Destiny's Knight: A Fallen Angel Protector Paranormal Romantic Suspense Book (Guarded Souls 1)

by Lexxie Couper

  Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

  With another wide smile, Rhames nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Good work,” Knight said. “Any chance you can also contact Gary and tell him his services are no longer required?”

  Rhames nodded again. “Definitely.” He pivoted on his heel and began to walk back down the dark path toward Billie’s gate and the street beyond.

  “No!” Billie cried into Knight’s hand, resuming her desperate thrashing.

  “Rhames?” Knight called over her shoulder, his arms like velvet-steel bands around her body.

  The detective stopped and turned back, eying Knight with an enthusiasm that turned her already sinking stomach. “Yes, Nathanial Knight?”

  “Make sure Billie isn’t disturbed by anyone.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Rhames agreed.

  “And Rhames?” Knight called again, drawing Billie closer. Close enough for her to become aware of him on a level she didn’t want to acknowledge or accept. God, he not only smelled like heaven, he felt like it as—

  “You never saw me, and you have no idea who Nathanial Knight is, got it?”

  Rhames grinned and tapped his fingers to the peak of an invisible cap. “Got it.”

  And with that, he turned and hurried into the darkness, whistling as he went.

  Whistling “Ode to Joy,” of all things.

  The jubilant, stress-free sound was too much for Billie. She slumped in Knight’s arms, defeated. Something had just happened that made no freaking sense. Something weird and unnatural and she couldn’t process it. Not while she was directing energy into trying to escape a hold that was clearly inescapable.

  She needed to regroup.

  She needed distance from him. She’d brought him down with a back-kick and a spinning kick earlier. She could do it again, as long as he wasn’t holding her. As long as she wasn’t feeling his hard, sculpted body rubbing against hers. As long as she wasn’t breathing in his intoxicating scent.

  Oh boy.

  “Okay,” Knight murmured against her temple. “I’m going to let go of you. Don’t do anything we’ll both regret.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled against his palm.

  He chuckled. He actually chuckled.

  God help her, she liked the sound of it.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. Knight held her close, his chest to her back, his groin near her butt. She tried not to think about how aware she was of that fact, but despite the surreal situation—the apparently hypnotized Detective Rhames, Gilbert the Stalker, the…the…wings?—she couldn’t help but notice how hard and large and bulgy his groin was.

  Her head swam. Her nipples beaded. An inexplicable hunger washed over her, making her skin prickle and the junction of her thighs grow warm.

  A choked whimper tore at her throat. What was going on?

  “Please don’t do anything we’ll regret,” Knight whispered against her temple, his arms loosening around her.

  What? Like kiss you?

  The ridiculous thought tickled her sanity as he released her.

  She stepped clear of him. Three steps. Three hurried steps. And then turned around and studied him.

  Out here, in the dark, with only the glow from the fat summer moon and the muted ankle-high lights of her garden to illuminate him, she could barely discern his features. And yet, he seemed to somehow draw her eye, as if he was the only thing in existence worth her attention. Which was a load of hooey, because the Emmys were just around the corner.

  “Who are you?” she asked, surprised at how husky her voice was. She pinched her thumbnail with her fingertips. “What are you?”

  He arched an eyebrow, the feel the action stirring something in her soul. It made no sense, but it did. She could feel it on a visceral, tangible level. “‘What’?”

  “I said,” she repeated, fixing her stare hard on his dark shape, “who are you. What are you?”

  A relaxed laugh fell from him. Billie’s nipples pinched at the wicked sound. “Oh no, I heard you. I was just clarifying you’d used the word what.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I can tell you what you’re not,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A comedian.”

  He laughed. The relaxed sound rose up into the night. A shiver of traitorous delight wicked up her spine.

  “Or normal,” she finished, teeth gritted. She had to get a control of all her weird sexual reactions to him. She was pretty damn certain he was on the verge of attempting to abduct her; getting turned on by him wasn’t the appropriate reaction to such a situation.

  “Normal?” he repeated, taking one step toward her. The moon’s glow found him and for a moment, Billie forgot entirely how to breathe.

  “W…w…” It was the only sound she could make. Her brain, her mouth, her tongue and her lips had no hope of working together to form the word wings.

  Wings. He had wings. Beautiful, majestic, massive, feathered wings.

  He had wings.

  “Define normal.”

  She blinked at his instruction. And the wings were gone. Whatever messed-up trick of the light had made her see them was finished. No more wings, just a man sexier than any guy had a right to be, slowly stalking her with unequivocal intent and a smolder in his eye that would put Ryan Gosling to shame.

  Hey girl, you should be running right now…

  She stumbled back a step.

  Knight continued to move toward her. “The word normal is incredibly subjective.” His voice caressed her sanity, and her breath grew shallow. “What’s normal for me may not, in any way, shape or form, be normal for Detective Rhames.”

  Billie swallowed. How was he so close to her again? Why wasn’t she kicking his arse? Why wasn’t she screaming? Or running away?

  Why aren’t you kissing him? Why aren’t you tearing his clothes off and mounting him like a—

  “What did you do to Rhames?” she croaked, stumbling back another step. Her heart hammered in her throat. Her stare locked on his face. God, he was gorgeous. And scary. “Are you a hypnotist?”

  “If I am?” he countered, drawing closer still. So close that intoxicating scent tickled her senses once more. Her body reacted. The urge, no, the need to close the distance between them, tangle her fingers in his hair and kiss him damn near overwhelmed her.

  “Vegas is four-hundred twenty kilometers east,” she answered, watching him. “I mean, three-hundred miles. Ish.”

  He laughed. Threw back his head and laughed.

  The trees and plants in her garden seemed to laugh with him, rustling and swaying in a breeze Billie didn’t feel on her face. The moonlight played with him again. And once again, the air behind him seemed to be…different.

  “When I count to three and click my fingers, Billie Sheridan,” he said, but a mere step away from her now (when the hell had she stopped backing away?), “you will be under my power. One.” He closed the small space between them. “Two.” She gazed up at him, into his eyes. Eyes the color of a stormy Sunday. “Three.”

  He raised his hand and clicked his fingers in the space beside their heads.

  Billie gasped.

  He lowered his head closer to hers, eyebrow cocked.

  “Fuck you,” she rasped.

  He chuckled again. And again, her body reacted. On a carnal level she’d never experienced before.

  She drew a deep breath and retreated a step. If this was Stockholm Syndrome, surely her mind should wait until Knight had actually abducted her. And kept her captive for a few days. Right?

  Her mouth dry, her lips the same, she narrowed her eyes and studied him. If he was a psychopath, he was the most gorgeous one on the planet. But then again, hadn’t this country’s most famous serial killer, Ted Bundy, been attractive?

  “Please tell me what’s going on? Without any bullshit and charm, okay?” she asked. The fact she wasn’t running, wasn’t screaming, should worry her. But as surreal and weird as this whole thing was, something de
ep inside her, something her religious aunt would have called her soul, felt…safe. (If her very religious aunt was still talking to her, that was, and not denying her existence due to her “blasphemous and abhorrent” role as Destiny on an equally “abhorrent and blasphemous” show.) “What the hell is going on? Who are you and what do you want with me?”

  Knight remained motionless. His gaze held hers, unwavering and direct.

  She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Her heart raced in her throat as she narrowed her eyes and tilted her chin.

  “Gilbert Sanders,” Knight said, his voice calm, his expression unreadable, “has sold his soul to Satan to make you his, and there is only one being who can stop that from happening—me.”

  *

  Okay, he hadn’t meant to lay it on the line quite so bluntly. But then, he also hadn’t planned to influence an LAPD detective, either. Roanon Rhames was a good man, with a strong heart, stronger soul and a family he loved more than anything. Nathanial had sought out that strong soul of his the moment the man stood before them and, in the time it took his heart to beat once, watched Rhames’s entire life play out. Experienced it on every level an angel could in the blink of an eye. Rhames was one of the good ones, and as such, Nathanial didn’t like influencing his free will to do what Nathanial wanted him to do.

  But if he hadn’t, both Rhames and Billie would be in danger. Thanks to an unknown being of powerful force, Gilbert Sanders was more dangerous than a simple geography teacher had a right to be, with a single-minded goal. Rhames would not fare well if he were to come face to face with Gilbert.

  The obsessed fan was now a threat beyond the comprehension of man. Nathanial couldn’t risk Billie’s safety—or the detective’s—by playing it safe.

  Forcing his body and mind to stay calm, almost detached, he held Billie’s stare.

  She frowned, digesting what he’d said. “Sold his soul to…Satan?” A nervous giggle fell from her lips. “Are you for real?” Her frown deepened, even as a puzzled smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You’re kidding, right?” She suddenly straightened and, scratching at the side of her nose, swung her gaze around the dark garden surrounding them. “Am I being pranked?”

  Nathanial bit back a curse. “Billie, I’m afraid I’m not kidding. I know this sounds absurd, but you must believe me. For your safety and the safety of those around you, we need to leave here, now.”

  “So Gilbert the soulless stalker can’t make me his?”

  He didn’t miss the mocking disbelief in her question. He couldn’t blame her. If he were a man, rather than an angel expelled from Heaven for the audacity to feel something more for a human than his creation dictated, he wouldn’t believe a word he was saying, either.

  That didn’t change anything though. He had to get her out of here.

  He could do it one of three ways. He could influence her, in the same way he’d compelled Rhames to do his bidding; he could quite simply ignore any of her protests and straight-up physically take her away (not exactly his top choice, given his jaw was still tingling from her earlier right hook and his solar plexus was still throbbing from her earlier kick); or he could convince her with charm and logic.

  Charm and logic were what he was gambling on. Of course, he’d never had any real success with those techniques when he wasn’t fallen, so why he had any chance now…

  Hope. Hope and dread. That was what he had. Hope she would come without causing a fuss, and dread they wouldn’t get away before Gilbert arrived.

  And determination.

  He had been cast aside because of Wilhelmina Sheridan.

  His very existence was altered irrevocably because of her.

  He would not now, or ever, allow Gilbert to have her.

  He would get her to safety, deal with the obsessed fan, and then he would locate the unknown being who had given the geography teacher such unnatural power and deal with them as well.

  He’d been a Second Sphere Power before his expulsion, one of God’s fiercest warriors. The unknown being would suffer.

  “Billie,” he repeated, holding back the power to render her free will void with strained control, “I promise I will not hurt you. But we must leave now.”

  She studied him, expression enigmatic. “As long as you promise,” she said. Sarcasm dripped from the word. “Let me get my coat.”

  She moved. Faster than he’d expected.

  Without warning, she launched into a sprint, running past him. Headed along the shadowy path toward her front gate.

  “Ah, sod it,” Nathanial muttered, pivoting on his heel to follow her.

  He should have known this wasn’t going to go smoothly. He’d watched her for her whole life. She wasn’t a doormat or a chump by any means. Gullible was never a word he’d use to describe her.

  Fighter. Feisty. Playful. Creative. Loopy. Loyal. Generous. They were the words he’d use. Along with kind, giving, stubborn and sarcastic.

  He’d fallen in love with her for all those words.

  Of course, now some of those words—stubborn, came to mind—were going to make this situation go pear-shape if he didn’t…

  “Sod it,” he repeated, fixing his stare on her back. “Billie,” he called, releasing a tiny ribbon of his will. Not a lot; just enough to snag hers.

  She faltered to a halt and turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide. Her lips were parted. Her breasts heaved. The wild mess of burnt-copper waves tumbled around her face and shoulders in a cascade of silken strands he longed to feel trickling through his fingers.

  God save him, she was beautiful.

  He crossed to where she stood with slowed strides.

  She didn’t move. His will tangled in hers, an intangible knot she had no hope of escaping.

  “Billie,” he said again, a low, calm affirmation that it was okay, everything was okay…

  “Knight?” she responded, not moving.

  Her will strained against the bind he’d placed upon it. Rebelled. But it was all for naught. Like Detective Rhames, she was under his influence.

  Fuck.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes almost ice blue in the moon’s silver glow, her skin smooth and flawless in its natural beauty.

  You need to walk into your home, pack an overnight bag, and then leave with me. Now.

  The instruction formed in his mind, concise and perfect.

  He stepped closer. Closer. So close, the delicate scent of everything she was caressed him. A scent, an existence, a reality he’d known for over three hundred years.

  “You need to kiss me,” he said, the instruction little more than a scratchy breath.

  A smile of sheer joy stretched Billie’s lips and, with a soft sigh of acquiescence, she closed the distance between them, combed her fingers through the hair at his nape and drew his head down to hers.

  Her parted lips brushed Nathanial’s, gentle and tender at first, like a tentative invitation.

  An electrical charge jolted through him. His heart—an organ of divine creation and significance—thumped hard and fast.

  A gasp tore from him. A groan. His entire body erupted in an inferno of hungry need and aching desire. His head swam. His wings flexed and spread. His groin…his groin throbbed with a molten urgency.

  Nathanial froze.

  He hadn’t been prepared for this. It was more intense, more profound, than he’d ever imagined.

  He’d never hoped Billie Sheridan’s lips would ever touch his, but now…

  Billie parted her lips more, seeking out his tongue with hers. Finding it. Sliding against it. She pressed her body to his, her breasts crushing against his chest.

  Another groan rumbled deep in his chest, and he smoothed his hands over his hips, drawing her closer.

  She was kissing him, something he’d ached for since he’d stolen a look into the endless expanse of the future three hundred years ago and saw her. She was kissing him.

  But she wasn’t. Not really.

  A cold finger of guilt drilled into Nathani
al’s chest.

  He’d taken control of her free will. Her lips may be on his, her tongue may be seeking his out, the exquisite perfection of her body—with all its soft curves and dips and planes—may be pressed to his, her fingers may be tangled in his hair and the divine curve of her sex may be nestled against the growing bulge of his groin, but Billie Sheridan wasn’t kissing him.

  He pulled away from her with a tormented growl and, gut a broiling mess of self-disgust, released his will’s influence over hers.

  She stumbled back a step. Stared at him. Raised a shaking hand to her mouth.

  He watched her trace her fingertips over her lips, lips still moist from their kiss.

  “H-how did you…” She stopped. Caught her bottom lip with her teeth, confusion warring with horror in her eyes as she looked at him. “How did you make me…”

  She didn’t finish. Whether because she couldn’t bring herself to vocalize the mental and physical assault he’d just subjected her to, or because she still couldn’t comprehend what had just happened, he didn’t know.

  Tortured uncertainty radiated from her.

  The emotion ripped him apart. Made him hate himself. Angels, even fallen ones, rarely experienced hate. It served no purpose. And yet, Nathanial felt it now.

  Hate. Thick and sour and dark.

  Lord save him, what had he done? What had he been thinking?

  And how did he move forward, knowing how heinous he’d behaved?

  “How did you do that?” she finally asked, the words a scratchy, tormented breath.

  Drawing in a slow breath of his own, Nathanial stepped closer to her again, close enough that the shadows of the night would not be able to hide his face from her. He lowered his head until she could see the whites of his eyes and said, “An angel has the power to render the free will of a human null and void when required.”

  Something dark and icy glinted in Billie’s eyes. Her jaw bunched. Her heart beat hard enough he could not only hear it, but feel it disturb the air around them. “Null and void? That’s what you call what you just did?”

  The anger in her voice raked against Nathanial’s guilt like a razor-tipped hook.