Chapter 4
N eela had heard of neutral zones. On nights when the grotto had been quiet and the rhythmic lull of her suite’s twinkle lights and salt lamp had to work overtime to chase away the reality of just why Cyro’s camp was so quiet, she’d sometimes catch a west coast hockey or football game on TV. Her frame of reference for the neutral-zone concept had been embarrassingly basic, but she’d always resonated with the gist of it: a precious space that couldn’t be encroached upon by either team. A mutually agreed-upon no-touchy-no-takey area. Essential and literal line-drawn boundaries within which peace could be kept.
They’d always sounded so idyllic and so very different from the world she knew. But now, as she sat in her very own form of a neutral zone, with her butt enjoying far more cushioning than a padded wicker restaurant chair had any right to offer, there was something bitingly uncomfortable about the space.
The announcers on TV never warned her about how thick the tension was within those imaginary walls.
After the ashes in the parking lot had floated away and the snow decided to start making up for lost time in earnest, the blond man—Steel, she’d learned—had thrown himself between the other heated men and suggested they continue their conversation in a more hospitable location.
No one missed the elephant-sized emphasis he’d thrown on top of that word.
And that was how Neela found herself gripping a steaming mug of spiked hot chocolate, staring down an obscene amount of New England charm, and hating the fact that her first time in a real mortal restaurant had her eyeing the door like the thing had betrayed her by letting her enter in the first place.
The proprietress of the restaurant, Molly, grabbed a bottle of bourbon from beneath a counter and, after plopping herself in the seat across from Neela, unscrewed the thing and poured two more healthy glugs into Neela’s cocoa. Then, with all the flair of someone short of patience and long on foresight, brought the bottle to her lips and knocked back a few swigs of her own.
It would have been impressive if Neela couldn’t escape the fact of why the stuff was needed at all.
“Whatever you’re thinking, know that I’m not.” Molly’s kind eyes twinkled beneath the dim glow of the eatery’s soothing lights, and her words were delivered with an encouragement that had Neela blinking through a veneer of disbelief. Not only was she sitting across from a mortal who was actually speaking to her but she also couldn’t keep herself from side-eyeing the very man who’d saved her life.
And the very man she never thought she’d see again.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Neela asked, though her attention was only half on the bright-eyed brunette.
“Because that gaggle of guys over there can be intimidating to even the most confident of onlookers, but only slightly more than the majority of the brothers can claim to have a level head at the moment.” Then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “My soul bond included. He’s the auburn-haired one with the close crop who won’t turn his back away from our table.” She winked. “His name’s Brass, and he’s a bit testy when it comes to unprovoked rage, so until Rhode, Chrome, and the others all manage to have a little kumbaya moment, I doubt he’ll let any of them get too close to you.”
“Too close to me ?”
“Well, you and me. And since I don’t believe for a second in judging someone until they show their ass and give me a reason to, I’m just going to hang close to you, if that’s okay. You’re not exactly giving off slay the world vibes, despite what any of them might be inclined to think. Besides, you look like you could use a properly infused warm-up after what happened, rather than having unfounded accusations slung at your face.” Molly nodded toward Neela’s mug. “Drink up. No one’s going to hurt you here. They all know I just had the floors waxed. No way are any of them that stupid as to mess up my hardwood during peak winter tourist season.” The stink eye that bounced from Molly’s eyes to the men, who still had yet to acknowledge Neela, was sharp enough to cut glass.
Or cut off body parts.
Neela smiled her thanks, at both Molly’s kindness and the increasingly effective way the drink warmed her cheeks and her doubts, and buried her face in her cup. Unfortunately, the thing gave her precious few of the answers her mind was clamoring after, so she shifted her gaze to the prominent back of the man nearest her and the only one who hadn’t moved from his self-appointed post since they’d all gotten there.
Brass—and Molly’s soul bond, as she’d described it. A sentinel angel. One of several, apparently. All of whom had fallen to the mortal realm fighting the sins of her sire.
Angels.
That’s what Axtar was. A fallen angel.
But the wings they’d all wielded earlier were only one of the many, many things that Neela had yet to wrap her head around. Beneath her lashes, she covertly inspected Brass’s back. While his crossed arms made the large slabs of muscles flare out in prominence, and the clear tension in his demeanor left zero room for give when it came to his spine’s flexibility at that moment, nothing about his physique screamed wings .
But she’d seen them for herself on some of the others, and Molly had explained the ins and outs of their appearances. The way they’d morph and stretch from the angels’ bodies in a translucent skein of energy, then solidify into the harsh planks of aerodynamic metal Neela had seen earlier.
Each pair molded into the specific metal the angels’ commanded. All different. All not without their own powers and capabilities.
Neela stole a glance again at the group huddled in the opposite corner of the restaurant’s dining room. The shades were drawn, and actual working shutters on the building’s brick facade—which would have looked ridiculous on any other establishment but worked design-related wonders on the space—were sealed up tight. There was nothing to give the outside world the barest hint of a suggestion that a small-scale atomic bomb was simultaneously being detonated and diffused.
Axtar.
No. Rhode. That was what he’d called himself. He’d thrown that moniker out with such surety that it made her question whether she was wrong about him. Had she confused him for someone else? Her heart had fluttered an insistent beat when he’d stood before her, until he flinched when she’d said the name—flinched like those adults did in mortal movies when they came across a seemingly irrelevant object and it triggered some childhood flashback.
Except this was anything but a movie, and wherever Axtar/Rhode/whoever went when she’d mentioned the name and caused his eyes to tighten was clearly nowhere she had any business urging him to revisit.
Intellectually, she’d known that and would never forget the hellish circumstances of their encounters, if she could even call them mere encounters.
So then why did she secretly wish he’d remember her regardless?
At the far wall, joined by even more men with equally and impossibly wide shoulders, was Rhode, engaged in some sort of heated conversation with the other angels who she’d met earlier. Chrome and Iron, if she recalled correctly. However, after taking another look at the way Chrome was pushing through the other bodies around him to jab a finger beneath Rhode’s chin, she might have to amend her use of the word heated .
Whatever the discussion, it had blown past heated a while ago and was firmly set to broiling .
The men were fuming, that much was clear, even though very little of what they were talking about was coherent. She got the gist, though. Didn’t need an advanced degree to read anger right.
Neela’s stomach twisted, and the hot chocolate threatened to curdle in her gut. Rhode’s face, even draped in fury, was such a beautiful terror only made more breathtaking by the powerful and icy stillness of his frame, one she still couldn’t look away from or reconcile with the images her memory kept calling forth. His mien was such a contrast to that of the men around him, Chrome in particular, who was a veritable inferno to Rhode’s imposing glacier.
And then, like any silently resentful glacier, it splintered.
Rhode grabbed the nearest chair and raised it high above Chrome’s head. But before he slammed it down on the angel’s skull, bright blue flames erupted down Rhode’s arm and incinerated the chair into ashes. Like the snow from earlier, black flecks tumbled around the men, coating everyone in the remains of Rhode’s quiet rage.
Molly roared up out of her seat. “Hey, what did I say about keeping the floors clean? And you owe me for that chair! That was hand-braided wicker!”
But her screams were barricaded behind Brass’s immovable back as the angel threw himself in front of his raging mate. Others hollered, and a few of the angels tried to grab Chrome and Rhode by the arms, but neither were having it.
Chrome shrugged out of their hold, blinked away his confusion, then snarled. “Did you just try to attack me?”
The flames licking around Rhode’s arms extinguished. “That is the wrong question.”
“Oh, really? Because I think it’s the perfect fucking question. Or is this what your repayment truly looks like?”
Rhode seethed. “Does your care come with strings attached? Is that why you pulled me out of that hell? So I might one day drop to my feet and praise you to finally assuage your own guilt?”
Fire crackled behind Chrome’s eyes as his jaw tightened. “You know it doesn’t.”
If Neela thought the tension was thick before, it morphed into something downright impenetrable. She tried to look to Molly for answers, but all she got was a patient Brass holding the woman back as his mate kicked out and cursed at every male her death-ray stare zeroed in on.
Then Rhode unexpectedly swung his arm in Neela’s direction and leveled a finger right at her. “The right question, the only question I want to know the answer to is what the hell that woman has done to me.” White-hot flames swirled among irises that a moment ago were an earthy, familiar brown. “And why is she still breathing?”