That element of surprise made each session as fun for him as it usually was for her.
Now she came in close . . . and suddenly had two more knives headed straight for his neck. Blocking them using a maneuver he’d learned from Alexander before the other archangel started to view him as a threat, he bared his teeth. “That’s cheating.”
“Oh?” A saccharine-sweet smile. “Didn’t realize we were playing fair.” Another fury of blades, their bodies moving with a speed and a ferocity that had drawn an intrigued audience of three—Keir, Isabel, and Naasir. All watched from the balconies that ringed the courtyard and someone clapped when Elena managed to swipe his forearm, drawing blood.
Ignoring the cut, he touched the tip of the knife he’d pulled out of his wing to her cheek to register a hit. He made sure it didn’t break skin, for his passionate, beautiful lover didn’t heal as fast as he did, but she made no effort to hide her fury that he’d gotten so close. Twisting out of reach before she could take advantage of his proximity, he moved to come at her from behind.
She threw the knives over her shoulders without turning.
Startled by the unexpected tactic, he almost took one in the chest, only his agility saving him from a wound that would’ve taken at least ten minutes to repair. Turning the instant the blades left her hands, Elena swept out with a kick to capitalize on his shaky balance, but she’d forgotten her wings.
Grabbing one, he hauled her close, his blade at her throat. “I win,” he said, both their chests heaving.
A sharp prick against his heart. “Wanna bet?”
Grinning, he bent his head and kissed her, half expecting her to slide the blade in, she was so pissed. But she returned his kiss, hot, wild, and wet, her tongue rubbing against his own. “You ever taunt me with Tasha again,” she said in a harsh whisper when they broke the kiss to gasp in air, “and I will geld you.”
Raphael winced. “That would take at least a day to repair. Are you sure you want to lose my . . . attributes for that long?”
A twitch of her lips, eyes bright. He could see her struggling to hold in the laughter, but it was a losing battle and she was soon doubled over with her hands on her knees, her laugher wild color in the air.
For the first time, I envy you, Raphael.
Glancing up, he caught Keir’s gaze. It’s not every man who has his lover out for his blood.
Keir’s laugh was quiet, as, waving good-bye, he disappeared into his suite. It was Naasir who jumped down onto the courtyard with feral grace. Picking up the discarded knives, he held them out to an Elena who was now upright and wiping tears of laughter from her face.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, before secreting away the knives with such speed, Raphael couldn’t follow her movements or tell where exactly she’d hidden the sleek weapons.
“Why did you cheat?” the vampire asked, head cocked. “With the knives?”
“Er, I was fighting an archangel who can crush me like a bug. Of course I was going to cheat—especially since we had a score to settle.”
Naasir stared at her, then grinned. “We’ll spar when I’m in New York.”
Twenty-five minutes later, they’d showered and dressed in preparation for the trip home, and Elena still wasn’t sure quite what had happened. “Does he like me now?” she asked, as they ate a light breakfast in readiness for heading out on the wing.
“Naasir likes very few people, but I think he finds you interesting.”
“Hmm.” She bit into her honey toast. “I’m not sure I want to be found ‘interesting’ by a tiger creature. He probably finds other fresh meat interesting, too.”
“Tiger creature?”
“Stop laughing.” Scowling, she poured him a glass of orange juice and pushed it across. “Sorry about the funk when I woke up.”
He took the juice, the humor fading from eyes the breathtaking hue of a high mountain lake. “Why today?” he asked gently. “You’ve never been so defeated by the nightmare memories.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.” It had simply felt as if she’d been beaten to a bloody pulp, every one of her achievements erased by the crushing ugliness of horror. “I just”—she blew out a breath—“I wish I could be fixed, so I could remember my sisters, my mother, without the pain.”
Raphael didn’t offer her platitudes, just grim pragmatism. “You’re young. The memories will never disappear, but they’ll lose their power to cause such harm over time.”
“No offense, but I don’t want to be screaming myself awake for the next hundred years.” The immortal concept of “time,” she’d learned, was far different from a mortal’s.