Breaking Fate

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  A few seconds passed, and then he picked up sounds of light footsteps running down the stairs. The door opened. Her scent flooded him.

  There she was.

  His light. His sun.

  “Blaéz?” A frown creased her brow. She shoved her unruly hair from her sleep-flushed face, blinking those gorgeous eyes. “What are you doing here? You… you said goodbye.”

  “Clearly, I don’t know the meaning of the word.” His legs buckled. Shit. He leaned against the doorjamb. A slant of light from the living room socked him full on the face and had him squinting. Even the soft beam hurt.

  A shocked gasp. “Oh Lord, you're hurt!” She grabbed him around his waist.

  A simple touch, and like a cork popping, unbelievable pain ripped through him. He gritted his teeth in protest. Stumbled. Her arm tightened around him. Yes, he’d take all this shit just to have her holding him. He tried not to lean too much of his weight on her as she maneuvered him to the living room. Exhaling roughly, he dropped down onto the couch.

  She rushed off to the kitchen. He wanted to protest, didn't want her to leave him.

  Agony roiled from his chest, filling his mind. He shut his eyes. Perspiration rolled down his back. He’d had no intention of coming here, yet somehow, hers was the address he’d given the cab driver. In this state, with that wound, he wouldn’t be able to protect her if any of the demon pricks had followed him.

  He pushed to his feet. Wavered like a drunk. “Have ta go—”

  “Yeah? Where?” She reappeared in front of him like some avenging angel in her pink candy-striped pajama pants and a blue tank, a damp kitchen towel in hand.

  She smelled so good. Clean. Pure. He wanted to inhale her so she’d wipe away the darkness crawling inside of him.

  “From what I see, you’d need a crane to haul you up and about.”

  Her dry tone hit him square in the chest. Amusement, irritation, and above all, absolute awe overwhelmed him. She alone gave him this.

  “Why do you do this to me, huh?” She glared at him. A lock of hair fell over her face. “First Daniel, now you. You want me to suffer a heart attack?”

  With a shaky hand, he tucked the escaped strand behind her ear. The fact that she’d lumped him in with her family, with people she loved, cracked through the ice encasing his chest. He reeled at the emotions flowing through him. By Christ, he no longer cared about the consequences.

  He was done walking away from her.

  Chapter 8

  Blaéz swayed. Darci flung the towel aside and grabbed his arm before he toppled to the wooden floor. For the past two days, she’d tried to accept that she wouldn’t see him again, and now here he was, back in her home, bruised and battered once more. Blood continued to seep from the cut on his brow. His face was messed up pretty badly, like someone had used it as a punching bag.

  What the hell kind of special ops job was this?

  “I don’t like your work, Blaéz. You should seriously consider a new career.”

  Rough laughter left him. Dry, dark, sexy. She looked up, but he said nothing.

  Darci shifted her hold and slipped her arm around his waist when her hand slid over a sticky wetness on his shirt. A sharp coppery smell crowded her nose. She pulled her hand back and stared at the blood coating her fingers then grabbed the lapels of his jacket.

  “No.” He shook his head, trying to stop her. Scowling, she pushed his hands away and parted his jacket. He sighed.

  “Jesus!” The blood drained from her face. A fist-size burn had melted the fabric of his tee. The skin beneath his bloody shirt was scorched black. “What did you do — use yourself as a shield?”

  “It’s nothing. I just need to crash for a bit. A little time and I’ll be fine.”

  The man certainly had a way of triggering her temper. “Fine?” she snapped. He may have quick-healing abilities, but she couldn’t see that helping him in this instance. “For that to happen, you need a doctor!”

  “No doctor.” Despite the pain he must be in, his tone was flat-out non-negotiable.

  Men! They had to be difficult.

  She cast a quick eye at her couch. No, the two-seater wouldn’t hold him — the man was just too large. Besides, her first-aid kit was in the bathroom upstairs. “Come on.” She slipped her arm around his waist again. “Let’s get you comfortable so I can at least tend to that wound.”

  He leaned against her as she maneuvered him up the stairs to her room. The slippery wetness on his shirt had her fear growing. The moment his legs knocked against her bed, he slumped down on the mattress like a felled oak.

  Darci struggled to remove his jacket. He winced, moved a little, and she managed to free his arms then wrestle the thing off of him and toss the gaudy garment to the floor. She found scissors in the bedside drawer and carefully cut open his t-shirt to reveal blood-smeared abs.

  Oh, dear God! Burned skin surrounded the open wound like he’d been torched. It bled profusely, and must hurt like hell.

  “Don’t worry about it, it’ll heal,” he mumbled, pulling her out of her distress.

  Heal? Was he freakin’ kidding? This wasn’t a knife wound. No way would this heal anytime soon. She was done doing things his way. She grabbed the bedside phone.

  Despite his closed eyes, with unerring accuracy, he grasped her hand. His grip gentle but unbreakable. “No.”

  “God, Blaéz, you're more stubborn than a damn redwood stump. That wound needs medical attention. Now!”

  A weary sigh escaped him, like she was the one being difficult. “I’ll be okay, trust me. It takes more than this to end me.”

  Damn his pig-headed bravery!

  She dropped the receiver back in annoyance and hurried to the bathroom, snatched the first-aid kit, and filled a container with water. Back in the room, she set the things on her night table and began to clean the horrid crater-size lesion on his chest. But the wound continued to bleed.

  “Blaéz—”

  “Fine. Call Týr. Star three. My cell.”

  Týr? What could he do? She didn't see the giant blond as a doctor. She found Blaéz’s phone easily enough in his pants pocket and pressed star three. Please, please let him be able to help.

  After a few rings, a masculine voice drawled, “Celt?”

  “Týr? It’s Darci. Blaéz asked—”

  “Your address?” The amusement in his tone fled.

  Frowning, she gave it. “He’s hurt—”

  “I know. I’ll be there soon.” He rang off.

  How would he know that? She glanced back at the nasty lesion on Blaéz’s chest and really, really hoped Týr knew what to do. Setting the cell phone on the nightstand, she gently eased the ruined shirt off Blaéz and tossed it aside. Dampening the towel, she cleaned the blood from the cut on his brow and studied his face.

  His skin appeared ashen beneath the light tan. Pain dug grooves into his brow. His strong jaw remained rigid, his sensual mouth compressed into a tight line. Even weakened and wounded, he didn't give an inch, retaining that lethal aura. Yet seeing him lying there, something inside her protested painfully. She couldn’t bear to see him hurt and in such agony.

  Blaéz’s cell rang again. Startled, she snatched the phone and answered. “Hel—”

  “It’s Týr, I'm outside.”

  How did he get here so fast? Then a rap sounded on her door.

  Dropping the cell on the nightstand, Darci raced downstairs and threw open the front door. “Thank God, you're here. He’s upstairs.”

  Týr walked in, carrying a small package. Darci shut the door and led the way up to her bedroom.

  He took one look at Blaéz, tore open the brown paper bag and set a flat glass jar along with a small bottle on the night table. Carefully, Týr removed the gauze she’d placed on the injury. Then he drawled, “You still with me, Sleeping Beauty?”

  Blaéz flipped him off.

  Snorting, Týr worked fast as if he’d done this many times before, and cleaned the wound again. Unable to remain still, Darci
picked up the jacket from the floor. It looked like nothing Blaéz would wear, it just wasn’t his style, and it didn’t smell of him either — actually, it reeked of stale sweat and tobacco. He had to have taken it from someone to cover his ruined shirt. She draped it over a chair then crossed back to Týr’s side. “Let me do that.”

  The tall man glanced at her, nodded, and stepped away.

  “How did he get here?” Týr asked, raking a hand through hair that looked in dire need of brushing and moved to stand at the foot of the bed.

  “I'm not sure.” Darci kneeled on the rug and set to work, dabbing at the blood on Blaéz’s chest. “What happened? Do you know?”

  “Casualties of war,” Týr murmured.

  Her gaze rushed to the blond man. “War? What war?”

  “Inside joke. Just part of the job.”

  “What kind of job is this? He could lose his life,” she snapped, tossing the soiled gauze with the others on the table.

  “He tries, but I doubt it,” Týr said drily.

  Jesus, but the man had a warped sense of humor.

  Týr crossed back to the nightstand, picked up the flat glass jar and opened it. A mossy smell, almost like musty roots flooded the air. He handed it to her. “Paste the stuff on his wound, cover it thoroughly.”

  She took the small tub, scooped out the dark green ointment, and gently lathered it on the open lesion. Then she placed gauze over it and taped it down. Blaéz’s skin felt too hot. Perspiration beaded his forehead.

  “Don’t you think he should see a doctor?” she asked, her worry growing.

  Týr shook his head. “No, he’ll be fine, trust me. I’ll take him back now.”

  “No…” Blaéz grunted, stirring awake. His eyes clouded with pain. “Have to stay. She needs protection—”

  “No, you can't,” Darci said to Týr at the same time. “He’s hurt, he shouldn’t be moved.” Then she broke off and frowned. “Protection? What are you talking about?”

  Blaéz fell silent again.

  Darci glanced at Týr, who shrugged a massive shoulder. Did Blaéz mean her attackers? She’d heard the three men Blaéz had flung out of the car were in the hospital with multiple broken bones. She wasn't a violent person, but it made her feel heaps better to know Blaéz had hurt them. At least they wouldn’t come after her.

  “And for the next act,” Týr said, pulling her gaze to him. He unscrewed the cap from the opaque bottle and held it out to Blaéz. “Here. Think of it as fine whiskey.”

  Blaéz’s gaze fired open in irritation. “Keep that shit away from me.”

  “This should be fun,” Týr muttered. “Okay. Your call, Celt. Since you’ll be laid up for several days without this, guess I'm staying — you know, to keep an eye on you and all that. I'm sure Darci would love my company—”

  With a terse snarl, Blaéz pushed up on an elbow and snatched the bottle with a shaky hand. For a man weakened from his injuries and blood loss, he sure moved fast. Grinning, Týr winked at her.

  Darci couldn’t help but smile at Týr’s devious methods. She turned to Blaéz and froze, meeting his searing stare, his features rigid like she’d done something wrong.

  Because she’d shared a smile with Týr?

  His expression tight, Blaéz swallowed some of the brown liquid and grimaced, but his gaze never left her. A surge of heat spread across her face at that possessive look. Glancing away, Darci took the bottle before it slipped from his unsteady hand. She screwed the top back on, set it aside, and pushed to her feet. “Will that help him?” she asked Týr.

  “Absolutely.” He stared at Blaéz for a long moment. “You okay, man? You're sure not acting yourself.”

  Blaéz scowled. “I drank the crap. Now leave me the hell alone — wait.”

  “Make up your mind, Celt.” Týr eyebrows wiggled suggestively. “You want me or not?”

  “Piss off. There’s a tear in LES. Dagan’s covering it.”

  A tear in Les? Whatever that meant, it wiped the amusement off Týr’s face. “I’ll notify the others.” He glanced at her. “Call if you need me.”

  She nodded.

  Seconds later, his footsteps echoed as he ran down the wooden stairs.

  Darci could make little sense of that odd conversation. She turned to Blaéz, but his eyes were shut.

  Picking up the ruined tee from the floor, she dropped it on her dressing table to get rid of later then made quick work of cleaning the room of the soiled gauze and stuff. She came back to the bed, and about to draw the sheet over Blaéz, she paused. Those boots would have to go. He wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping with them, and the belt, too…

  ***

  Blaéz stilled when he felt Darci lean over him, then her hands fiddled with his belt. He had no idea where she was going with this — he didn't care — he was starving for her touch. As she pulled his belt free, her fingers brushed his stomach, his jaw clenched, and a shudder rippled through him.

  “I'm sorry, did I hurt you?” she asked. A soft clank of the buckle sounded as she set his belt down. “I just wanted to make you comfortable.”

  He shook his head, having her so close, his body thundered into overdrive, his hunger for her growing. His erection strained his leathers. Hell, he could do little about the raging hard-on he sported. With her so close, that fucker wasn’t going to go down any time soon.

  She fiddled with his boots, then she tugged, followed by a yank… harder this time. A low feminine growl escaped her as she fought to free him from his footwear.

  It made him smile, something he hadn’t done naturally in eons. By the heavens, to have her caring for him, it made the ice in his barren chest melt a little.

  A thick haze filled his head and his eyelids grew heavier. Why the hell wasn’t the potion working? The weakness should be easing. Instead, sleep tugged at him. He wrestled through the fog in his mind and tried to think. The potion shouldn’t knock him out…

  Son-of-a-bitch! The flea-brain had given him the oracle’s sleeping draft! He’d wanted to be at Darci’s for an hour, maybe two before he left. Now, he had no way of taking a single bloody step until the potion wore off.

  With his senses dulling, Blaéz struggled to scan the area. A familiar brush on his psyche and he picked up Týr close by… patrolling. Damn idiot. At least Darci would be safe if any of those demon dickheads came sniffing. A rough breath sawed past his lips. His eyelids felt too heavy to open, but he was so aware of her living, breathing presence. He reached out for her. “Darci?”

  After a moment, her warm fingers touched his. He clasped her hand and drew her close. “Lay beside me.” When she hesitated, something tightened inside his chest that she didn't want to. He couldn’t blame her; after all he’d walked away. “Need to feel warm again… it’s been so long…” Since before he’d been confined to his solitary prison. Since he felt alive. Only she filled the void inside of him — warmed him.

  At her complete stillness, and close to begging, the light went off, the illumination behind his closed lids darkening. The bed dipped and she slid beside him. Blaéz searched for her hand and found she’d tucked one under her cheek and the other beneath her pillow. He didn't care for the inch separating them, wanted her closer.

  “Your wound,” she protested when he tugged her.

  “Don’t give a shit,” he mumbled.

  A soft, exasperated exhale left her, then she shifted and carefully placed her arm over his stomach. Her legs slid alongside his, but she remained as stiff as a board beside him.

  Did she think he’d jump her? Of course, he wanted her with every thing in him, but he was in no shape to do what he truly desired. He stroked her arm, wanting her to relax. A moment, then two passed. Finally, her body lost its rigidity and her soft curves settled naturally into his side. Her full breasts pressed against his biceps, her thighs aligned against his, surrounding him with her warmth. Blaéz fought against the drowsiness, wanted to stay in this gut-churning sensation of need — of tenderness, coursing through him.

/>   “I'm sorry I walked away,” he murmured. “I thought I was doing the right thing… I’m so fuckin’ messed up…”

  “Shh, it’s okay. Rest.”

  Yes, it would be okay, he had her back now. Unable to fight the effects of the potion any longer, he wrapped his fingers around hers so she wouldn’t leave him, and finally let sleep claim him.

  But images from the past sifted through his mind like eerie specters…

  Searing pain had him hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Blaéz lay in a pool of his own charred remains of flesh as he healed again from a brutal flogging. Hatred surging — he wanted Maloch drawn and quartered before he destroyed him.

  An agonized moan filled the shadowy cavern. Blaéz turned his head. A loud thud and feathers scattered. And there, in the gloom, an enormous black wing lay on the rough ground. The weight of his remaining wing pulled the kneeling angel at an unnatural angle, sagging him to one side.

  “Let them go, Lucifer,” the angel croaked. Limp, dark hair hung forward, hiding his face “You have what you want.”

  A sinister laugh echoed in the quiet. A brutal kick, and the angel fell into a pool of his own blood.

  “Did you think coming into my realm to rescue this whiny lot of protectors would be that easy after what you did to me, O’ Mighty One?” Lucifer taunted, hauling the archangel up by his remaining wing. “I planned millennia to get you here. I want more than just your wings. I want you kicked out of your lofty place. I want you broken — ruined, that nothing could ever put you together again!”

  He seized the wing and yanked. The sound of flesh ripping apart resonated in the dark. Bones snapped. The dark angel’s roar of unmitigated agony filled Blaéz’s ears.

  The bastard! Blaéz struggled to his feet and slammed into Lucifer. With a flash of his hand, Lucifer pinned Blaéz to the wall. Snarled, “No one interferes with my plans! Pity you don’t have wings to add to my collection — no matter—” He shoved his hand into Blaéz’s chest. Pain exploded, surging through him… then unending silence.