by Sarah Gilman
She reached toward his scarred and inked arm, but stopped an inch from touching him.
“Shit, I didn’t think.” He jerked away. “Right. I should have found a new shirt. This was not something I ever asked for, I promise you.” He lifted his opposite hand to the tattoo. His fingers lined up with the clawlike scars.
She forced her mind and mouth to work. “Lawrence did that to you?”
“Thornton.”
“And the scars?”
“I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up, anger and perhaps the lingering effects of the drugs, overrode my reason and I tried to scratch the thing off.” He traced the scars. “I’ve been through worse things. This is just the most visual.”
She got to her feet, her lips parted to tell him she’d seen the scarred tattoo before and where she’d seen it. But his words from that afternoon ghosted through her mind:
“Now that I’m out of that hell, I will never be a slave again, in any form. Nor will I tolerate seeing anyone else stripped of their free will,” he’d said.
She’d told him she doubted she could change her future, even though she wanted to, and he’d likened that to the deprivation of freedom he’d experienced in the hands of his captors. Her lack of choice had drawn a stronger reaction from him than the fact that it was a poacher she faced—or thought she’d faced.
Being the destined mate in her dreams would not go over well with him. He was right: there were right and wrong reasons to be with someone, and believing she had no choice in the matter was definitely a wrong reason. But she wanted to see where things would go between them. She’d wanted to get to know Jett before she saw that tattoo. The tattoo didn’t change that, but unless she chose her words with extreme care when she explained, he’d bolt.
“You’re bleeding.” She stepped closer. He’d turned away from her, revealing blood dripping down his back from a fresh cut below his shoulder blade. She gently took his wrist. “Come with me.”
In silence, he offered no resistance as she guided him to the bathroom, but he watched her. His unrelenting gaze tracked her as she soaked a washcloth in warm water. As she used the cloth to wipe away the blood that had dripped down his back, he continued to stare at her in the mirror.
“What are you doing?”
At the raw shock in his voice, she paused, the cooling cloth pressed against the wound. “Has no one taken care of you before?”
He pulled away, but she gripped his arm.
“Hold still.”
“It’ll heal soon,” he said, his tone full of typical macho dismissal. “You don’t need to—”
“I want to. It’ll leave less of a scar this way.” She rinsed the cloth. So many scars covered him already, his back marred from what had to have been whippings. Many whippings. One more tiny mark would make no difference, but maybe a little tenderness would.
She applied cream and an adhesive bandage to the cut, then began to unravel the strips of cotton from his shoulder.
“Lexine—”
“Jett.” Leaving no room for argument in her tone, she held his gaze in the mirror.
He shook his head, but she ignored him and kept going, cleaning and medicating the gash across the front of his shoulder. She applied a real bandage. Instead of setting the tense male free, she soaked the washcloth again.
She pressed the cloth between his shoulders. He shuddered. Tending to the older wounds, she treated them with gentle care, as if the whip had sliced his skin only yesterday. His hands trembled a second before he curled his fingers around the edge of the sink.
Biting her lower lip, she moved to his sides and stomach, where the marks were thinner and strategically located. Surgical scars. An inner fire filled her. She would have ripped out Lawrence’s throat herself had the miserable excuse for a man been in the room.
Clusters of faint scars marked the back of his hand and inside of his wrists. She ran a fingertip over them. “What caused this?”
He answered in an even, controlled tone. “Needles and IVs.”
She swallowed against a rush of nausea.
Pulling his hand away, he sighed. He lifted his fingers to his face. She noticed for the first time a line of tiny needle scars on his cheeks, right over the venom glands. A whimper escaped her lips—heavens, considering the nerves associated with the venom system, needles must have caused him so much pain, comparable even to the whippings.
His eyes widened and he dropped his hand, as if just realizing he was touching his face. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick and haunted. “There was a lab assistant who tried to be more humane about it, once. Against Lawrence’s instructions, she tried to take venom directly from my fangs, using a film-covered cup, like they do with snakes. But, I bit her. I was young and I didn’t understand it would kill her.”
Lexine ignited flames and pressed herself against his chest. “Biting when threatened is instinctive. The reaction is especially strong in children. Even in the best of circumstances, humans should never handle demon young.”
He tensed under her hold and took a step back, but she tightened her arms. She refused to let him distance himself, not at this moment. Perhaps no one had held him since his kidnapping, but he was so close to letting his guard down, she could sense it—she felt it in the slight tremor of his arms. If she let him run now, would they ever get to this place again, or would he build his walls even stronger and higher?
He sighed.
He wrapped his arms round her.
He slumped.
Lexine almost had to hold him up.
“I know.” He sighed, his warm breath on her forehead. “But of all the people I’ve killed in my lifetime, she’s the only one I regret.”
He settled his hand on her jawline and coaxed her to lift her face.
A voice in her mind persisted that Jett wasn’t interested in her romantically and would never be. He might only be interested in helping her salvage her ability to choose her own mate. However, now that she knew he was the mate in her dream, that fear dwindled and courage rose in its place. She straightened and parted her lips as Jett dug his fingers into her hair.
She wasn’t about to risk scaring him off before she had the chance to see if the spark between them could indeed be something more. If he developed feelings for her before she told him about the tattoo and scars in her dream, maybe he wouldn’t view her announcement as a leash and collar to be slipped at all costs.
And if he left, anyway? Or if nothing grew between them? Well, then she’d have proved choice remained despite the dream, after all. Either way, she no longer had to fear a future of sharing a bed with a poacher, forsaking everyone she knew and loved. She would never have walked that path.
She wanted to dance and laugh her throat sore. But all thought faded as his mouth covered hers, leaving only awareness of his lips, his heavy arms, and his heady scent of tea and honey. He broke the kiss, but lingered close.
“You’re grieving. Now is not the time to try all the things I want to try with you.”
Breath deserted her.
“You have my cell number. Call me for anything.” He stepped back, but held her gaze before turning for the door. “Good night, Lexine.”
She stared after him, certain she’d just seen a side of him no one else had ever witnessed, the male he would have been if he’d never been kidnapped—who he still was, buried beneath his antisocial armor. “’Night, Jett. Stay safe.”
…
Jett stalked through the woods, unable to calm his breathing.
He desired that female more than he’d realized.
Such a foreign thing, desire. Sexual desire, and the desire for company and companionship. His guarded friendship with the archangel in the basement prison took years to develop, and the dedication that resulted from that relationship still possessed him as strongly as his own need to survive. He didn’t feel any particular need to spend time with Raphael—he did so in the prison only to ease the archangel’s anguish. Lexine, though, Jett lon
ged to stretch out at her side and bury his face in her hair, to walk with her in the morning for the simple joy of the shared moment with another person.
He passed the night in the woods, the solitude familiar but unwelcome. He thought about Lawrence’s plans and about Lexine, but came to no conclusions about either. Though he only slept once a week like any demon, he couldn’t remember the last time he spent the entire night on his feet, pacing, snapping dead branches off trees, practicing with his throwing knives, anything for an outlet.
When dawn arrived, a shadow shifted among the other dark corners of the woods. Lark stepped out from behind a pine tree. “Raphael would like to see you.”
Jett shoved Lexine from his mind as best he could and focused on the grim-faced Guardian. Though not in the mood for conversation, he’d yet to talk to the archangel after the failure in town. Lawrence remained a threat, the trail nonexistent.
Unacceptable.
Lark turned and Jett fell into step next to him. They reached the house and proceeded inside. This time, Lark made no attempt to take his weapons.
“No pat down?”
“Enjoy the first one that much, did you?”
“Fuck off.”
Raphael stood by the windows on the far side of the second-floor room, a steaming mug in his hands. He turned and smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning, Lark. Jett.” Wren’s voice carried from the kitchen. The archangel with black-speckled wings appeared a moment later and settled on one of the tall, backless chairs.
Raphael took a step closer to Jett. “I have something I need to ask you, Guardian.”
The word, aimed at him for the second time in recent memory, hit him like a bullet to the chest. “I’m not—”
Movement and the glint of a polished blade caught Jett’s attention. He growled and threw his body between the archangels and the wielder of the weapon.
Lark stepped back, grinned, and sheathed the blade.
“What the hell was that?” Jett, crouched and ready to fight, locked eyes with him.
“You’re not a Guardian? Could have fooled me.”
Jett straightened. “Do not test me. Next time I might rip your throat out.”
Lark’s shrewd gaze held steady. “You couldn’t so much as scratch me.”
“The fuck I couldn’t—”
Lark drew his blade again and landed a punishing kick to Jett’s chest. As Jett fell, he twisted, craned his neck, and grazed Lark’s ankle with his fangs. He hit the floor, got his feet under himself, and prepared to spring at the other demon.
Lark stood at Raphael’s side, a dagger poised at the archangel’s throat. He held the blade in his fingers, the harm-less hilt against Raphael’s skin.
“Your father was a Guardian and you inherited that legacy,” Lark said. “The humans trained you to the best of their ability. The Guardians could train you to use your superior senses and reflexes to their full potential.”
Raphael lifted his hand and shoved Lark’s dagger away. “Jett is a guest in my home.”
“Just making a point.” Lark sheathed the blade.
Jett, kneeling on the floor, held a hand to his chest where Lark had kicked him. Breath sawed in and out of his lungs. Blood mixed with the too-sweet venom in his mouth—not his blood. He glanced down at Lark’s ankle and grinned. “Might want to bandage that.”
Lark lifted his knee and pulled up his torn pant leg. He inspected the twin scrapes left by Jett’s fangs. “You bastard.” He straightened. “I hope you come to your senses. There’s nothing I’d like more than to train your ass. I haven’t had a student move that fast in a century.”
“I know your weakness, and I exploited it. You have a great deal of pain in your left hip from an old injury that didn’t heal correctly. Thornton limped on occasion because of it. You hide it without flaw, except that kick just now was a little low for your height.”
“Regardless, you wouldn’t have saved Raphael if this had been a real fight. If you trained, you could do a hell of a lot more for this family than take out Lawrence. He’s just one of many enemies.”
Jett’s ears rang. Become a Guardian? Could he take that step? “I won’t enter another form of slavery.”
“Is that what you think I am?” Lark’s eyes widened. “A slave? I made a vow to protect Raphael and his family with my life, but I’m free to leave anytime, a far cry from slavery. I serve a purpose that I feel is worth putting my life down for. I endured training that pushed me to my knees and within an inch of the grave to earn the right to be here.”
Raphael touched Lark’s shoulder for a brief moment. “Lark has been by my side for over a hundred years, but there are five of us now. A second dedicated Guardian would go a long way toward keeping my family safe, but there are few I trust enough.” He paused and held Jett’s gaze. “I’m asking you to consider the position.”
Ah, shit. Even a bastard like himself couldn’t say no to that. He paced.
He’d always longed for freedom, but freedom to do what? Open a fucking pizza place?
“You would need to complete the training successfully first, of course,” Lark said. “There’s plenty of time to decide.”
“Why do you trust me?” Jett asked Raphael. “I helped keep you imprisoned for years.”
“You freed me.”
“Which I could have done much sooner, but I didn’t.”
“When the time came, you offered me a way to protect my son. To me, that outweighs everything else.”
Jett blew out a heavy breath. Last year, Thornton had gotten Wren on the phone and broken Raphael’s wing, intent on luring and killing the young archangel by using his father as bait. Raphael had cared only for his son’s safety, and the force of that love had shaken Jett to the core. Having grown up in the lab, Jett couldn’t remember experiencing the love of a parent.
If he joined the Guardians, and it didn’t work out, he could walk away—if Lark spoke the truth. Otherwise, God help the demon. He wouldn’t be a slave at their hands.
What did he have to lose?
He wandered to the windows and stared out at the lake for a long moment. “I’m in.”
Raphael stood and joined him by the glass.
What the hell did one say to someone you were promising to protect with your life? Jett lowered his head in silence. He’d promised himself he’d never bend in supplication of any kind ever again, so he had no greater way to show his respect and intent.
“I can’t express what this means to me, Guardian.” Raphael extended a wing and touched Jett’s arm with his flight feathers. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until you’re dying of old age.”
Raphael reached his other wing toward Wren, who got to his feet. “Your oath extends to my family. They mean more to me than my own safety. I ask that you remember that. If the worst should happen one day and you can’t save us all, do not put me before them.”
Wren shot his father a withering glare and flicked his wings. “Ignore that, Jett.”
Jett nodded. He’d be damned if it ever came to such a moment, so no need to argue. “I understand your concern, Raphael.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Wren offered his hand. As they shook, he brushed Jett’s arm with his feathers as Raphael had done.
“What does that mean?” Jett had grown accustomed to Raphael avoiding wing contact. Even after Raphael’s imprisonment ended, Jett had observed the physical distance the archangels kept between themselves and others.
“Just our way of showing how much we trust you.” A hint of warning filled Wren’s voice. Jett held his gaze and nodded in understanding. Despite the gesture, Wren’s full trust still needed to be earned.
Jett took Lark’s hand in a firm shake. “I’m honored to work with you.”
“Likewise. Let’s get you orientated.” He motioned for Jett to follow and headed for the door.
Chapter Eleven
Jett followed Lark outside and around the back of the house, where an acr
e of trees had been cleared. A ten-foot granite wall surrounded an expansive garden: flowers and fruit trees, a fountain and marble statues, manicured lawn and meandering stone paths. He preferred the disorganized beauty of the untamed forest, but whoever did all this work had his respect.
“Kora, Raphael’s mate, did all of this herself.” Lark pointed toward a pristine reflecting pool at the base of a marble monument, rose bushes on either side. “She’s buried here, too.”
They followed the granite wall to the rear of the garden, where a wooden door and a security panel interrupted the smooth stonework.
“Tool shed?”
Lark scowled. “Bachelor pad.”
“You live here?”
Lark released the locks by entering a code in the security panel, opened the door, and went inside. “Home sweet home.”
Jett stepped through the door into a simple room with a bed and dresser on the left and a kitchenette and woodstove on the right. The stone floor, walls, and ceiling were blackened in many places. The scent of charred wood filled Jett’s nose. “Fire?”
Lark pressed a palm against the rough stone wall. “After Kora’s murder, the Guardians burned this place. Rightfully so, of course. I chose to leave the scorch marks when I moved back in. One can never have too many reminders of their single biggest failure in two hundred and fifty years of life. But, we’re not here to talk about my shoddy taste in decorating. Here.” Lark selected a box from a closet and pushed it into Jett’s hands. “Clothes I picked up the other day.” His mouth curved in a conspiratorial grin. “They should be your size.”
“I’m fine as I am, thanks.”
“A Guardian holds a position of respect in the colony. Especially an archangel’s Guardian. I can almost see your ass, those jeans are so threadbare.”
The redhead had a point. Living in the woods, he’d kept himself clean, but the rips and tears in his clothing hadn’t mattered. “Where can I change?”
“Through there.” Lark pointed to a door.
In the bathroom, Jett changed into the black combat pants and muscle shirt, and studied himself in the mirror. Damn, he needed a pair of scissors. He preferred his hair a little too long—mainly because Lawrence had kept it skull trimmed—but the uneven mess left after he’d used his knife for a haircutting tool was far from presentable, especially against the black uniform.
