Chapter 8
BLADE
Iam furious. When Delilah told me her sorry tale, it burned inside me.
I’ve heard many tales from broken angels, and it never gets any easier.
There are many at the compound, guests of ours until they are stronger, either returning to their families or, with our help, beginning a new chapter in their lives.
But Delilah’s story feels personal somehow, and it hurts my heart when I picture what she suffered at the hands of individuals I wish had died a more painful death.
However, somewhere out there is a woman who still lives and breathes. Jenna Sloane is now my number one target, which means she’s about to gasp her last breath.
I find my pants and retrieve my cell phone. Pressing the contact I need most right now.
“Talk to me, soldier.”
His gruff voice is almost immediate, and I growl, “Delilah Grimes is not her real name.”
We waste no time on pleasantries, and his tone is measured.
“Do you know what is?”
“She’s lost her memory but tells me that Angela named her. That’s not all.”
He listens carefully as I fill him in, and when I finish, silence is my answer. I wait while he wraps his head around this and then he replies gruffly.
“Wait for instructions. Call Lucy for any supplies you may need. This could take a few days.”
“We have enough.”
“Then hang tight and try not to terrify the poor girl. She’s been through enough.”
His low chuckle is the last thing I hear as he ends the call, and my thumb immediately connects me to the next one.
“Are you okay, man?”
The surly tones of my brother Razor relax me. We’re actually twins, and I like to think of myself as the more attractive one. The fact we’re identical contradicts that, but whereas I have some kind of personality, he has none.
“Usual shit.”
I answer him because it’s not uncommon for a Reaper to be holed up with a broken angel to mend in a cabin in the mountains. Hell, it’s where Snake met Bonnie and they are the happiest couple I know, aside from Ryder and Ashton, of course.
“Rather you than me.”
I picture Delilah and her soft curves, sweet smile and pleasant nature, and for some reason his words irritate the shit out of me.
This is no hard ask, not for me, and yet my brother is like me.
No emotion. No fucks to give and only interested in a beer and ending the night deep inside a willing woman with no strings.
“Am I missing anything?”
“No. It’s been a little quiet since the academy. Ryder is pissed with Cassie and Jack and has placed them under house arrest. Jack is coming off worse because he should have been better and protected Cassie. Not followed her into hell.”
“He would follow her if she jumped off a cliff.”
“True.”
Cassie is Ryder’s daughter and Jack is Brewer’s son, and they have grown up together as best friends.
When they went to Rockwell Academy, Ryder was happy because Jack had always looked out for Cassie.
But shit got very real when they met Frankie Sontauro.
The son of a mafia family with connections to all kinds of shit.
Cassie was infatuated with him and being headstrong like her father, she got them all into deep shit that could have got them all killed.
It was carnage, and it was only when we stormed the building and rescued them from Angela Constable and Jenna Sloane that they were safe. Needless to say, Cassie is home with her daddy, and Jack is paying the price for not being better.
Razor sighs heavily. “Word is we’re riding out tonight.”
“What’s the story?”
“Usual shit. Some senator is being blackmailed, and it’s in the national interest to remove the threat.”
I can imagine what that will involve, and it’s the part of our job we hate. Protecting the corrupt against the corrupt. Sadly, the government pays our wages, and it’s big money. We don’t have to like it though.
“Stay safe, brother.”
I finish up because conversation is never our strongest virtue, but for some reason, I must check in on my twin every day.
“Enjoy your vacation.”
He cuts the call, leaving a wry smile on my lips. Vacation. He’s not wrong because babysitting Delilah in a remote cabin is my kind of vacation, and he knows it.
To spare her blushes, I wrap a towel around my waist and head for the shower. We have one rigged up outside, and as the cold water rains down on my body, my thoughts turn to my companion.
I hate what happened to her. It sickens me, and yet there is nothing I can do about it. I’m not used to accepting that, and as my rage boils inside me, one name plays on repeat in my mind. Jenna Sloane.
She is still living, breathing and haunting some other poor kid’s nightmares and is now number one on my wanted list. If Ryder called and told me she was holed up nearby, I would end that woman’s life personally and with pleasure.
Then there’s the man—the master. Who is he?
The head serpent, I’m guessing. Seven am every morning tells me he’s a creature of habit. He likes order, precision—a military man, perhaps.
Delilah told me one name. Gideon. Jenna taunted Angela with that. Is he the head serpent, the master?
The shower cleans not only my body but my mind as well, and I have new focus when I pull on my jeans and head inside for a fresh t-shirt. My hair long and damp from the shower, my chest bare.
Delilah is fixing coffee inside, and the sight of her long legs resting against the countertop causes the blood to thrum in my head.
She sure is a beauty, and it’s unfortunate for her I’m a horny son of a bitch and locked away in the mountains with her.
It’s messing with my mind, and when she runs her fingers through her silky hair as she glances out of the window, my heart hammers in my chest as I imagine what that hair would feel like wrapped around my desperate cock.
She turns as I enter, and I don’t miss the lustful gleam in her eyes as she stares at my chest, followed by a blush to her skin and a dazed expression in her eyes.
She likes what she sees for sure, and yet how can I act on that? She is emotionally damaged, and I will not add to her problems by hitting on her, no matter how much I want to right now.
“Um, how do you like your coffee?”
She shifts on the spot, her voice unnaturally high, and I bite back a grin.
“Black, darlin’. I’ll be right with you when I pull on a t-shirt.”
Why do I love that she appears disappointed about that?
When I return, the coffee is on the wooden table and she is holding her mug between her slim fingers, a contemplative expression on her face as she stares into oblivion.
For a moment, I enjoy the view, wishing things were different somehow, and I don’t know why.
Shaking inappropriate thoughts from my mind, I pull out the chair and sit astride it, grasping the mug with gratitude.
She raises her eyes and fixes me with a pained expression, and I register pure hatred burning in her eyes, causing my heart to freefall.
What the fuck just happened?