Of Saints & Savagery (Fallen Gods of Thorncrown University #3)

one

The Merciful

I’m still tied over the railing at Thorncrown Chapel when I hear a quiet curse, and a cloth settles over me, a much more earthly sensation than the glow of divinity that was washing over me.

It’s warm from his body, and the familiar scent of leather and sandalwood invades my nostrils, a welcome scent even if it severs the threads of holiness winding through me.

He curses quietly, under his breath, and I smile. I didn’t know priests were allowed to swear.

When I don’t answer, he straightens, a frown darkening his fine brow. “Can you do that for me, lamb?” he asks gently, his smoky velvet voice soft with concern.

I nod, and he bends, pressing his lips to my forehead. The contact sends a sharp pulse directly into my burning core, and I gasp aloud. He jerks back, mutters a flustered apology, and flees the room—but not before I catch the slightest hint of color in his cheeks.

I did that.

I undid a man who is always composed, always calm, always in control. My body did that.

I marvel at the thought until the door above opens again. I’m not sure how long it’s been. I expect Heath to come and gloat, though it won’t bother me. He couldn’t if he tried.

But the silhouette in the doorway is bigger than Heath, and after a second, the man steps through and descends the stairs.

It strikes me that I know his gait, that it’s familiar from all those years ago, as familiar as his battle cry when we’d swing out over Shallow Creek and release the rope, cannonballing into the swimming hole; as his ice cream order at Two Scoops of Love—a double chocolate cone as soon as we walked in, even when Heath and Eternity asked to try every flavor, and Saint and I wanted to try them all but were too polite, so we only got three samples before we chose our favorite. Angel always knew what he wanted.

He scoops me into his arms, and his eyes darken. “Who did this?” he asks.

“Heath,” I say simply, because that’s the only person I know is responsible.

Angel looks like he might drop me and charge back up the stairs and murder his uncle right now, so I touch his cheek. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”

He frowns down at me, searching my eyes for a long moment. At last, he nods. “Father told me to take you home and clean you up. Is that what you want me to do?”

Above us, the organ begins to play, the notes somber and resonant. A chill races over me, and my gaze moves to the ceiling, then back to Angel’s.

“Are you going to take me through there?”

“Of course not,” he says. “Just hold on, baby girl. I’ve got you.”

He turns away, towards the dark tunnels where we ran on HAVOC night, where they hunted me for sport, caught me, held me pinned and forced me to take more pleasure than I could endure.

Tonight isn’t the first time I was put on display.

It was simply the first time I was rescued from the ravenous eyes of men who would consume that display.

Angel shifts me in his arms, turns on the light on his phone, and then strides forward with complete confidence.

If this is a maze, he has no fear of getting lost. He has been in it enough to know his way out.

When we were kids, we snuck down here, but we didn’t explore far.

We were too scared—of being caught, of getting lost, of the dead in the crypt.

That was the most horrifying, delicious fear of all.

Maybe it was only my fear that had us all retreating.

After all, the Quint stuck together. They would coax me to go on, but if I couldn’t, they would never have left me behind.

I wonder, as Angel shows no signs of trepidation winding through the dark tunnels, if I held them back, or if my caution protected them.

Maybe it was both. Certainly the others were more fearless.

But did they explore here when I wasn’t around, even as kids?

The thought sends a pang of hurt into my heart, silly as it may be. It happened years ago. But being left out, being left behind, unwanted, is a wound that may never heal.

We exit through a doorway in the back of a building on the far side of campus. It takes me a moment to orient myself, and by then, Angel is unlocking the boys dorm and carrying me inside.

“You’re taking me to your room?” I ask.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Heath isn’t there.”

“You live with him?”

“Of course,” he says, then grins. “Your brother has a single—again, of course. The bastard.”

Angel’s family owns several businesses, so I’m sure he could afford his own room if he wanted.

The self-deprecation is something he must do automatically, probably for Heath’s benefit, just as he shares a room for Heath’s benefit.

Heath doesn’t have money, and he’d never accept the charity if the others tried to pay for a single for him so that they could each have them without guilt.

It’s sweet, really, the way the others take care of him.

But then, we always took care of each other.

Until we didn’t.

When Angel unlocks his door and carries me inside, the room already feels unoccupied after only a few days empty.

He reaches up to pull a chain on the ancient light, illuminating the space.

They’ve stripped the beds and picked up rugs and anything on the floor so that the rooms can be cleaned over the holidays.

Angel lays me down on his bare mattress, gives me a quick kiss, and then stands.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he says.

“You should be at Mass,” I say, feeling guilty as he returns from the bathroom with a wet cloth.

“This is my church,” he says, climbing onto the bed between my knees.

He pulls the priest’s robe open to reveal my body, then slowly lowers the cloth to wash the words from the backs of my thighs.

I’m quivering with anticipation and embarrassment when he finally works his way to the apex of my thighs.

I whimper in pain as the warm, wet cloth strokes my torn flesh.

A rumble echoes from Angel’s chest and through the room, and he pushes my thighs open, spreading me with his fingers to gently dab between my lips with the cloth.

To my horror, tingles of pleasure spread from his touch, and my nipples tighten into hard, pink buds.

Angel growls, dropping the cloth, and sinks between my thighs.

Lifting my hips, he kisses me, just the way he used to kiss it better when we were kids and I fell.

Except now, his mouth isn’t on a scraped knee or elbow.

It’s lingering on my sex, pressing first gently and then harder.

His lips tug at my skin, then close over the swollen flesh he just washed clean of my sin.

As if I’m new again, he savors me, his tongue dipping in to taste me.

He swirls it over my clit, around and around, until my hips start jerking in helpless spasms.

He moans, grinding his hips into the bed while his mouth latches onto me, sucking and licking, tugging and thrusting.

He cradles my bottom with one hand, lifting me higher, and in one slow push, sinks his tongue deep inside me.

I cry out, my hands flying to his head. I try to pull him away, gasping out that it’s too much, but he only slides his free hand between us, tugging my skin up to stroke mercilessly at my clit while his tongue drives in and out in a rhythm that drives me out of my mind.

“Angel,” I cry, my hips bucking, my hands fisting in his hair.

He strokes his thumb harder, smashing my swollen clit, and I explode around him, crying his name again and again as I spread myself wide for him and grind my hips against his face while I hold it in place with both hands.

When I collapse back onto the bed, he rolls over, still holding my hips, lapping up my release while we lay on our sides, recovering.

Just when I’ve stopped shaking, and only a few tremors grip me every minute or so, he teases my raw entrance with a finger, then pushes it deep inside.

I gasp in pain, and he moans, suckling at my clit with gentle pressure.

“Oh god,” I cry. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

He chuckles against me, then works another finger in.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, M,” he says, sliding his fingers in and out of my slick, sore entrance.

He groans, holding me tighter, thrusting harder.

The wet, sloppy sound echoes around the empty room.

He licks lazily at my clit while he pushes me over the edge again.

At last, he slides up the bed, his wet, red lips twisting into a smile. “Now that you’re not a virgin, maybe I can fuck you with my cock,” he says. “I want to feel how tight you squeeze me.”

“I can’t,” I protest, my cheeks flushing even hotter than they are from my orgasms.

“Oh, come on,” he says, tugging me against him and giving me a sweet little smile. “I won’t tell the others. It can be our little secret.”

“It still hurts.”

“Didn’t I just kiss it all better?”

“Yes,” I admit, my cheeks on fire when I smell myself on his breath. “But even your fingers hurt.”

“They made you feel good too, though, right?” he asks, drawing back. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, not like that,” I assure him. “Just because I’m so sore.”

“Okay, how about a Christmas movie and hot cocoa?”

“You’ll definitely make Heath jealous with that.”

“Doesn’t he deserve it?” Angel asks, giving me a wink before standing and adjusting himself.

He saunters over to the microwave, coming back a few minutes later with two steaming mugs.

It’s the kind of packets with tiny marshmallows, and for some reason, it touches me that crazy Heath with his knife and fury still drinks something so innocent.

Angel gets a blanket and pillow from the closet, and we cozy up under it with our drinks and watch Frosty and Rudolph .

When we’re done, he takes my mug and sets it on the side table with his, peels off his shirt, then rolls over onto me, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders and smiling down at me.

“Ready for round two?”

“Angel…”