy plane, but the thought of her rejecting him was terrifying.
The amount of power she had over him was humbling.
Had he thought her a weak, delicate little thing?
She had the power to break him, a warrior, with only a look.
With a word, she could slay him.
“Fourth Commander?” she murmured and then made a small noise of frustration. “I feel so stupid calling you that… but it’s better than TeeDeePee.”
“Wolf,” he said without taking his eyes off their hands.
The intensity of her gaze on him increased, burning into him as she stood in silence that stretched around him, demanding an answer to her unspoken question.
He managed to find the strength to drag his eyes away from the swirls of colour he had been painting on her skin and lifted them to meet hers. Confusion crinkled her brow, and he mirrored her expression for a split second before he realised he hadn’t spoken with her since he had decided upon a name.
“I am Wolf now.”
Her Wolf, if she would have him.
“Why?” She looked as if she wanted to chuckle at his choice of name.
Her face instantly sobered when he answered.
“Because of what you said about me. You said sometimes when I look at you, I look like a wolf.” He eased closer to her, holding her gaze and refusing to let her look away. “I am a wolf, Emelia, and I want to devour you.”
Crimson coloured her cheeks and nerves shone in her eyes, but she didn’t pull away from him, neither physically nor emotionally. She remained close to him, her hand brushing his, heat building in her bright green eyes.
Was he finally making progress with her?
CHAPTER 17
Emelia told herself to look away, but she only fell deeper into his shifting silver eyes. Wolf. She held back her smile. The name did suit him. He was a predator, a hunter. He was patient when he needed to be, calm and still. Calculating. He was quick to explode with violence, though. Powerful. Hard to read, which made him unpredictable. And he preferred the shadows, stalking, watching, and studying his prey.
Like he was studying her now.
The gold emerged in his irises as he held her gaze, his eyes hooded and framed by his long black lashes, filled with hunger that both frightened and thrilled her.
A wolf.
And he had been hunting in Hell.
Not successfully, judging by the fact he wanted to go back.
The thought of him in that dark place terrified her more than the fact they were touching, his hand still moving against hers, as if he couldn’t stop himself from stroking her skin. The rainbow light that chased his fingertips was bright in the fading light as afternoon gave way to evening, illuminated his face and reflected in his eyes.
She didn’t want him to go back to Hell, not when she could see it was taking its toll on him. He was paler than before, and dark shadows circled his eyes. He was tired. Something deep inside her told her that. He was tired and needed to rest, or he would be in even more danger in Hell.
She couldn’t stop him from going back there, but perhaps she could convince him to rest before he continued his hunt for Zephyr.
Perhaps she could help him in the only way she could.
Because he was right and she wasn’t brave enough to go to Hell. She had trained twice a day, every day, since she had last seen Wolf, but her physical strength failed her whenever she thought about returning to that realm to face the dragon.
If just the thought of seeing him again was enough to have her on her knees, what would actually seeing him do to her? It would be all too easy for him to capture her again.
But she didn’t want to rely on Wolf, sending him to a place that was dangerous and was clearly taking its toll on him, asking him to fight her battles for her.
“Emelia?” He closed his hand around hers and she welcomed the lightness of his grip, took comfort from it as his deep voice rolled around her, chasing away her fears.
“Wolf?” She lifted her eyes to his again. “Stay awhile?”
Surprise shifted across his handsome face before he nodded.
She slipped her hand free of his, walked over to the steps that led down to the gravel path that cut through the formal garden, and sat on the top one.
Wolf eased down beside her.
“You look like a hobo,” she said without looking at him and felt his gaze leave her.
She snuck a glance at him, a touch of heat climbing onto her cheeks as she thought about what she had done. Had he seen her in the bath?
She thought about it a lot.
Dreamed about it.
“I am in disguise.” He stated in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she should have known he was dressed to conceal his true identity. “It did not work as well as intended. A succubus could tell what I was.”
“Hold up, buddy.” She frowned at him. “A succubus?”
There was a glimmer of something in his silver eyes that looked a lot like pleasure, and she was sorely tempted to box him. She froze. She was on dangerous ground. First she had missed him, then she had let him see her in the bath, and then she had fantasised about him most nights.
Nothing good could come of where this was leading her.
Or could it?
She studied his eyes, trying to see whether he had been pleasured by the succubus or was pleased she was annoyed at him for talking to one.
“The female was giving me information about dragons,” he explained, an innocent edge to his expression.
That had better be all the bitch had been giving him.
Emelia paused again, struck by that dark thought.
She had never been the jealous type.
So what was it about Wolf that had her ready to claw a stranger’s eyes out?
He wasn’t hers, and she certainly wasn’t h
is.
She wasn’t.
Was she?
She shoved that line of thought firmly out of her head as her throat closed, a trickle of panic running through her veins in response to the thought she might be falling for the angel sitting beside her.
Or worse.
She might have already fallen for him.
“Was that all she was giving you?” she bit out, unable to stop the words from lashing from her lips.
Wolf arched an eyebrow at her.
“What is that supposed to mean…” His eyes widened as both eyebrows shot up. “Oh. No. She knew I was not interested.”
She frowned again. “How?”
He unfastened his cloak, curled a lip at it in a way that told her he didn’t like his choice of clothing either, and set it down beside him. “My aura.”
“That isn’t really an explanation.” She looked over her shoulder, towards the cast-iron table and the cooler sitting atop it, wishing she had brought it with her so she could have a drink.
She needed something to do with her hands, because she was in danger of touching Wolf, and the thought of where that might lead her had her throat closing up again and that trickle of panic turning into a flood.
Wolf glanced past her in the direction she had been looking, pushed to his feet, and strode over to the cooler. He grabbed it by the blue plastic handle and carried it over to her, setting it down beside her before resuming his position next to her on the step.
“Thanks.” She popped the lid, grabbed a cold can of soda, and sighed as she pressed it against her overheating cheeks. “This doesn’t get you out of answering my question.”
He gave her a look that said it had been worth a try. “Succubi can see emotional auras, especially around males. I believe it helps them… well… you know.”
She could guess.
It was probably nifty being able to see the mood of the men in the room, and she didn’t doubt it made picking dinner far easier for the succubi.
“And your aura was flashing a big nope at her?” She cracked the can open and swigged it. The ice-cold cola was bliss as it slid down her throat, just what she needed after a long day working in the garden.
“Apparently.” He averted his gaze, letting it run over the low boxwood hedges that enclosed the four sections of the formal garden. “You have been busy. The place looks far more like a garden now.”
He was evading again.
“Because you want me?” She posed the question to her can, too nervous to ask him directly.
His gaze zipped to her and he cleared his throat.
“Well… I mean… my aura was… it has nothing to do… I was just…” He heaved a sigh. “Yes.”
And braced himself.
His entire body tensed, muscles flexing beneath his black shirt, and he gripped his knees through his brown trousers, hard enough that his knuckles burned white.
Did he expect her to explode at him over that?
The thought that he wanted her might have scared her weeks ago, but now it sent a quiet thrill through her. She had wanted confirmation of his feelings, and she was finally getting it. The last few weeks spent wondering what he was doing, whether he was watching her, and whether he had seen her in the bath, had taken their toll on her, but now that weight lifted from her shoulders.
She reached into the cooler, snagged another can of soda, and offered it to him.
He surprised her by taking it, fumbling with opening it as badly as he had with admitting he wanted her, and cautiously tasted it. He shivered, every feather on his enormous white wings quivering.
Emelia arched a brow at his reaction.
He scowled at her. “I was not expecting it to be… tingly.”
“Fizzy,” she offered and his scowl deepened. “It’s called fizzy. The drink is carbonated.”
“Carbonated?” He studied the can with an arched brow of his own and then looked at her.
Emelia held her hands up. “Don’t ask me to explain carbonation. I think it involves pumping gasses into the liquid.”
He gave a slight nod, as if that explanation was more than enough for him to comprehend what science was at work in the can, and took another mouthful, grimacing as he swallowed it and losing a battle against another shiver.
She giggled.
He glared at her again.
“Sorry, it’s just… your wings quiver when you drink.” She idly brushed her hand down one and stilled with her palm against the soft, satiny feathers as gold instantly bled into his irises and his pupils dilated to devour it.
Her heart pounded in her throat and she eased her hand away.
“I… wasn’t… thinking.” She sounded as surprised as she felt as she spoke that word and it struck her that it wasn’t that she hadn’t been thinking, it was that she hadn’t been overthinking things.
It had been instinct to touch his wings, even when she knew they were a part of him and it was no different to touching his hand or his thigh, or his face. She hadn’t fought the instinct, or questioned it. She had just rolled with it, and damn, it felt good.
She had touched him.
They had been talking, and then she had been laughing, and then she had touched him, and it had felt good.
She wanted to laugh again at that.
But the way Wolf was watching her made that laugh catch in her throat.
He remained motionless, his eyes locked on hers, dark with desire she had roused by simply touching his wing. There was a battle in his eyes too, a war he was waging as he stared at her, his chest straining with each heavy breath.
His firm lips parted.
His tongue swept over them, sending a wave of fire rushing through her blood.
“Touch them again,” he husked, anguish rolling across his face as he uttered that demand.
Because he thought he would frighten her, or because he feared she wouldn’t do as he needed?
Her stomach somersaulted and she had to pull down a slow breath to steady her racing heart as her mind screamed they were moving too fast. Her body cried they weren’t moving fast enough.
She lifted her hand and brought it to his wing, waged a war as violent as the one in his eyes as he tracked her hand with them, turning his cheek to her. She could do this. He was asking her to touch him, not ordering her. He needed this, and damn but she needed it too. She wanted to feel his feathers again, to explore their softness and learn the differences between them all, from the long feathers at the tips of his wings to the downy ones that covered the inside near his shoulder.
She swallowed to wet her dry mouth and throat.
Eased her hand forwards.
Made contact that sent a thousand volts bolting through her and ripped a gasp from her lips.
And his.
His eyes closed and his nostrils flared as the black slashes of his eyebrows dipped low above his nose.
“Sweet mercy,” he muttered, strained and raw sounding, as if she was overloading him with her exploration of his wings.
Emelia slowly stroked her hand down the curve of his wings, memorising the way the feathers near the top were softer than the longer ones. Those felt firmer beneath her palm.
“What’s it like to fly?” She focused on his wings, on what she was doing as she carefully skimmed her fingers outwards from the central rigid spine of one feather. “Do you moult like a bird?”
She almost smiled at the image that popped into her head, one of him tossing disgruntled looks at feathers he was shedding in his wake. She could just imagine how sour he would be.
“I do not know any different. It is natural to me, so I do not even think about it. Flying is just flying.” He opened his eyes and tracked her hand with them. Their silver depths were swirling again, almost as mesmerising as the feel of his wings. “As for moulting, I do not go through it in the same manner as a bird does. There is no set season and time. I lose feathers throughout the year, purging weakened or damaged ones. Sometimes they require intervention on my part.”
His eyebrows dipped low again, narrowing his silvery gaze in a way that screamed his displeasure. “It is necessary.”
“Does it hurt?” She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to tug a feather loose. Like pulling a nail from the bed? Or ripping a hank of hair out? Or maybe it was more like a wobbly tooth and it was a simple twist-and-yank procedure that only hurt for a short time.
He shrugged, shifting his wing beneath her palm. “Depends on the feather. If I pulled a pinion feather out, that would hurt. Move back a little.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not want to hurt you.” His expression turned deadly serious and she did as he asked because she didn’t want him to hurt her either.
She scooted back on the stone step, placing some distance between them, and her eyes widened as he twisted away from her and stretched his wing forwards so it formed a barrier between them and his feathers spread.
His wings were far larger than she had expected.
When they were furled against his back, they were imposing, distracting in a way, but like this, they were incredible. His wing easily reached twelve feet across, close to twice his impressive height.
“The longest ones are flight feathers. Secondaries nearest my body and primaries at the tips of my wings. The dozen or so nearest the tip are also called pinions. They hurt if they are pulled out.” The way he said that made her wonder if he had ever had one pulled out by an enemy. His wings were an advantage against many immortals, and she would probably target them if she was fighting an angel. He curled his wing towards him a little and reached over to poke at the shorter feathers above the primaries and secondaries. “These are coverts. They hurt less. I have probably pulled thousands of them out over the years.”
“How many years?” It struck her that she didn’t even know how old he was.
He looked like a man in his late thirties, close to her age. She didn’t know anything about angels, other than what popular culture and mythology made them out to be. Archangel had never been able to study his kind. How long could he live? What powers did he have? What was his world like? She suddenly had a thousand questions she wanted to ask him.
Avenged by an Angel Page 15
