Chapter 7
My eyes focus on the mirror behind Angel as he slowly eases my jeans down my hips. I’m still bound, frustrated, and now embarrassed because I’m wet and I know it’s obvious. Having him on his knees in front of me isn’t helping.
Even if he’s some brand of religious crazy that I can’t really explain, he’s sexy as hell. His dark blonde hair, the perfectly trimmed and manicured beard that makes his face look severe, yet soft at the same time, his broad shoulders, and sexy body all remind me of the orgasm I didn’t get to have.
Not that I should be focused on that after everything.
Escape is what matters.
So I rub my cheek against my arm while he’s focused on my pants and manage to get the gag out of my mouth. He doesn’t notice, but he’s about to.
“Angel, if you untie me, I can take care of myself. I’ll sit on the edge of the tub and everything. I can manage a five-minute shower,” I insist softly.
“Raise your foot, hand on my shoulder,” he instructs evenly, even though I feel the rush of his breath against my thigh.
“I’m serious, I can do this all. You can guard the door. I don’t need restraints. I don’t need the gag,” I point out, since he hasn’t put it back in place.
He makes a noncommittal sound that threatens to burn through the calm I’m trying to project.
If he trusts me, I’ll have an opportunity to leave the wingless angel in the dust. There’s a truck in the garage and even though my right leg is damaged, I can still drive if it means being free of someone who doesn’t know what he wants to do with me.
My eyes flick to the mirror again, then dip down to my angel’s back. I expect more tattoos, and I see one over his spine that looks like a sword, but the massive wounds on either side, nestled between spine and shoulder blade, steal my focus.
It looks like something was ripped from under his skin and roasted his skin at the same time.
Moving ever so slightly, I let my fingers brush across his shoulder as I lift my good leg.
He keeps one firm arm around the back of my bad thigh, ready to support me.
Then I feel his palm graze my inner thigh and almost moan.
My nails almost dig into the wound and he flinches.
“I … I could fix that,” I whisper, telling myself I’m only offering to earn his trust. Only because his trust makes escaping easier and escaping means I can rely on myself. It’s more reliable. It’s safer. It’s better. “I could help heal these and-”
“No,” he says simply.
I close my eyes and try to adjust to the feel of his fingers.
God, there are toys, I could ...
Then his fingers are gone. The way the cold creeps in from the wake of his feverish touch doesn’t cool my blush, only fans the flames of my humiliation.
“Just stand at the door or something,” I order. “Then I can’t hobble away to escape.”
He studies me a moment, but undoes the bindings around my wrist. He walks me to the bathroom, and I try not to lean on him and let on that I just might need his help. His gaze flicks to the shower. “If you attempt to leave, this will become much less comfortable.”
“Darn, no more five-star experiences?” I ask sarcastically.
He stares at me, so I take off my shirt and throw it at him. His eyes dip to my lips, almost dip further, then jump back to focus on my face.
“If I fall, it’s on me,” I say when he hesitates to turn around.
Angel lets out a frustrated sound, but obediently turns around to face the hall. I look him over, studying every tattoo. There’s so much to enjoy when his mouth is shut. The dimple on his lower back on the right-hand side, right above his pert, sexy ass.
He’s the one who needs clothes.
Unless this is his plan.
After all, if I’m lusting after him, then I’ll stay.
Huffing at the thought, I finish stripping, then sit on the edge of the claw foot tub. I slowly spin, turn on the water, then carefully stand. I take my time washing myself, trying not to replay the last few hours in my head.
It’s overwhelming, as if it’s been days rather than two hours, maybe less. I scrub my skin with my nails to try to clean the blood from my body, to erase the memory of that wrong, thick, warm spray.
“I’m Charlie. I … I work at a morgue. My mother gave me up for adoption when I was born, but no one committed to me.
I’ve had a shit childhood. I aged out of the foster care system and made something of myself.
I’ve made it to thirty. I’m strong. I’m capable.
I’m safe,” I say softly, because I need to rely on what I know is real. “What’s your name, angel?”
“Unimportant,” he dismisses.
I snort. “Like all angels, I suppose.”
His shoulders bunch before he flinches. That means his wound is new and dismissing Heaven pisses him off. But I deserve a name. He’s been an ass, has almost seen me naked, tied me up, gagged me, all of it.
“If you don’t give me your name, I’ll start calling you a different angel-ish name every time.
” I bait, leaning back to find him standing at the door, filling the space.
His hands grip the top of the frame and his biceps bulge, like he’s physically restraining himself in place.
“ Or maybe I’ll just call you ‘God.’ Isn’t that sacrilegious and-”
“Wash and be done,” he warns, suddenly turning and taking two steps towards me.
“Go ahead, My Lord, Our Holy father, no longer in heaven, a servant to a mere mortal. Or is it Gabriel? Michael? The Virgin Mary? Or maybe you’re Luci-”
The curtain rips back, revealing my angel, furious and unforgiving. My smirk starts to wither under his rage.
“Suriel,” he hisses, bundling me in a towel and throwing me over his shoulder. “Enough questions. Enough comments.”
He clearly doesn't understand that facts matter. And another important fact hasn’t gotten an explanation, and he can’t distract me by carrying me. “Why were you wheeled in dead?”
He doesn’t answer, just turns off the water.
“Answers would make me less likely to fight,” I hint.
“Only the future matters,” he decides finally, his voice a low, velvety hum. “Unless you’d like to spend yours choking on a gag.”
I squeak, complain about his comments, but he doesn’t give me anything else to work with.
He dips into the bedroom and grabs something from the dresser, putting it on my lap.
Before I can say anything, we’re on the move again.
Both of us are silent until he drops me on the couch, with the offered giant shirt next to me.
I drag it on, relieved that it comes down to my thighs.
Suriel grabs something from a bag off to the side, then slides into gray sweats before picking me up again and lumbering downstairs with a single focus in mind. He sets me down on the couch, binds my wrists again, then gets to his focus – the kitchen.
I take in the two available exits – three if I consider the garage – before dismissing them all, since I’m sure he’s hyperaware of me. When I glance at him, he’s not paying attention, but something in me knows that he’s keeping track of me.
Cabinets open and close while I tremble.
It’s just the cold, the shock of freezing water and the sheer amount of shit that’s happened today.
It’s not fear.
I shiver again as my heart pounds and my breathing shallows.
It’s not weakness.
It’s proof I’m not a sociopath.
“Suriel,” I whisper. His name is a pleasant buzz on my tongue, making me feel lighter. I try to shake my head of those thoughts. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“Surviving,” he answers while walking to me with an apple for each of us. He hands one to me.
I turn it over in my hand. It’s too red, too much like the blood I’ve spilled for me to taste, but Suriel bites into the green one he grabbed for himself, his eyes focused on me like I’ll somehow disappear if he looks away for too long.
“Tell me something. Something concrete. Something that I can prove is real,” I insist.
He pauses and annoyance seeps into his tense muscles.
“I’m willing to listen,” I goad. “I’m all tied up with nowhere to go. What do you have to lose by sharing?”
“It’s raining. The earthquakes are more frequent. Considering the timing, people are going to start disappearing. The four men that came for you are the horsemen, which is why they refused to die,” he lists, obviously fed up with me.
My mouth opens and closes. I don’t like that string of sentences. Two that are obvious, one that’s predicting the future vaguely, and one that’s a little too close to an answer that would make sense if I believed the Bible wasn’t fiction.
“How do you know?”
“Have you read the Bible, Charlie?” It doesn’t seem like a question that should follow, but it’s communication.
It’s progress.
“Once. In pieces. But I know it’s a book that people like to cherry-pick from to prove one point while missing the basic message of, ‘don’t be an asshole,’” I say.
“Other than that, I know the basics. Old Testament God was ruthless. New Testament God found mercy because of Jesus and decided we weren’t a bad game of Sims to delete and restart. ”
He blinks at me for a long moment, his face scrunching.
“Why?” I ask, my gaze flicking to his slick, full lips as he chews slowly.
He takes a slow breath. “Revelations is upon us.”
What did I expect from a man with religious psychosis?
“So does everyone need to say ten ‘Our Fathers’ and twenty ‘Hail Marys’ and then we’ll be spared? Do I need to try reconciliation again and not lie to the pastor about the worst thing I’ve done?” I ask, barely keeping the sass out of my voice.
He swallows, his very annoyingly kissable (or punch-able) Adam’s apple bobbing. “You truly don’t believe?”
“Believe in some invisible man in the sky who loves everyone except those who are gay, who use their free will not to believe, who want to live life as a good person without needing something like the devil as incentive? You do know the devil was invented to get people to convert, rig-”
“Men don’t always understand what they’re told,” he interrupts.
“I’m well aware. I’ve dated,” I snort.
“Then you understand not all is interpreted properly,” he says sharply.
“I understand facts and science.” I argue.
“I will never understand a god that allows good people to die horrible deaths without intervention. That does nothing when children – innocent children – are diagnosed with cancer beyond treatment. Viruses, bacteria, and prions that do nothing but kill no matter the person. Children raped and murdered, rapists going free, the whole existence of a system that oppresses. Like I said, if God created us and fucked off, I’d be more likely to believe. ”
He slowly rubs his toes over my good ankle.
The unprompted contact is so unexpected that I freeze.
Suriel exhales shakily and pulls away slowly, like it causes him physical pain, then slumps against the couch. He speaks slowly. “Sims was a good analogy. God’s free will and plan isn’t the only thing at work. The devil, human nature, evolution itself … all of it creates unpredictable changes.”
“If humans can create change just like microorganisms, then what is the point of a plan at all? Unless God’s just really, really pissed and is upholding that promise he made to Noah about not flooding the earth again,” I murmur.
Suriel’s unblinking stare is off-putting. He exhales slowly. “The plan cannot be undone. Revelations must happen.”
“And you’re here because …”
“Because this is where I belong,” he answers, taking another bite then glancing around. He seems to think of something and his beautiful gaze flicks to me. “What do you need?”
“Real food,” I say softly. “A blanket would be nice. And T.V.,” I whisper. “So, I know what’s going on and can prove you wrong.”
Suriel leans towards me, serious and sure. “Understand this: we have the same goal.”
“What’s that?” I ask. “Christian conversion?”
“Saving you,” he answers, making my heart shudder in my chest even as he glances at my wrist in warning – a promise that if I try to escape, he’ll tie me up again.
There are too many forms of ‘saving’ when it comes to Christianity. I’m hoping he means in the literal way and not the ‘saving your soul,’ ‘last rites’ sort of way.