Chapter 5
The unnamed angel man doesn’t answer any of my questions and doesn’t respond to my sass as he leads us to a cabin at the end of the road. It’s back from the road, almost blocked by trees, but I can see the glint of the lights from the windows.
They make me dizzy if I stare too long. My ankle feels wrong.
The pulsing throb spreads pain up my calf, echoing in my knee and my toes feel too hot and cold at the same time.
I want to look at it, but don’t. If it’s broken, I’m royally fucked.
Breaks take so long to heal. I won’t be able to stand.
Even if it’s weight-bearing, if it’s broken, I’ll trust it and fall.
If it’s dislocated, I’ll have better odds, but a doctor is still necessary …
A low groan bubbles from my throat as nausea floods my throat with saliva. “Concussion.”
“If you ask, help is provided,” says the frustratingly attractive man holding me.
“Yeah, help like you not swinging me side to fucking side like we’re skipping through a flowering meadow,” I grit out. The fact I’m afraid to breathe too deeply because I’ll throw up on him keeps me from being too sharp.
When I close my eyes, I feel like we’re rocking on the ocean. But the way he smells, like something fresh and clean – that first waft of spring through freshly opened windows after a wet and miserable winter – is delicious. Something about his eyes feels warm, safe.
No, it’s just because I’ve read too many dark romances.
Real stalkers aren’t hot.
Real kidnappings end in ransoms or murder, not kinky sex and a twisted, dark, yet vulnerable love.
This is real life, which means he’s got to be crazy. Insane.
“So … you’re into angels,” I say, trying to determine exactly what brand of crazy he is. “You really think this is Revelations or the end of the world or-” I gag. “Just set me down!”
He just holds me tighter against his sculpted chest, so I stop swaying as much. I hate that I’m holding onto him just to make being conscious bearable. I hate that I like feeling his muscles shift, that I like the feel of his silky skin against mine.
He sighs, obviously annoyed beneath that stoic mask. “Yes. This is Revelations.”
“Okay … and you are a pastor’s son ready to dive into every sin to make the most of the time you have left?” I guess.
He snorts.
“Great. Just fucking great. I’m kidnapped by some nudist asshole with religious delusions! In case it hasn’t escaped your notice, God was fed up with us a long time ago. He left us here to kill and maim each other. Might as well be hell already,” I snarl.
He pauses and glances down at me, something furious in his eyes. I snap my mouth shut, but feel my own anger and need for self-preservation trying to burn his attractive face into something I don’t want to kiss or punch.
He turns towards the cabin in front of us. I watch him a moment longer, then follow his gaze to the front door. A shot gun lays across the welcome mat. A swipe of blood lingers on the door frame.
“Um …” I glance from the stranger holding me to the door. “That’s a pretty clear ‘no.’”
He ignores me, walking forward.
“You’re turning us into the stupid kids at the start of every horror movie. They only live long enough to regret their choice. Listen to me … what’s your name?” I demand.
The wanna-be angel ignores me.
He steps through the threshold and his eyes roam over the foyer, the living room, and what he can see of the kitchen that’s partially blocked by a wall.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to keep calling you a zombie,” I say, trying to distract us both. When he doesn’t answer, I smirk. He doesn’t get to enjoy this. “Or Angel, since you’re covered in them.”
His eyes cut to me, then he refocuses on the cabin. I just shrug. “Angel it is.”
The theme of the cabin seems to be rustic brown. Brown paneled walls, brown wooden floors, random bits of color like the tan couch with a red blanket, the blue painting on the wall, and the yellow lights.
Brown, brown, and brown everywhere else except the white ceilings. The fan is on, a radio is talking about reports of mass shootings, people rioting, violent deaths, disease, and insane natural disasters.
He cocks his head to the side slightly, then moves forward again, eyes scanning with clinical efficiency.
“This is trespassing and it’s stupid. There’s still a gun owning homeowner somewhere and someone’s bloody body. Some killer could be lying in wait, they could be-”
He dips into the door on the left of the entrance, a darkened garage, the light flickering just enough to show a too-thin dead man with a horrible smile on his face and a splattering of wounds across his chest.
“Homeowner?” I guess softly.
“No,” Angel answers with the kind of conviction that’s really hard to argue with. He carries me through the cabin carefully, notes the house keys left inside, the truck in the garage, and the lights left on.
It’s suspicious as hell.
“You could do this a whole lot easier without me,” I hint. “In fact, I’m only going to slow you down, so there’s no reason for you to keep me at all. You know, we could-”
“The devil wants you,” he answers, then walks upstairs to the loft area that has a hallway that opens into a bedroom with plenty of things missing, like someone packed in a hurry, and finally a bathroom. He sets me on the counter. “And I’m not going to let him have you.”
“Great. Perfect. You saved me from a fight, kidnapped me, took me to a literal cabin in the fucking woods, and into a house with a dead body in it. That totally sounds better than the devil,” I sneer, then try to slide down the counter.
My eyes dip down to his naked body. His cock half-hard, all his muscles and tattoos on display. I hesitate.
Is he going to hurt me in every way?
Is he going to … I won’t give him the chance.
I push against him, ready to run, but he catches my hand.
He lifts me back onto the counter. “Stay still.”
“How about you go back to dead zombie mode. Quiet, complacent, and easy to deal with?” I hiss.
He shakes his head slowly, then looks around and grabs a knife (who the fuck keeps a knife in the bathroom?) and cuts my jeans above my knee.
“HEY! Absolutely not. Whatever you think you’re getting, I’m not into it. You were dead less than an hour ago and-” I cut myself off and turn to throw up in the sink.
Angel holds my hair away from my face, but I swat at him.
Even as my eyes water and I keep heaving up the meager lunch I had, I refuse to play whatever game he’s trying to force on me.
If he makes the rules, I’ll always lose.
If he’s as insane as I think he is, then he might just sacrifice me as a witch or something to his God to stop the fucking apocalypse he’s so sure is happening.
So, I shove him again and again, very tempted to throw up on him so he calls me gross and walks away. I slap his hand away from me a second time, then kick him with my bad ankle, making me scream.
A second later, he drags the torn leg of my jeans off, then wraps it around my wrists in front of me. He glowers at me, covered in blood, his knuckles ripped up, fingers bruising.
We’re a fucked up pair.
I stabbed a man, took a fucking saw to a man, am covered in blood that’s only partially my own, and now with a man that was dead, but isn’t, who protected me, then kidnapped me. In the middle of the ‘maybe’ ‘apocalypse.’
It’s too much.
I blink a few times, trying to put it together in a way that wouldn’t get me a whole list of anti-psychotic meds.
I can’t.
Angel gets down on one knee, continuing to watch me. We stare at one another for a long while. I’m waiting for him to attack. He’s waiting for me to do something. Neither of us are making the first move.
Then I realize that he’s still naked.
“You need clothes. That’s more important. Put on clothes. Some people might be into nudity … especially where you’re involved, but you’re a stranger. You were dead. And I need something normal,” I whisper.
If he leaves the room, I can lock him out. There’s a small window I might be able to squeeze out of. It’s worth a shot.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. Accept your new normal,” he commands while inspecting my ankle.
“For an angel, you’re an asshole, you know that?” I demand.
He looks up at me for a long moment.
Apparently, that ruffled his non-existent feathers.
So, I lean forward and do it again, even if it’s not smart. “A goddamned angel.”
“Your ankle is dislocated.” He shoves a scrap of my jeans into my mouth. “This will hurt.”
He twists my ankle, making me yell and I grab his shoulder. He nods once and just keeps seeing to my wounds while I try to get the scrap of my jeans out of my mouth with some shred of dignity.
“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! I thought you were supposed to be nice to humans!” I yell at him.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he says sharply. “You’re inviting wrath from Heaven or Hell.”
He takes his time wrapping my ankle with an ace bandage.
Then he bows his head, so his nose is almost brushing my lower shin.
I know he’s praying. I don’t need to understand the words.
Maybe he’s talking in Latin, but it seems like something else.
Something that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Like it’s going to burn me, curse me, upend something in me that needs to stay where it is.
Then again, the concussion is making everything confusing. I stare at the tattoo on his chest when I swear I see an angel move like it’s preparing to fight me.
“What are these tattoos?” I ask softly.
“Amen,” he finishes, then lifts his head to meet my eyes. He shifts and the tattoo is only half there, like a background thought.
I blink a few times and sway, catching myself against his collarbone.
“You need to rest now.”
“Yeah, but angels aren’t tattooed. You’re not an angel. They aren’t real and…” Fuck, I’m so tired. So, so tired. “This is all insane. A bad dream. Just gotta wake up.” My vision starts darkening around the corners.
I think he’s talking to me, or maybe telling me to stop being a bitch.
Or he’s just staring.
It doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t matter.
“Adrenaline dropping …” I try to tell him what’s going on, even though I’m definitely not a specialist when it comes to the living. “I … You’re pretty enough to be an angel. I hate you, though.”
“Mutual ground at last,” he says.
“You’re not a miracle,” I grumble, trying to hold onto my consciousness. “You’re a fucking curse.”
I swear I feel him holding me in place as my eyes start to close. “And you’re my job.”
“You’re not paid enough to deal with … me,” I say, trying to push him away. “I come with rules. No manhandling. No … no …”
I open my eyes and see his blue gaze smoldering. They’re so pretty. My brow furrows. “You’re a stranger,” I argue. “Gotta leave.”
“You’re going to sleep,” he disagrees. “It’ll make this easier.”
“Not supposed to with a concussion. What kind of guardian angel are you?” I try to sass even though I feel like I’m floating, drifting away, losing myself in an ocean the color of his eyes and twice as hot.
“I’m not a guardian. I’m the archangel of judgment,” he says. His voice is soft. “And no matter what you do, I’m not failing.”