Archangel's Kiss(12)

 
 "It's who you are." He moved his hand up the slope of her hip, a slow seduction that made her suck in her stomach in anticipation.
 
 But nothing could've prepared her for the shock of lightning that was his hand on her breast, his intent explicit. She couldn't help but watch, her entire being attuned to the merest shift of his.
 
 Then he kissed her neck again and her senses splintered. Clenching the hand she'd thrust into his hair, she spun around, cupping his face between her hands, taking that beautiful, cruel mouth with her own. The kiss was wild, full of the fury of her need, the savage possession of his. One male hand fell to her hip as the other gripped her neck, refusing to let her draw back.
 
 Her breasts were crushed against the linen of his shirt, the texture deliciously-almost painfully-abrasive against her sensitized nipples. She bit his lip in revenge for what he'd done to her. He bit her back, but he held the bite, releasing her flesh with a slow concentration that had her thighs pressing together in a burst of damp heat.
 
 She went to slip her hand underneath his shirt. He caught her wrist. "No, Elena."
 
 "I'm not that fragile," she said, frustrated. "Don't worry."
 
 His hand tightened on her wrist for a second before he dropped it and took a step back, breaking their connection. Ready to fight him for what she needed, she looked up . . . and froze. "Raphael." Azure flames surged in those eyes, deadly as the angelfire he'd thrown at Uram in that final, cataclysmic fight.
 
 "Go to bed," he said in a tone of voice so calm it was a sheet of ice.
 
 
 But the fire continued to burn. Feeling her heart spasm at the lethal edge of it, she wrapped her arms around her body, covering her breasts. She didn't know if she was protecting herself or him. "Will you come back?"
 
 "Are you sure you want me to?" He'd turned and was through the balcony doors before she could answer.
 
 She watched him take off into the infinite darkness of a mountain night, before closing the doors with fingers that had dug dark red crescents into her own skin and crawling into bed. But though she pulled every single one of the blankets over her, it took her a long time to stop shivering.
 
 She'd thought she'd known, had thought she'd understood. But she hadn't. Ever since she'd woken, she'd been treating Raphael as if he was "safe." Tonight, she'd had a rude awakening. Raphael would never be safe. All it would take was one slip and he could kill her.
 
 Was she strong enough to take that risk, that chance?
 
 "You've made me a little mortal."
 
 He'd said that to her the night she'd shot him, the night he'd bled so much that she'd cried, her hands trembling as she attempted to stop the crimson flow of blood. Had he been afraid then? Did Raphael even understand fear? She didn't know, wasn't sure he'd answer her if she asked.
 
 Elena knew fear far too intimately. But, she thought, her muscles relaxing, she hadn't been afraid at the end. When her body lay shattered in Raphael's arms, she hadn't been afraid. And that was her answer.
 
 Yes, she said speaking to Raphael, not knowing the strength of their mental connection, not sure how far it'd reach.Yes, I want you to come back.
 
 He didn't answer, and she didn't know if he'd even heard her. But deep in the night, she felt the caress of lips against the curve of her neck, sensed the dark heat of a big male body curving around hers, her wings trapped in between . . . an indescribable intimacy between two angels.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                        
       
           



       8
 
 
 Elena woke alone, but there was a cup of coffee waiting for her on the nightstand-right next to Destiny's Rose. Raphael had given her the priceless treasure-a sculpture carved impossibly from a single diamond-not long after they first met. She kept trying to return it, only to find it back on her bedside table the next morning.
 
 Eyes on the gift, one that was undeniably romantic, she struggled up into a sitting position and drew in the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee. However, she'd hardly taken a sip when she felt it-the cool stroke of satin blended with the promise of a pain that would hurt oh-so-good.
 
 "Dmitri." Throat husky, she put down the cup and tugged the sheet above her breasts.
 
 Just in time.
 
 The vampire walked in with the most perfunctory of knocks. "You're late for training."
 
 Her eye went to the envelope in his hand. "What's that?"
 
 "It's from your father." He handed it over. "Be down in half an hour."
 
 She barely heard him, her eyes fixated on that envelope. What did Jeffrey Deveraux want now? "I'll be there." Words forced out past the rocks in her throat.
 
 Dmitri left her with a kiss of diamonds and cream, a sensual taunt that trapped the air in her throat, made her thighs press together in involuntary reaction. But the distraction was momentary. All too soon, she was alone, staring at the envelope as if it might grow fangs and strike. "Don't be a coward, Ellie," she told herself and reached out to slit it open. It was, she saw, addressed to her care of the Guild.
 
 Her lips twisted. How he must've hated that, having to go through his daughter's filthy, inhuman occupation to get to her.Abomination . That's what he'd called her the final night she'd spent under his roof. She'd never forgotten, would never forget.
 
 Her fingers clenched on the enclosed letter as she almost ripped it from the envelope. For an instant, she didn't understand what she was seeing, then she did and her emotions crashed in a violent wave.
 
 It wasn't from her father. The letter had come from the Deveraux family solicitors-a note advising her that they'd paid the fees for her storage unit out of courtesy for her father's business, though the items in that unit now belonged solely to her.
 
 The paper crumpled in her fist. She'd almost forgotten . . . no, that was a lie. She'd deliberately put the memory out of her mind. Her inheritance from her mother, she understood. Marguerite Deveraux had left Elena half her small personal estate, the other half going to Beth.
 
 
 But the things in that storage unit . . . they were from Elena's childhood.
 
 Drip.
 
 Drip.
 
 Drip.
 
 "Come here, little hunter. Taste."
 
 Shoving aside the blankets with hands that wouldn't work right, she got out of bed, the letter lying abandoned on the sheets as she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Her fingers slipped off the knob. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she tried again. Finally, thankfully, the water came down in a soft, warm rain. It washed away the sleep, but nothing could erase the memories now that they'd awakened.
 
 Ariel had been the best big sister any girl could want. She'd never once told Elena to go away, though Elena knew she must have been a pest with her constant need to know what was going on in her teenage sister's life. Mirabelle, the oldest of them all, had been more apt to snarl, but Belle had also taught Elena to play baseball, spending long, patient hours teaching her how to throw, how to catch.
 
 Yin and Yang, her mother had called her two oldest. Ari was the sweetness, Belle the spice.
 
 "Belle, where do you think you're going dressed like that?"
 
 "Aw, come on, Mom. It's all the rage."
 
 "It might be all the rage,mon ange, but you'll be grounded for a month if your father sees your butt hanging out of those shorts."
 
 "Mom!"
 
 Elena remembered sitting at the kitchen table, giggling, as her long-legged fifteen-year-old sister stomped upstairs to change. Across the table, Beth, too little at five to really understand, had giggled with her.
 
 "And you two little monsters, eat your fruit."
 
 Her heart twisted at the memory of her mother's uniquely accented voice; her fingers rose to her cheek, searching for the faded echo of Marguerite's kiss. "Mama." It came out a broken whisper, a child's plea.
 
 There'd been so much blood later. Elena had slipped, fallen hard. And heard Belle's dying breaths as she met Ari's horror-filled eyes. Even then, her sister had been trying to protect her, trying to tell her to run, her voice a gurgle as blood filled her throat. But Slater Patalis hadn't been interested in killing Elena. He'd other plans for her.
 
 "Sweet little hunter."
 
 Jerking off the water, Elena stepped out and dried herself off with a concentrated kind of focus. She snapped out her wings like she'd seen Raphael do, then gasped at the pain that radiated down her back. Embracing the pulses of hurt because they broke the endless loop of memory, she dressed in workout gear-loose black exercise pants with a white stripe down the sides, and a severe black tank with a built-in bra.
 
 As with all the clothing she'd found in the wardrobe that was hers, it had clearly been designed with wings in mind, the tank pulled tight at the halter neck, and having three panels-one on each side of her wings, the other down the middle of her back-that looped into a wide strap she wrapped around her waist then locked at the sides using adjustable clasps. Extra support was provided by boning around the breast area. Satisfied her body wouldn't distract her from what she needed to learn, she plaited the damp mass of her pale hair into a braid close to her skull.