Chapter 20 Charlie
Suriel suddenly releases me, going limp behind me.
I actually look at the water then. I swear it’s red, swirling with blood that’s too dark, like it’s infected. Then the power goes out. I jump and shove Suriel.
He doesn’t move, so I turn around and see how pale he is, how his tattoos have all turned to focus on his right shoulder, which is … pulpy. I don’t know how else to describe it. It looks like someone took a garbage disposal to his shoulder and …
“Your tattoos.” I whimper, hands shaking. “The blood, and the – Fuck!”
“You’re a mortician,” he says slowly, his voice raw as his head lifts off the back of the tub. “This isn’t new.”
“You’re not a corpse! You’re alive!” I hiss, then remember his scream just before I lost consciousness in the icy water. “What did this?”
“Hellhound,” he says, then glances around at the dark. “Generator is out.”
“It’s fine! Ignore it, just-” I squeak and start coughing wildly as he lifts me from the tub. “Suriel!”
He wraps a towel around me, his eyes boldly dipping down to my body, then away. He clears his throat. “You need clothes … Warm … To stay warm…”
Stumbling, he goes to the bedroom. I follow, holding my towel up and using my hand to guide me through the unfamiliar house. Suriel touches a candle and it lights, bathing the bedroom in a barely-there glow.
“Can I fix the generator or-”
“Stay inside,” he snaps. “Don’t leave. This is what happens when you leave. They sense you and claim you.”
“You … You still haven’t explained that,” I argue.
“The Devil wants you.” He tosses a large sweatshirt at me.
I pull it on over my towel - suddenly shy about being naked with him, then start drying my hair once the sweatshirt is settled over my body. “You know how God created everything?”
He pauses and turns to face me, blood rolling down his back and his front from the massive wound on his shoulder.
I swallow. “If God did that, created everything with perfect intention … Then Lucifer was meant to fall, then punish the wicked. Doesn’t that mean demons are serving God too?”
I expect him to give me shit, to quote the Bible, but he wavers again. I grab boxers and help him into them, even though his dick is hard and begging to be licked.
I’d love to do it.
He grips my hair hard, pulling me up, then seems to realize what he’s doing when I pant. He releases my hair slowly, wet locks slipping between his fingers.
“Downstairs please … help me,” he says, looking away ashamed.
I can’t keep up with what’s going on, so I do what I can - I obey.
He keeps his good arm around me as we walk downstairs. Anytime there’s a candle, he touches it and it lights. Once we’re in the living room, he tells me to run - something about conserving heat - and grab every blanket, pillow, and towel I can find.
Together, we make a nest right in front of the fireplace. It looks so cozy that I want to drop into it. I’m exhausted, every muscle sore, and there’s a lingering chill in my body I can’t escape.
“Can you start the fire like the candles?” I ask.
He slumps against the wall, near me, watching me. His eyes slowly move over my body, drinking in my thighs especially, then he clears his throat, mumbles something that doesn’t make any sense and tries again while putting his hand over his wound.
“It’s draining,” he finally manages. “Too little divinity left.”
“Okay, then … How about you go sit down?” I say, pulling his arm back around my shoulder. I set him back in the nest he’s made and point. “It’s your turn to stay.”
He nods and starts working on something in the nest (involving a line of pillows). I shake my head and snatch one of the pillows, putting it next to him. “Lay down.”
Suriel eyes me again, something flickering in his gaze, but he sits back, lounging on the pillow obediently while trying to straighten blankets with his unbloody hand.
Satisfied he’ll stay, I hunt down matches to get a fire going. Once I do, I sigh and move closer to it. “Better. This is so much better.”
Suriel doesn’t answer.
I look over at him and realize he’s passed out … again.
Fuck, I don’t know how to treat a living person!
What am I supposed to do?
Do I even want to save him?
He saved me when he could have left me.
It’s an annoyingly correct thought. He’s saved me again and again. I owe him … and something about him dying, about him slowly succumbing to infection, just isn’t tolerable. I won’t get to ruffle his feathers. I won’t get to debate theology and see him actually listen and process what I say.
Even if he’s a bad luck charm, even if his motives are questionable, I don’t want him dead.
So I get everything I need to take care of him. I boil water on the gas stove (thankfully it’s gas), find needles, thread, peroxide, and alcohol. Occasionally, I cough up water, or feel like I’m choking. My chest burns, but the more I do, the warmer I feel, which keeps me going.
By the time I have everything set up next to Suriel in our nest, I feel my nerves start to light up.
What if I do it wrong?
What if I make it worse?
I snap gloves on my hands anyway and glance at Suriel’s clammy face. “Sorry, Angel. This will hurt. But, you kinda deserve it, right?”
I adjust a towel under his shoulder to soak up whatever I pour on him and the blood, then start dabbing at the wound to see what I really have to work with. Suriel hisses and grabs my hand, his eyes dilated and intense.
“Rise and shine,” I whisper.
He looks at my setup, then lets me go. I pull back the paper towels that are soaked and toss them out of our nest. “I, um, you keep bleeding.”
“Living, Charlie. Take a breath,” he says gently.
I nod and take a slow breath before continuing to dab and water down the wound to see what we have to work with. I stay focused on the wound even as the bloody water rolls off him and to the towel.
“I’m going to see how I can piece you together. It looks pretty ruined. How many teeth do those things have?” I ask.
“Too many. They’re the Devil’s favorite for a reason,” he says gently.
“What were those?” I demand. “This is insane.”
He shudders, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. “Seven sins … Seven Hellhounds.” He hisses as I continue working and my hands still, making his eyes open. He watches me intently. “You can do this.”
“This isn’t how I wanted to play doctor with you,” I whimper. “Not even close. Why are you so much weaker now?”
“Infection spreads. It’ll infect my soul, my mind. You should leave,” he touches my face gently as his eyes dilate. “Leave and hide where I won’t find you.”
“No. No.” I shake my head and feel a sob threatening to come up my throat. “I owe you.”
“Nothing.”
“You saved me. Of course, I owe you. I can’t leave a debt unpaid. I can’t-”
“Not a debt. I protect you because I want to. I want to be your shield. Your sword. So, don’t let me hurt you,” he says, then drops his hand.
“You know I wanted to be an artist once?” I ask, while ignoring his doom’s-day talk. “I thought I’d be good at it. Even considered doing tattoos. But it’s not reliable or stable and my last foster dad said reliability is better than passion, you know?”
I keep rambling, telling Suriel plenty about my life after I turned eighteen. How I’d loved yoga, used to linger in bed in the morning to try to take control of my dreams. I share every meaningless thought in my head.
Warning him about alcohol and peroxide doesn’t do much to prepare him, but my fingers trying to smooth down skin to find ways to stitch him must be worse based on his groans. I try to soothe the wound by being gentler.
I feel his eyes on me and slowly look away from the wound. It’s still bleeding, but I’ve almost gotten used to the feel of it between my gloved fingers. “I think there’s a tooth-”
My tongue knots itself when I see the blatant hunger in Suriel’s gaze.
He slowly looks me over, my sweatshirt pulled up to show nearly all of my thighs.
His fingers brush over my thigh, not gripping, just …
feeling. He licks his bottom lip as he looks me over and that sizzling layer of expectation, of near suffocating lust opens between us – for the first time, started by him.
No.
It’s not the time.
I’m cleaning him.
I’m fixing him.
Fixing, not fucking.
Not fucking.
“No open cuts on you?” he asks softly, his voice a low rumbling growl.
“N-no,” I breathe.
His gaze lifts to my lips and he licks his own. “Finish my shoulder, Charlie. Do whatever you have to.”
“Um, I-I don’t think gauze will be enough if I can’t shut the wound with stitches and I don’t think stitches …”
“No stitches. I’ll heal,” he whispers, eyes raking over me again with a mix of impatience and need that looks damning on his face. I shudder as my nipples harden. I suck my bottom lip and nod once. He grips my thigh tightly as I rip the tooth out of his wound. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, you said ‘no’ to that,” I remind.
“I won’t do that again.”
“Fight hellhounds?” I ask.
“Say no,” he answers.
The tooth clatters from my hand – even though it’s huge – and I stare at his shoulder. I must have heard him wrong.
There’s no way he’s thinking about sex now.
He’s open, bleeding, keeps wincing in pain while I pull more teeth out of him … No. I’m hearing him wrong, or he’s delusional from blood loss.
“I’ll test that later,” I finally whisper.
“Fuck later,” he growls, pulling me closer and quickly spreading my legs, so I straddle him in one go. “Now.”