Chapter Twenty-Eight-Angel
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT-ANGEL
M y name is Angel Fury. Emphasis on my surname.
Yeah. It’s mine.
Some people think we made it up, Nico and me. But we didn’t.
Our family has a long history, and one of our great-aunts or something spent years tracing our roots back all the way to ancient Rome. She wrote a whole book about it, but it’s in Greek and I never got around to getting it translated.
Yiayia, our paternal grandmother, was born in Athens. She came to the states like most people during World War II from Greece.
Yiayia was quite the lady. She raised me after my parents died.
Oh, she was tough and loving. When Nico’s mother died of an overdose, how she wept for her daughter-in-law.
I am older than Nico, and maybe I remember things a little differently. Like the way she spoke Greek more often than not. It didn’t matter my mother was a mix of Italian, Irish, and Puerto Rican.
I was just like a million other people in this neck of the woods. The son of immigrants. A mix of all the rich cultures and ethnicities in this part of the world.
But to Yiayia, I was hers, and that was all that mattered.
She told me stories of where the name Fury came from. And I ate them up. Nico did, too.
The original three Furies are, of course, the daughters of the goddess Gaea. They deliver divine retribution, vengeance, raining justice on those who displease the gods.
It’s something we talked about often when he, Luc, and I started the Vipers. If you believed the stories, then our heritage is soaked in violence and vengefulness.
Coming up on our own was a long, grueling battle. But together, we did what we set out to do. We took over the neighborhood, and ever since then, we’ve been expanding.
Maybe our corner of the world is better for it. Maybe to some it’s not. But I don’t worry about that.
The point is, I am a Viper.
Lethal.
Cunning.
Powerful.
And full of fucking venom.
I don’t trust Giovanna. The blonde woman has a sneaky sort of aura about her. And I really don’t like her manhandling my woman.
Still, I won’t cause a scene here. Not yet, anyway. I just follow where Giovanna is leading my Koukla.
My thoughts stray, and I think about the way Sisi tensed right before Giovanna reached us. How she was probably recalling seeing the skinny blonde on my lap.
As if I wanted her there.
But I understand why Giselle jumped to the conclusions she did, no matter how off base they were.
And I get mad.
I think about how my Little Doll cut me off from calling her mine when I made the introductions.
And that increases my ire.
I don’t like that. Not one bit.
If Giselle tries to deny my claim on her by ignoring it, then I am going to have to do something she can’t ignore. Something no one can refute.
My pulse is racing, but my eyes are wandering over her supple body in that fucking dress and I grind my teeth.
The thin fabric does nothing to hide the sway of her plump ass as she walks, or the rise and fall of her magnificent tits that is inevitable with every breath she takes.
It’s not her fault. She’s built like a goddess. And I love how she looks.
But she’s mine to look at. No one else’s.
I think about how Nico killed a man for looking at his woman, and I wonder if it’s possible to clean up an entire fucking ballroom full of bodies because if I catch one more person’s gaze on my Koukla for longer than is acceptable, I might just kill every last motherfucker here.
Then, I wonder what she might think if she knew all this. Giselle doesn’t know how I feel, the insane thoughts rattling around my head, because I keep that shit close to the chest.
But so does she, I realize. She doesn’t tell me everything she’s thinking, and I want her to.
That sort of thing only comes with trust.
I can make her trust me. Believe in me. All I need is time.
I wonder if maybe my Koukla is having the same thoughts I’ve been having for days. And I have been having some seriously deep thoughts.
But maybe she’s also wondering what to call herself in connection with me.
Now, I’m mad at myself.
But I’m not sure what the solution is.
Saying she’s my girlfriend isn’t enough. I’m forty fucking two years old. I don’t have girlfriends.
And if I did, Giselle is still more than that.
She’s my, my— she’s mine .
The women stop walking and I narrow my eyes, deciding once and for all. After tonight, Giselle is going to know without a doubt where she stands.
I take two enormous steps, and I grab her arm, yanking her back none too gently from Giovanna’s loose grip.
“Ah, I see how it is,” the blonde says, and I don’t like her smile.
She might think she’s untouchable because of her connection to Margaret. But that means shit to me.
I don’t smile or joke. I simply tuck Giselle against my side and feel her sigh as she leans into me.
“Angel, I am so glad you’re here,” Margaret’s booming voice interrupts us.
The redhead is the new leader of the O’Doyle clan, thanks to the Vipers’ interference, and she’s coming towards me with one arm extended. Her other arm is wrapped around a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair slicked back from his face.
I’m not familiar with him. And I don’t like that she’s bringing him close to my Koukla.
I turn my body slightly, so Giselle is between both my arms. I don’t smile. I don’t even acknowledge him.
The message is simple.
She is mine.
She is protected.
And she is off fucking limits.
My face is like fucking stone, and I don’t move a muscle. I watch silently as Giovanna leans against Margaret’s other side.
“Angel, I want you to meet John Chen. John, this is the Angel Fury,” Margaret says and smiles, and she looks like the cat that got the canary.
Fucking shit.
I know what this is. It’s a flex.
Margaret O’Doyle is showing off her connection to the Vipers. To impress her girl, or maybe this stranger, I don’t know.
Maybe she thinks she can play this game now because she’s a boss.
But she can’t.
Not with the Vipers.
And most particularly not with me.
I don’t play games.
Margaret says something flippant, but I ignore her. I don’t want to start anything here. So, I refuse to engage.
“Angel, you were so much more fun when we visited the Viper’s Den,” Giovanna says, and she eyes Sisi like she’s got some secret or something.
I feel my woman tense, but I squeeze her neck unobtrusively and she settles.
That’s my girl.
But now they made Giselle uncomfortable and I’m getting annoyed.
“Giovanna, play nice. Apologies, Mr. Fury, but I am so thrilled to make your acquaintance,” the stranger says.
I look at the man, John Chen, and at his extended hand and I don’t blink.
I have one hand on the back of Giselle’s neck and the other on her hip. Releasing her to shake this man’s hand is not something I’m inclined to do.
So, I don’t. John Chen raises an eyebrow and offers a quick bow.
“A pleasure, I’m sure. How are you enjoying your evening?” he asks with no trace of an accent.
He looks Asian, but I’m guessing he grew up right here in the states. Hell, for all I know his family has been here longer than mine.
I don’t answer because I don’t know him. And when his gaze flicks over Giselle, I accept I don’t need to know him. I just need him the fuck away from me.
My blood boils. I don’t know what the fuck Margaret is trying to pull tonight.
Maybe Luc and Nico are right. Maybe she’s a good fit. Ready to take over.
Or, more likely, little Miss O’Doyle is not ready for this responsibility.
But it’s still not my business. Giovanna is cuddling up to John now, but the fucker is still looking at my girl.
It’s not her fault. Giselle is a fucking knockout for sure. Truly, his aren’t the only eyes to stray her way tonight.
But he’s closer than those other fuckers. And his stare is lingering way too long.
The grip I have on my inner monster is starting to slip. I stand up straighter, pulling his attention back on me.
“Apologies, Mr. Fury, for staring. Your wife looks simply stunning tonight. You are a lucky man,” he says.
“Oh, thank you, but we—” Giselle starts to speak, but I apply some more pressure to her neck, and she closes her mouth.
“What brings you here, John?” I ask, ignoring his comment.
It’s better if I focus on why he’s there and not the way he talked about Giselle’s appearance.
Motherfucker.
Focus.
Suspicions swirl around my brain, and none of them are good.
“Oh, Margaret and I are old school friends, aren’t we? Of course, I am here to celebrate her ascension to the throne, as it were,” he says and Margaret smiles at him and nods.
But her smile is brittle.
It doesn’t reach her eyes. Giovanna is grabbing a shot of whiskey from the tray of a passing server, and I notice her smile is gone, too.
What the fuck?
Something isn’t right. And I am sick of all the pretense. But this is how the game is played. I have to bite my fucking tongue for now.
“I see,” I say, and offer one more nod before making our excuses.
“Perhaps I might have a dance with your wife,” John says, and if it wasn’t for Giselle’s tight grip on my arm, I swear I might hit this fucker.
I exhale and ignore him. Again.
“Congratulations, Miss O’Doyle, on your new promotion. But I promised my wife this dance. Excuse us,” I say, my eyes meeting John Chen’s once more before he looks away first.
I turn to walk away, placing Giselle just in front of me. I don’t let go. My hands are on her, one on her elbow, the other at the small of her back.
I have to process everything that just went down, but right now all I can think about is how she froze when I said wife.
Something inside me stirs at using the word where she’s concerned.
I never imagined I would be the type of man to get married, but as I lead us through the crowd to the dance floor, it’s all I can think about.
“Why did you say that?” she whispers.
The dance floor is crowded, but people move out of our way, creating space. I take Giselle in my arms and finally, my inner monster starts to calm.
The music continues, and I start to move with her.
“Why did I say what?” I ask, and I drag her closer.
She’s tiny. Short. But I love the way she fits inside my arms, and dancing with her is nice. More than nice.
It feels right.
“Wife. Why did you call me wife?” Giselle asks, and I don’t like the look in her celery green eyes.
She looks fragile. Like she’ll crack if I say the wrong words.
“Because he assumed it, and I don’t know that man. It’s safer if they think you are my wife,” I tell her, and it’s not a lie.
It is safer.
But it’s not the only reason.
Fuck.
I should just tell her the truth.
But old habits die hard deaths. And I’m not Chatty fucking Cathy when it comes to my feelings.
Truth is, I never felt this way about anyone. I’m not sure what it is. I mean, is it love?
I don’t know. I’ve never been in love with a woman before.
Just say it, you weak fuck, even if only to yourself.
My inner voice is a cocksucker, but I ignore him, focusing instead on my Koukla’s pretty gemlike stare.
The sparkle that’s been there all night dimmed a little at my explanation and I don’t like that.
I want her happy again. I want her glowing.
The DJ is playing something slow and romantic, and that’s fine with me because all I want right now is to feel her in my arms.
“Did I tell you how gorgeous you look tonight?” I ask.
It’s true. And it’s the right thing to say. Giselle’s smile is so bright it rivals the sunshine as she tilts her head back to look at me.
“Actually, you didn’t, and I was wondering if maybe I chose the wrong dress,” she replies, biting her lip coquettishly.
“Nothing wrong with that dress, Koukla. You look like a fucking goddess, but it ain’t about the dress. It’s just you,” I tell her right before I lean down and claim her mouth.
That fucking mouth.
If anyone asked me what my favorite part of a woman is a year ago, I’d say something stupid. Like her tits. Or her ass.
And don’t get me wrong. Giselle has fantastic tits, and her ass is divine.
But it’s her mouth that gets me every fucking time.
The things she says. The sounds she makes. The way she tastes.
Fuck. Me.
I fucking love her mouth. I’m obsessed with it.
With her. I love her.
Emotion sizzles through me, and I am so fucking amped. I know I said we’d stay an hour, but I’ve had enough of these people and this place.
I want to be alone with my woman.
My Little Doll.
I want to peel that gown off her smooth skin, touch her softness, test how wet she is for me. I want her juices dripping down my chin, soaking my balls as I fuck her hard and deep with nothing between us.
After that day we talked about protection, I sent her copies of my most recent physicals. I’m fucking clean and I know she is, too. She hasn’t mentioned it again and I’m glad.
Of course, if she insisted, I’d wear a condom. Hell. I’d wear two. But the fact is I don’t want a fucking thing between us when we make love.
Or fuck.
Or whatever.
Shit.
I guess it is making love. Even when we fuck.
I can say it now. Because I love her. I’m wild about her.
Giselle completes something in me I didn’t know was missing. But now that I have her, I don’t want to know what it feels like to be missing that piece ever again.
Wife.
I called her wife before, and it felt so fucking right. The more I think about it, the more I want it.
Her.
As my wife.
I need to keep her with me. I plan to.
If I have to fuck her into submission to walk her down the aisle, I will. But I think maybe she wants me just as much as I want her.
Is it possible she loves me?
She’s looking up at me now, her peridot eyes glowing and my chest squeezes. I don’t know if she loves me or not.
But I want her to. And I can help her get there.
“Fuck this. Let’s go.”
I stop dancing and take her arm, dragging her towards the door.
“Where are we going?” she asks breathlessly.
I look back at her and see her grinning, and I know she’s excited. I can fucking feel it throbbing in her veins.
“Remember that promise I made you before?” I ask, and her cheeks turn pink.
“Yes, Angel. I remember.”
Goddamn.
I have to stop to adjust my dick. Giselle whimpers, and fuck, I feel my cock get even harder.
“Angel,” she whispers, and I feel her need inside the dulcet tones.
It dances across my skin, snaking up my spine until it wraps around me like a vise.
I love it when my Koukla says my name.
But tonight, I’m not stopping until she screams it.