Page 27 of An Unexpected Ascension (A War Between Worlds #1)

The Angel

Drinking in the stale air of this decrepit house, I trail my eyes over the rigid planes of the demon’s contracting abdomen. Then up over his chiseled chest, his strained neck, veins bulging and writhing beneath his damp skin. His eyes are enraged with a hunger I’ve never seen on any man before. They sear into me, scorching me with an unspoken curse that will last eternity.

“What?”

I finally snap.

The burn he ignites inside of me with just that look, I need it to stop.

“Feeling better, Angel?”

His voice is gravelly, deep and lustrous.

Steeling myself, I only shrug.

“My soul might feel a little lighter. I’ve been wanting to hit you for quite some time now.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

He picks up his undershorts, shoving his legs into them.

A twinge rings in my chest.

“Aren’t you going to heal yourself?”

With a grunt, he slips his T-shirt on. His movements rigid with pain... pain I caused. I’m really not violent, or at least I wasn’t on Earth, but tonight was cathartic in a way I hadn’t expected.

“No.”

He climbs into bed, groaning as he settles himself between the sheets. The dawn is nearly approaching, but he closes his eyes anyway.

“Why not?”

I press, clothing myself.

He peels an eye open, then the next before sighing.

“I rather like seeing the marks you leave on me and I on you. Now, lie down.”

Only, the marks he’s left on me pale in comparison. I stand there studying the swell of his left eye, the blood coloring beneath his skin... crusting against it. A sudden wave of guilt washes over me and a desire to argue sits at the tip of my tongue, but with a simple, stern look from him, I relent and slide in next to him. With effort, he rolls to his side to face me.

“Even though it was you that was supposed to be punished tonight, I’m still glad I was able to be your punching bag.”

An apology scratches against my rib cage, desperate to break free, but I hold it tight. Instead, I whisper a confession, a sorry in its own way.

“He made me feel so weak. I’m not weak.”

“No, Angel. You’re not weak.”

His words play in a loop inside my head for the remainder of the night. The longer I’m in Hell, the more I feel like I belong. Seeing that side of myself tonight, inflicting pain, acting on my anger? It felt so damn good. Better than I ever imagined, and the demon liked it.

So, why does my heart ache for the man who offered himself to me so freely?

After some time, I finally close my eyes, willing myself to rest.

The scent of firewood and bourbon burns my nose, rousing me awake. My eyes feel heavy as if sleep is still trying to keep me under despite the red morning sun bleeding brightly through the shades.

The bed moves beneath me, and I immediately force my eyes open. Peeling my head up, I realize I’m tucked into the demon’s side, my leg draped over his own, and a small puddle of drool marks his shoulder.

Before I can kick him off the bed, his gaze is on me. The slow realization dawns on him as I steal my leg back and jolt upright.

His left cheek looks much worse today than it did last night, now swollen with blues and purples spreading beneath his eye. In the center of the bruise lies an inch long cut, dried blood crusting the wound.

Same as the center of his lip, covered in flakes of crimson. I can only imagine what the skin beneath his shirt looks like. He tucks his hands beneath his head and watches as I desperately try to avoid him.

“Feel bad?” he asks.

“No,” I mutter.

I flinch, waiting for that ping to sound and my penance to go up, but then I remember I’m in Hell. I owe nothing.

“Lying is still a sin and you, Angel, are quite sinful.”

“We’re losing daylight.”

“Is it really that terrible to feel bad about something you did?”

“Do you feel bad for what you did to me? At the very least, you have the ability to fix those marks on your body. I can’t get back into Heaven!”

“I promise, you don’t want to be in Heaven.”

He pulls himself from the bed, the aches forcing his movements to slow. In silence, we dress and don our weapons. Him with his sword sheathed at his back and me with my daggers holstered at each of my thighs.

In the musty hallway, I thread my fingers through his and pull him to a stop, forcing him to face me. My heart thunders inside my chest, but I swallow down my pride, and for the briefest moment, I let the walls housing my heart to lower.

“I need a towel and a bottle of liquor – clear.”

“Planning on blowing up the house?”

“No. I don’t particularly feel like being blown to bits,”

I growl, waiting. “Please.”

“Look at us, learning our manners.”

Out of thin air, he makes my request appear, the cloth in one hand and the liquor bottle in the other. I unscrew the cap to the alcohol, bringing it to my lips for a few swigs, then hand it over for the demon to do the same.

“Not one for a liquid breakfast.”

“It’s for the pain.”

His eyes never waver from mine, curiosity and amusement swirling between those navy-blue depths.

I watch as he tilts his head back, draining about half the bottle without so much as a wince.

He hands it over and I douse one end of the towel with the alcohol before bringing it to his cheek. His eyes shudder closed and his chest stills, every muscle in his body contracting with the pain as I bring that soaked cloth to his wound. I press ever so gently, dabbing up the dried blood.

Then repeat everything once more for his lip.

“I guess you’re expecting a thank you now,”

he murmurs.

“No. Just less complaining.”

He smirks, wincing with the movement in his face.

Dropping both the bottle and the towel, we leave. The fog from last night completely vanished, allowing us to see the Silva Timoris in the distance.