“I don’t believe that for a fucking second. Tell me or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
“I-I’ll…” My voice trails off. I haven’t thought that far ahead. “I’ll call the authorities.” The threat is weak, but it’s the only card I have to play, however pathetic it is.
His humorless chuckle makes me feel small, and ridiculous for presenting such a flimsy threat, like flashing a weapon that’s obviously made of plastic.
“The authorities?” he chides through a mocking grin. “That’s cute.”
Ire courses through my veins at the sheer audacity of this muscular prick. Who the hell does he think he is? And why am I so fucking attracted to him?
He’s making my panties wet just by looking at me with those midnight orbs that can’t seem to tear themselves off me.
I don’t know what he’s suggesting, what kind of magnet he’s talking about. But I feel it, and I hate myself for it, even though I have no control over this sudden pull between us. I came to Seattle to avenge my sister. Of course, that was my primary motivation, but I hate that this cocky bastard, with the presence of a drunken god and how he seems to see right through me. He’s right.
Something else made me come.
Ever since I had followed him from the funeral home that day three months ago, a new desire pushed me here, one that had little to do with Elise.
Acknowledging that fact frightens me to the bone.
What is it that’s pulling me into the gravity of this devastatingly beautiful creature with eyes as black as the devil’s soul, and a twisted smirk forged from misery and self-loathing. There is a darkness that lurks deep inside him, and towards his depths, I feel myself falling.
I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. But this man came from somewhere, and I know, deep in my core, he isn’t from around here, not anywhere this side of the stratosphere.
Chapter 4
Gideon
My drunken mind can hardly believe it when a ghost of my past steps from the shadows of the night to interrogate me of her own murder.
But no. Such miracles don’t exist, not anymore. I wouldn’t be so fortunate.
Elise is dead, and this woman says her name is Sophie.
Sophie. When I sample the feel of the name on my tongue, it’s like I am tasting a warm and delectable sweet after a frigid winter’s day. It’s a feast after a famine, the most masterful poetry I’ve ever heard constructed from two syllables.
Sophie.
My dead ward’s twin sister.
Twin.
Upon closer inspection, even through the haze of my clouded vision, I can now see this isn’t Elise. She may have the same pallor to her skin that reminds me of moonlight, the same round face with flaxen hair and shrewd, gray eyes. But the likeness ends there. Elise was thin, her diet or lack thereof left her rail-thin with not an ounce of fat on her. Her hair was never cleaned, her hoodie and jeans always stained and torn. She was a reader, one of her few redeeming qualities. The shadows that constantly lined her eyes were a product of her drug addiction as well as straining her eyes all night, trying to get in one more page of a tattered romance novel before falling asleep in an alley. Life on the streets was not kind to my ward. She smelled of filth and sin and sorrow.
This girl might wear Elise’s face, but her hair is clean and is worn loose around her shoulders. Her cheeks are full with a pinch of rosy color. She possesses delightful curves, with a round ass and full tits that would make most men hard if they let their lecherous minds explore the finer details this curvy package had hidden underneath the wrapping.
Fuck. My own cock goes stiff as I let my thoughts wander to a place they have no business being. Her outfit certainly isn’t helping. She’s wearing a floral top that hangs loosely off her shoulders, exposing much of her perfect, porcelain skin.
This is what Elise might have looked like if she cared about her health. But at the same time, I’m sure she would have looked different in her own right. This woman might have been my ward’s twin sister, but she possesses something Elise never had.
Something irresistible.
My inner protector seizes up at her sight, her scent. This girl… She is heaven and hell wrapped all in one, beautiful package. She has Elise’s face, and as alluring as it is not covered in dirt and scabs, it haunts me.
But I soon realize the incredible blessing that stands before me, with the spark of something pure behind those storm gray eyes. This woman is my chance for redemption. It’s just my fucking luck that she makes my manhood ache just looking at her. She makes me…wild.
I grit my teeth and every muscle in my body clenches tight. Fuck, what’s happening to me?
She smells of temptation. It laces the air around her, mingling with that less pleasant but unmistakable metallic scent. Danger. All humans in peril wear this scent like perfume, and it’s so strong it often catches in the wind and carries to Paradise where the Archangel may intervene. All angels can sense it, guardian class or not.
I already know this woman has no guardian contracted to her. She’s alone, she wears that too on her sleeve like a uniform. It’s one we both wear.
I want to blame my instant hunger that roars to life, on the lone fact that is my chance of redemption. I can get my wings back. But my rock hard erection begs to differ, it doesn’t give a shit about my wings.
I doubt it’s the alcohol, in fact, it usually has the opposite effect.
Angels are snooty bastards who loath shifters, especially wolves. There are few who like to acknowledge that angels are shifters. So, when a shifter sees their fated mate, there isn’t anything that can stop them from being with them except for death. And right now I have never felt more alive.
It’s a bitch that Paradise still has their panties in a knot about angel and human romantic pairings. It’s a sin, one that would send even the best guardian to the Pit with their wings ripped out for their trouble. For the sorry bastards who believe in fated mates, it’s every angel’s hope that their fated ends up being another of their kind.
But for some, the world isn’t so kind. I’m sure Gabriel, the asshole from earlier, has found himself in that very predicament. It would explain why the angel stumbled to the bar smelling of cunt, with guilt plastered all over his face. The guy never drank, and there were rumors flitting around that he and his ward were close.
Paradise doesn’t give two shits if a fallen drowns himself to death in human cunt. But if I indulge in this girl, I would be ruining my chance of ever getting my wings back.
Fuck me. What do I do? If I self-appoint myself as her guardian, I can’t touch her, and right now, even the thought of that is complete torture.
As I wrestle with what little morals I still possess a screech of tires and the sound of a blaring horn tears me back to reality. I smell the air, tendrils of burnt rubber stinging my eyes and scorching my nose. In the next moment an old, gold Buick La Saber appears around the corner where The Guardian sits.
My inner protector slams around inside me, the natural instinct to shift immediately taking over. But I’m filled only with a sense of dread and emptiness as I remember in the next instant that my wings are gone.
The car races down the street in the lane nearest to the curb. It’s filled with at least four large, barrel-chested men. By the smell of dog wafting up underneath the overpowering cloud of rubber scented smoke, and the blur of their tribal tattoos, I know immediately who they are.
Shifters, specifically the Tacoma gang. What the fuck are they doing in this part of Seattle? Their pack leader runs a motorcycle bar at the far edge of town but they know better not to come in angel territory. When the driver gives a jerk to the wheel, swerving the car toward us, I know something is horribly wrong. The yacht of a car slams up onto the curb and I throw my arms around Sophie’s waist, hurling her out of the way just in time for a ton of rusted steel to hurtle up onto the sidewalk.
She screams in my arms, the sound triggering somethi
ng inside me. As soon as I touch her, something inside me snaps.
She’s yours. Torture, maim, kill, whatever tries to take her from you, my inner protector grits into my ear.
In the other ear, a deafening gunshot sounds. I twist my body in midair with the reflexes of a cat and land on my feet with Sophie cradled in my arms, my sneakers skidding backward across the pavement.
My chest heaves with labored breath, pressing into the precious bundle and the flash of metal, the barrel of a gun catches my eye just in time for it to slip back inside the passenger side window.
They’re shooting at her. Who could want her dead? They don’t know who she is, she would only be mistaken for Elise around these parts. Elise! Could Sophie be right? Maybe Elise hadn’t committed suicide at all, that it was just set up to look like one. Of course, the police would brush it off. Why would they care about investigating the murder of a homeless girl who didn’t mean anything to anyone?
But she meant something to me…and she meant something to this incredible woman shivering in my arms.
Whoever killed her somehow saw her, and they’ve returned to finish the job. My eyes narrow on the Buick, now peeling back into the street. I don’t miss the gun’s barrel, pointing towards us. There’s another shot, and then another, but I’m already running down the alley behind The Guardian away from the streets where the car can follow.
As I bolt into the night towards the safety of my studio apartment with my heart in my throat and the stench of a wild animal clinging to my nose, I vow that I will discover the exact cause of Elise’s death. Whoever did this, whoever pulled that trigger will fucking pay.
I swear to god, they will pay.
Chapter 5
Sophie
“This is where you live?” I stop in the doorway of the tiny apartment, peering underneath my savior’s armpit at the space inside. There isn’t much of it. “It’s a dump.”
I’m still a stressed-out mess, but not because I’m frightened of the beast of a man before me, not anymore. Saving someone’s life is just the ticket to earning someone’s trust, I guess.
I’m still not sure what happened back there. It all happened so fast. My mind is still replaying the noises, the flash of images in my head; The squeal of tires, the blast of a gun firing, strong arms wrapping around me, pulling me to safety. The moment he touched me, I came undone with a mixture of fright and something else I can’t quite name.
The man I’d excused of my sister’s murder, saved my life.
To that, I owe him a debt. There is something even more profound than the drive-by shooting and near car collision I had just barely survived. The moment he’d pull me into his arms, he stopped feeling like a stranger. That warmth I first felt when stepping onto the curb in front of The Guardian and into his orbit has spread to every part of my body, making me feel things I’ve never had before.
I’m afraid of is exploring that unknown emotion further. So for now I brush off this intensity between us as best I can and act casual.
The man snorts. By the way he holds himself, I can tell some of the alcohol has lost it’s edge in the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. Now with the booze wearing away, he just seems annoyed. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
I should be annoyed too, ten minutes ago I’d just nearly missed becoming roadkill, with a couple of bullets sent my way for the trouble. Most girls would be a sobbing mess maybe, or going into a silent shock would also be appropriate for the situation. Instead, my reigning emotion is confusion, and most of my jitters seem to be caused by the close proximity to the dashing stranger who had literally swept me up in his strong arms and carried me to safety.
It’s like one of those enemies to lovers romances I’ve been obsessed with lately. I steal a sidelong glance to the muscular man who smells of whiskey and sin. With his dark hair, and tattoos wrapping around corded muscles, he’d look right at home on a cover of some trashy romance.
My mouth goes dry as I think about those arms and how capable they felt when they scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
Who is this guy? And why is he making me heat up as if I’ve never seen a man before?
Because I’ve never seen one like this.
“No, I don’t mince words,” I smile weakly, eyes darting around his studio. By the look of a few cardboard boxes scattered around the floor, he just moved. Most are open, like he’s unpacking only by means of what he needs piece by piece. The walls are bare, only a few pieces of high-end furniture are placed around the studio, looking completely out of place in the shabby apartment.
God, I’m so nervous. But not because I almost died a few minutes ago, instead I’m nervous because I’m alone with him and the butterflies in my stomach haven’t seemed to get the memo that this man is a complete stranger who was somehow tangled in my sister’s fucked up life.
“Do you bring many girls back here after you save them from gunshots and car crashes?” My cheeks burn as I realize my question comes off as more of a flirt than a serious inquiry. I hold my breath as the hulking drunkard twists around, his weighted glare clamping down on me, knocking the breath from my chest. He slowly, painfully strides towards me, eating the distance between us in two easy steps.
He’s got the poise of the devil, the pouting lips of an angel, and the chiseled body of a god. Instinctively, I take a step back, pressing myself against the wall beside his front door. My heart pummels my chest and my breathing goes ragged as he reaches for me.
To hold me? To kiss me? To push me out the door?
I let out a sigh of relief as his arm stretches past me to push the front door closed with a flick of his wrist.
Geez, why the hell am I acting like this? Pull it together, Sophie.
“Not many,” he finally answers after several seconds that crawl by on hands and knees. He lets go of the door handle but makes no move to put more distance between us.
I gulp. He’s so close I’m afraid he’ll hear my heart, pounding away like a terrified, cornered animal. I don’t want him to think he scares me. But I don’t want him to know the real reason behind my nerves.
He excites me, and that fact alone is the only thing that frightens me at that moment. “T-thank you.” I manage to choke.
“For what?”
“For saving me from that car full of thugs, obviously. I feel sorry for whatever pour soul might be their next victim tonight. Maybe we should call the police.”
My savior laughs. The sound is as soft as gravel and somehow sweet all at once. “The police are useless. As for their next victim, these aren’t common street thugs looking to stir trouble for any random stranger. You were their target.”
Target. A chill slips down my spine. “But I don’t even know anybody in Seattle. I’m from Portland.”
I watch him carefully as he seems to examine my features, with an unmasked expression baring a fondness that is clearly misplaced. He’s looking at me with…love.
What the hell.
My heart melts for this man and I am desperate to learn more about him, even if his own heart might still belong to my sister…
“They know your sister. Somebody took notice of you, and if your theory about Elise’s death not being a suicide is correct, then it makes sense that the culprits came after you to finish the job.”
“So now you believe Elise didn’t kill herself?”
He quirks his head like he’s considering all the facts. After a moment he nods, dark brows pinching together in a pained scowl. “Makes sense now that drug dealing shifters are shooting at a woman with the same face. Shit. I’m such a fucking idiot for not seeing this. Elise was too stubborn to kill herself.”
He takes a step back, and then another, shaking his head. “Of course she got mixed up with them. How did I not put two and two together?”
“Who’s them?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, I give a jump as he releases a guttural growl that tears through the entire apartment. The sound it gut-wrenchi
ng and full of heartache. I feel compelled to comfort him, to reach out, and… The thought freezes in my brain.
What, Sophie? You’ll what? Hold him? Kiss him? He isn’t yours. He didn’t ask for your sympathy or anything else you can offer him. You invaded his night, remember?
I give a slight jump as he suddenly slams a fist onto the corner of his little kitchenette, dirty dishes rattling in the sink.
“The pieces are coming together and I was too drunk to see any of them before. Of course it was them.”
“Who’s them?”
With his back turned to me, palms planted on the veneer of his countertop, and his head hanging down below his shoulder blades, I can see his body tense at my question. I get the feeling that he’s deliberating whether or not he’s going to clue me in on what’s going through his mind.
By the dark demons I see rooted deep in the hallows of his eyes, I’m not sure I want to be let in.
He lifts his head and his dark orbs settle on me. Something between us sparks, like an invisible flame trying to take life. I shiver, but I don’t dare break his gaze.
“Those were shifters who shot at you. You’ve heard of them.”
Shifters. There’s no question in his voice, everyone has heard of them. It would’ve been impossible to escape the news a few years back when the existence of shifters became known to most of the world, even if I was Amish.
“I’ve heard of them. But how do you know they’re shifters? You only got a glance.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s about to explain himself but he bites his lip, thinking better on it, and shakes his head. “There’s a pack around these parts that moved in recently, Tacoma specifically. Close enough to be a nuisance.”
“I think it’s unfair to assume they’re murderers based on the seldom fact that they’re shifters.”
The man lets out another growl, this one more bestial than the last, sending a thrill down my spine that seems to electrify my entire body. When he advances on me again, slowly, my entire being is humming in anticipation. It’s like a magnetic pull that keeps forcing us together, and for whatever reason, I’m happy to give in to the invisible force; it all feels too right to resist, even if I can’t fathom its existence. He closes that annoying gap between us in an instant and looks down.
Claimed by my Dark Angel: A Forbidden Paranormal Romance (Saints to Sinners Book 1) Page 3
