Chapter 4
Four
His weight presses me into the silk sheets, and for a moment, one crystalline, desperate moment, we both freeze.
Breathing hard. Hearts racing. The lust roaring through both of us like wildfire, demanding, insistent, now.
But neither of us moves.
Because this is wrong. This is so fundamentally wrong that every fiber of my being is screaming to stop, to push him off, to find literally any other solution.
I hate him. Hate his perfect face and his perfect wings and his perfect arrogance.
Hate that he made me hold this sin until it became unbearable.
Hate that I had to force his hand, had to push the lust into him to level the playing field.
Hate that my body doesn't care about any of the facts right now.
Croesus is here too, through the binding. Distant but present. Aware. His golden warmth has turned cold with dread because he knows. He feels what I'm feeling. The lust. The need. The fact that I'm in Seraph's bed with Seraph's body covering mine.
I'm sorry, I think desperately, even though I don't know if he can hear specific thoughts or just emotions through our link. I'm so sorry.
His pain spikes in response. Sharp and gutting and knowing.
But the lust doesn't care. It just demands.
Seraph's silver eyes bore into mine, and I find myself reflected in them. See my desperation mirrored back at me. My flushed cheeks. My parted lips. My pupils blown so wide they've swallowed almost all the bourbon brown of my irises.
I look ruined.
I look like I want this.
And God help me, the lust has twisted everything so thoroughly that I do.
"This is your fault," Seraph breathes, and his voice is rougher than I've ever heard it. Raw. All that cultured politeness stripped away by the sin I forced into him. "You forced me to feel this. To need this."
"You forced me to hold it," I shoot back, my nails digging into his shoulders through the fine fabric of his jacket.
Through the binding, Croesus's anguish intensifies.
He's feeling my touch on Seraph. Feeling my body is respond.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but doing so only makes me more aware of Seraph's weight, his heat, his breath on my skin.
"You denied me the ritual. This is your fault. "
"We're both at fault then." His hand slides from my hair to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. The touch is too gentle for what's burning between us. Too careful. "And we're both going to regret this."
"I already do." The words are true. I'm already drowning in regret, in guilt, in Croesus's pain echoing through me like a wound that won't stop bleeding.
"Good." Seraph's mouth hovers over mine, not quite touching. Not quite giving me what the lust demands. "At least we're in agreement about something."
Then he kisses me again, and there's nothing gentle about it this time. Nothing careful. This is all teeth and tongue and desperate, clawing need. He kisses like he's angry at me, at himself, at the situation we're trapped in. Like he can punish us both through sheer intensity.
I kiss back just as hard. Just as angry.
My fingers find the buttons of his jacket again, fumbling with them.
They're too small. Too delicate. Made for elegant undressing, not this frantic desperation.
I manage to get two undone before giving up and just pulling.
Buttons scatter across the silk sheets with soft plinks, and Seraph makes a sound against my mouth half in protest, half groaning.
Through the bond, Croesus's jealousy mixes with his pain. He felt that sound. Felt my satisfaction at making perfect Seraph lose control.
"That jacket," Seraph manages between kisses, "was made in Milan. Seventeen hundred euros."
"Send me the bill."
His laugh is sharp and breathless. "I will."
Then his hands are on the zipper of my jeans, sliding it down with agonizing precision.
Even now, even consumed by lust, he's careful with it.
Mindful of the fabric that is nowhere near as expensive as his clothing.
I want to scream at him to tear it off me, but his fingers are already pushing the plackets apart to tug them against my hips.
Seraph’s gaze fixes on the gold jewelry at my throat and wrists which catches the candlelight. They mark me as Croesus's property. And oh, he doesn’t like that.
"Take them off," he says, and it's not a request.
"No."
His jaw clenches. "Raven."
"No." I reach up, grab his face between my hands, and force him to look at me instead of the gold. Croesus sends a wave of desperate gratitude, his small relief that I'm not removing his claim even now. Even like this. "They stay on. Croesus gave them to me. They're mine."
"He's not here."
"But I'm still bound to him." The words taste like betrayal. "And he's feeling all of this. So they stay."
Through the bond I get a wave of emotion so complex I can't untangle it. Love and pain and fury and helplessness all at once. Croesus wants to hate me. Wants to hate Seraph. But mostly he just hurts, and knowing I'm the cause of his hurt is almost worse than the lust itself.
Almost.
Seraph's eyes flash silver turning molten, almost gold themselves in the candlelight. Jealousy. Pure, undiluted jealousy that he'd never admit to but radiates from every line of his body. He wants to argue. Wants to rip the jewelry off me himself.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he kisses me again, harder, angrier, more possessive, and his hands move to my boots.
Unlacing them with quick, efficient movements.
Pulling them off and dropping them over the side of the bed.
Then his fingers find the waist of my jeans and he drags them down my thighs, my calves, and off entirely.
I'm left in just my underwear and the gold chains.
His eyes rake over me, and I spot the moment the lust surges higher.
Like an oil lamp turned up. I feel it through that temporary connection I created by pushing the sin into him.
And the permanent one I’ve been trying to tune out since it happened.
His want layered over mine, amplifying everything until I can barely breathe.
And through the bond with Croesus: he feels my exposure. Feels Seraph looking at me. Feels the way the lust is making me arch into the attention instead of away from it. His agony is a living thing, and I hate myself for causing it.
But I can't stop.
The lust won't let me stop.
"Your turn," I manage, my voice shaky.
Seraph sits back on his heels, and I watch as he shrugs out of the ruined jacket.
Lets it fall to the floor without ceremony.
A small victory, that casual disregard for the expensive fabric.
His shirt follows, unbuttoned with practiced ease, revealing pale skin that looks carved from marble.
Flawless. Perfect. No scars. No marks. Nothing human.
His wings spread wider, filling my vision. Six of them, white-gold feathers rustling with his agitation. They're beautiful in an overwhelming, terrible way. Too much perfection. Too much angel.
I reach up, fingers trembling, and touch the edge of one wing.
He gasps.
Actually gasps, his whole body going rigid. His wings are sensitive? I remember reading that somewhere, in one of Gramms’ journals about angel physiology. Touching them is intimate. Invasive.
Good.
I run my fingers through the feathers, feeling their impossible softness. Watching his face as he fights to maintain control. His jaw clenches. His hands fist in the sheets beside my hips. His breathing goes ragged.
Croesus feels my touch on Seraph's wings. Feels the intimacy of it. The violation. It's worse than if I'd struck him physically. Wings are sacred. Private. And I'm touching Seraph's like I have the right. I only know this through his perception. And I jerk my hand away.
The guilt crashes over me in waves, but the lust drowns it. Demands more.
"Stop," Seraph grits out.
"No."
"Raven..."
"You wanted to see what I could do." I trail my fingers along the arch of his wing, deliberately, following the curve of bone beneath feathers. "I'm showing you."
His hand shoots out, grabs my wrist, pins it above my head. The other wing folds over us, creating a private world of white-gold and silver light. His face is inches from mine, and his eyes are burning.
"You," he says through clenched teeth, "are insufferable."
"And you," I breathe back, "are an arrogant asshole who deserves everything he's getting right now."
"Yes," he admits, and something in his expression cracks. Something raw and real and almost vulnerable. "Yes, I am."
Then he's kissing me again, and this time there's no holding back. No careful control. Just raw, desperate need. His free hand slides down my side, mapping every curve, every dip, every imperfection. He touches me like he wants to memorize me. Like he's furious he wants to.
My remaining hand finds his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He releases my wrist to help, and together we get it undone. Get his pants unfastened. Get them shoved down his thighs.
We're both trembling now. Both breathing like we've run marathons.
The lust is a living thing between us, in us, around us.
The client's desperate need mixed with our own reluctant arousal mixed with the anger and hatred and grudging attraction that's been building since the moment I pushed the sin into him.
It's too much. Too intense. Too everything.
And through it all: Croesus. Feeling every touch. Every kiss. Every moment of betrayal.
I'm sorry, I think again, tears burning behind my closed eyelids. I'm so sorry. I can't stop. I can't—
His pain spikes higher. And beneath it: a thread of understanding. Of knowing that this is the lust, not me. That I'm as trapped as he is.
But understanding doesn't make it hurt less.
"We have to purge this," Seraph says against my throat, his breath hot on my skin. "Now. Before it consumes us both."
"I know."