Page 43

I hold hope that the archangel has graciously disappeared downstairs with the others by the time I’ve showered.

Water flows over me, a stinging sensation following closely behind, exposing cuts I didn’t realise were there. The water bleeds crimson as it washes over a nasty gash on my forearm. I bite my lip to hide the hiss of pain.

I make sure to dress in the bathroom, drying myself quickly before struggling to pull my clothes back over my still-damp skin. I’m lucky to find a bandage and tape in the bathroom cabinet, and I grunt through the struggle of wrapping it around the cut on my forearm.

“Sounds like you need a hand in there, Slayer.”

The archangel’s voice is muffled through the door, but I can still make out the smirk in his words.

I scoff, rolling my eyes and continuing to fumble through dressing my wound.

“If you’re waiting for me to burst through the door and come to your rescue, you’ll find that moans are more effective.”

I swing the door open, shooting him a look of disdain. “You are insufferable.”

There is nothing on the archangel’s face but a look of boredom as he leans against the bed, arms crossed over his chest. He no longer wears the torn-up suit, but a pair of jeans and a T-shirt as he did before, though they don’t fit him quite as well – the sleeves are tight around his arms.

“You’re bleeding,”

is all he says as his eyes trace lines down my body.

“Your senses are keen as ever, I see.”

I hold one end of the bandage with my teeth while I use both hands to try to pull free a piece of tape to secure it.

The archangel watches me for a moment before he pushes off the bed and saunters over. “This is pathetic. Let me do it.”

He doesn’t give me a moment to protest, taking the tape and bandage with soft force. He doesn’t speak while he unwraps my sad attempt at first aid and begins afresh.

I watch him closely, noting the careful concentration that draws lines between his brows. “How do you know how to do this?”

“I’m an archangel. I know everything.”

He smirks up at me, his eyes daringly devious.

Cocky bastard.

I scoff. “You’re insufferable.”

“You said that already.”

He steps away into the bathroom before quickly returning with a small vial of what looks like antiseptic.

“I fear it didn’t land its mark the first time.”

I hiss at the sting of the antiseptic on my arm. “How do you really know how to do this? You heal. You have no need for first aid.”

“I am not immune to injury.”

He wipes a trickle of liquid that runs down my arm with his thumb. I nearly shiver at the warmth of his touch. “My mother… She was fascinated by humans. She learnt all that she could about your kind. She spent time on Earth as a nurse during your war. She was a teacher in one of your schools. She lived many lives amongst humankind.”

“It’s said that that’s why she died giving birth to me. Humanity made her weak.”

His face is unreadable as he continues. “She wrote tomes about her time spent on Earth, about the things she learnt. When I was young, I read them all. I memorised them. It was the closest I could get to her, so every moment that I wasn’t training to be an archangel, I was lost in the lives that she lived.”

My heart aches for him, for the childhood he had. Or rather, the one he didn’t. “I’m sorry that you never knew her.”

The bandage wraps around my arm, once, twice, three times, before he speaks again. He shakes his head slowly. “I’m glad she didn’t get to see what I became. The archangel responsible for the slaughter of half of her beloved humankind.”

Perhaps he does feel remorse over what his kind has done to us. “Do you blame us for her death?”

His fingers trace from the bottom of the bandage to the top and he nods. “It’s what I’ve been told since I was a child – that humanity weakened her. There are times where I believe it, times where I look at humankind and only see the weakness that infected my mother. Then there are times where I look in the mirror and see nothing but the monster who got to live while her life was taken.”

Pain flickers over his features for only a moment. The ache in my heart grows stronger.

“Archangel, it wasn’t your —”

“There.”

The word tumbles over mine as his hand lingers on the bandage. His thumb traces a soft line on my skin. Something inside me flutters, my stomach coiling. “Now you won’t stain the carpet with blood from your human heart.”

The archangel doesn’t give me a moment to respond before he drops my arm and stalks towards the door.

“Archangel —”

He stops in his tracks, not turning to look at me.

“You’re not a monster.”

I say, and to my own surprise, I mean it.