Chapter 33 #2
The angel smiled, and he was still beautiful.
Light gleamed off his gold-dusted wings and cast a halo on his hair as he gazed down at me.
“I won’t taste your corruption, demon,” he said.
“But perhaps you’d like to sample divinity.
See if it scalds on the way down.” His lips twisted into something between a smile and a snarl as he commanded, “Open wide.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant to give me, but I wouldn’t take it.
I wouldn’t say yes despite Maslow’s instructions, wouldn’t submit to another cruel master.
But I was too unsteady to stand and too depleted to give a more adamant denial, so I simply held the angel’s gaze, leaking tears with my lips pinned shut.
Narcissus sneered, then spat, and a ball of warm saliva struck my cheek.
I flinched back with a gasp and raised my hands to wipe it away, but the angel caught my wrist beneath the tie.
“Wear it,” he snapped, then shoved my arms away. “It’s the closest you’ll ever come to an anointing.”
Rumbling peals of laughter shook the room. Or maybe that was me, quivering and clenching empty hands while my tears tracked through Narcissus’s spit.
“Crawl over here, demon. I’ll anoint you with something else,” someone said with a chortle.
I flicked a panicked glance at Maslow.
He wouldn’t stop this—hadn’t yet. So why did I look at him?
Searching for anyone else to intervene was in vain, though there was at least one dissenter. The younger angel, Narcissus’s spiky-haired brother, hung back. When I spotted him, he buried his nose in his cocktail, though there was barely a drop of liquor in the glass.
Then the doors opened.
The room was already chilly, but at that, it froze. It felt like a piece of that ice slipped between my ribs, angled toward my fluttering heart. The men turned in unison, and I remembered they had been waiting for someone.
The newcomer wasn’t like the others. He was an angel, outfitted with a pair of wings that dragged the floor as he approached, but he wasn’t beautiful the way Narcissus and his brother were.
He was… regal. Refined. His hair, more silver than gray, shimmered like liquid mercury.
His dark suit was immaculate and pressed with sharp lines.
He looked middle-aged, though something about him felt older. Immeasurably so.
When he turned my way, his features hardened. His voice was low and gravelly as he said, “Narcissus, we talked about this.”
He didn’t sound angry, just tired. The kind of tired that sank into your bones and stayed there.
Narcissus lifted his chin with the same insolence he’d worn all evening. “You talked, but I was not heard,” he replied. “I decided to be seen instead.”
The silver-haired angel’s gaze landed on me once more. He did nothing to mask his disapproval as he asked, “Is this the incubus? What is he wearing?”
“It’s meant to provoke a response,” Narcissus replied.
The older angel didn’t blink. “From whom?”
Maslow took that as his cue to insert himself, gliding into the guest chair as if it had been waiting for him. “From everyone, Stefano,” he said, gesturing broadly. “A little temptation, a little tease… it livens up the room.”
The angel—Stefano—didn’t acknowledge Maslow. Instead, he stepped closer to me.
He could have struck me, spat on me, or descended upon me with a soul-sapping kiss. My every thought screamed not to trust him, but I stayed rooted in place, too worn down to flinch when he held out his hand.
It lingered in the open air, steady. Extending an invitation I didn’t dare accept.
But he waited until, eventually, I grasped it.
Stefano’s icy palm cooled what I hadn’t realized was hot. He pulled, and I rose with the motion onto trembling legs. The room swayed, and so did I, stumbling forward until my chest bumped against the angel’s.
I sucked a breath and tried to stabilize myself, but my limbs were limp and lifeless. They didn’t respond to the alarm bells ringing in my brain, telling me I shouldn’t touch this man, shouldn’t get my filth on his suit or my stain on his skin.
Rather than shove me away, Stefano held on. He allowed me to lean and tightly clutch the hand he’d given until I mustered the nerve to look up and find him looking down.
His expression was not cruel. Not lewd. Simply… searching.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Zephyr,” I replied, my voice hoarse.
His head tilted. “Zephyr. That’s a wind, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
That earned the faintest quirk of his mouth. The shadow of a smile.
Pulling the silk square from his jacket pocket, he put it to my cheeks and wiped away the residual tears and spit. It reminded me of the way Beck had cleaned me, and it conveyed the same sort of quiet care.
“Well, Zephyr,” he tucked the soiled cloth away, “you can relax. I think we’ve had enough entertainment for one day.”
“He can sit with me.” The first man had returned to his chair and sat with his legs spread wide, smoothing his hands like a blanket across them.
“He’ll sit with me,” Stefano corrected. “The rest of you don’t play well enough without temptation in your laps. You can’t afford another handicap.”
There were a few grumbles and a chuckle, but no one argued. The pecking order had shifted the moment Stefano entered the room.
The angel bent to loop my bound arms around his neck, then scooped me up. We made halting progress to the head of the table, where he lowered himself into a high-backed chair and drew me across his thighs, positioning me sideways against him.
I might have slumped if I hadn’t been physically bound to him. My hands pulsed hot and dry while the blood drained out of them, and my fingertips began to sting.
On the table before me, stacks of poker chips clinked as they were distributed. The players settled into their places, and the hum of conversation ebbed as cards were shuffled with a sharp flutter. Hands were dealt, and the acrid scent of cigar smoke scented the air.
The rabbit-fast rhythm of my pulse slowed as I eased into Stefano, too weak to do much else. One of his hands settled at the curve of my hip. Not possessive or improper, but anchoring.
I wasn’t sure if the angel meant to offer protection, or if I imagined it. I didn’t know him—had never heard his name before today—but the others respected him. They straightened when he spoke and watched him like he held the rules to a game far more important than poker.
Maybe I should’ve been equally cautious, but I held on anyway, fingers tingling as they curled near the nape of Stefano’s neck.
In the span of a single morning, I’d been put on display, passed around, and pushed aside.
Safety felt out of reach, but instinct told me to cling to the only steady thing I had.
My head tipped onto the angel’s chest where I felt the rise and fall of breath that might as well have been mercy.