Chapter 26 Suriel
Iwake up a few hours later, feeling better. I can feel my hand, and the near bone-shattering need to mount Charlie has ebbed. Not that I can forget her. Her moans, the way she felt wrapped around me, her pleas, and our fight. Sighing, I turn and notice soup waiting next to me.
Are you still taking care of me while furious, sweet dove?
I move the spoon slightly and realize the alphabet shaped noodles have been perfectly positioned to spell out: Asshole Angel. I almost smile at her venom, but then I remember the look in her eyes as she left. Hopeless, forlorn, more hurt than angry.
After making sure I’m steady on my feet, I leave the bedroom to check on Charlie. She’s sleeping on the nest I made for us in front of the fire alone. The rune I carved into her skin such a short time ago is already gone. Her sleep is fitful, but she’s not screaming or thrashing.
I brush my fingers over her cheek and get just a bit of the horrors of her past. A foster mother saying she’s unlovable, greedy, just taking up space. She’s ungrateful when she doesn’t eat. She’s greedy when she does.
She truly believes she’s unlovable, the kind of person that’s fun to fuck, but hell to remember. I shake my head.
She’s not.
She’s not unlovable, she’s impossible to forget, even if forgetting would be sweeter.
I gently put a hand on her chest and say a prayer for her, not for me. She deserves to feel her own strength and to know what she’s worth. Then I sit on the couch for a while and watch the sunrise.
But it’s not a proper sunrise. The sky is red, there’s a ring of vibrant, near blinding white where the sun should be.
The sixth seal is broken. The world will be bathed in a red light like a blood moon, which means we’re currently in an eclipse like the world has never seen and the last one it will ever know.
I don’t even realize Charlie’s awake until she mumbles softly. “Bob was right. Always right. I should have known.”
“Who’s Bob?” I ask.
“Robert Maxwell. He was a better man than most, honest. He didn’t hurt me, didn’t promise things because they were pretty, and didn’t pretend.
He’s the one that taught me that everyone only looks out for themselves.
They only help if they have something to gain,” she answers while crawling towards the fire to stoke it.
She laughs once. “Between episodes of Gunsmoke, he’d hand me an occasional beer and tell me I was a good kid. That he didn’t understand why people couldn’t see it. That the world was unfair and everyone was on their own. I appreciated that. No sugarcoating, just life lessons passed down.”
She stares at the fire, avoiding my entire existence, like I’m a ghost she can’t stand to look at. But this is a better topic than our fight. She nibbles her bottom lip, then swallows a question she wants to ask, but feels would make her weak.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“He was the second person I prepped for an open casket,” her voice is barely there.
“The only ones who came to his funeral were us foster kids. There were only five of us, but he deserved to be remembered,” she says softly, then shrugs.
“The only foster parent that was really a parent. The only parent I’d cry over losing. ”
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” I murmur.
“For what?”
“The life you’ve had to handle on your own. The ways you’ve had to become strong instead of soft. For the rage you still feel that I can’t liberate from your shoulders. I’m sorry … that I added to it today.” I slide off the couch and move closer to her.
She has to know that what we did wasn’t a mistake.
I do want her.
In every possible way.
Her smile, her laugh, her joy, her safety, her growth.
Not wanting her feels impossible when every hour I uncover more about her, more she’s survived, endured, and found a way to laugh about. When I uncover compassion she doesn’t want to admit to having, and traces of vulnerability that feel like trust between us.
And there’s so much more to her that I want to know … not that I’ll have the time for it.
Because I know the ending in store for us.
Ignoring it is selfish and selfish actions don’t breed love.
They smother it.
“Charlie, I’m not good with explanations, but you were right. What we did, it wasn’t just the bite. The bite was the catalyst, but my desire was already there. I don’t only want your body, but more is … it’s impossible.”
“Like I said, Bob was right,” she says sadly. “Even among Heaven and Hell. People only help when it benefits them. So, how is protecting me, or being here benefiting you – other than the sex you totally regret?”
“I don’t regret it, not in the way you think.
In ways I’m not at liberty to explain,” I answer, “I’m here because of orders and my own choice.
Yes, God commanded it, but I had an option.
I chose to be with you, to protect you, to do what I could to make you comfortable, not just …
take the easy route.” The one I definitely won’t explain.
She huffs. “There’s more of a reason than that. Trying to get your wings back? God blackmailing you for them?”
“You could be a bit less critical of Heaven.”
“And you could be more critical of the person you serve. If you don’t know the plans, if you don’t choose to serve, then what’s the fucking point, Suriel?
You’re an eternal slave and as much as I enjoyed your halo, it seems a lot like a shackle to a God that doesn’t give a shit about how you feel,” Charlie hisses.
She finally turns to look at me and for the first time, I don’t have any words. She’s making me question too much.
It’s unfair. I do want her. I adore her. I worship her. I understand how other angels fell for humans when they’re complex in ways that challenge and understanding and warm in ways that defy anything I’ve ever known.
“I’m truly sorry for the pain you’ve been in, the things you’ve been made to believe … and my role in both. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, shouldn’t have placed any burden on your shoulders.”
She finally meets my eyes, but there’s no trace of forgiveness. Her next sentences confirm it, “Sorry isn’t a word that absolves sin after you recite an ‘Our Father’ or some ‘Hail Marys.’ Sorry is just a word - a request. Forgiveness requires action.”
I don’t have the faintest clue how to atone for my actions.
Do I hold her?
Offer her something?
Give her space?
She deserves to know she’s valued, that I adore her for who she is, no matter how venomous.
Watching her fight a hellhound, not having any idea what to do, but determined to do it.
Seeing her fight herself, fight me, bare her teeth at anything to protect herself, then being so gentle and taking care of me.
I have no illusion that she needs me anymore. She’s determined, persistent, astounding. She doesn’t need saving, she needs support and, even with God’s help, I don’t have the armor, the power, or the control to a resist a woman that would end up leading an entire garrison with her will alone.
She sighs and walks to me, noting my sweatpants and t-shirt.
I clear my throat. “If we had more time-”
“Then you wouldn’t be here.” There’s nothing accusing in her eyes. She might as well be saying that ice is cold. “Let me look at your shoulder.”
I hesitate. “It’s fine.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. She doesn’t flinch. She just stares until I finally move my shirt and show her my perfectly healed shoulder. She stares for a moment longer, almost touches me, then draws back. “You know, if there was a gold medal for making things complicated, I’d hang it on your dick.”
“Tell me how to make this better,” I request. “How to better find the words, to better …”
She shrugs. “You’re a glutton for punishment and you’re hard just being close to me.” She points at my erection, since lust is still coursing through me, though now it’s manageable. “Since we have so little time, and I’m just a human, does my forgiveness even matter?”
“Yours does because you matter, Charlie,” I breathe.
She waves her hand, dismissing me, her eyes flicking to my cock before she shakes her head.
I’m ashamed I’m hard, especially after that conversation, but I know I deserve to be punished.
Even if it hurts me, I must purify myself, must clean myself, not of Charlie, but of the sin that’s left – hurting her.
Somehow breaking a woman whose sass, sarcasm, and cut-throat attitude ensured she could build a life on her own, demands punishment.
Since I don’t deserve to even fantasize about her, I throw a handful of salt in my mouth, choke it down, then head upstairs to bed to give her the space she wants.
I tie myself to the headboard, as far out as I can reach and shift to the middle of the bed.
I won’t touch her again, no matter how much lust boils under my skin.
Coughing up some salt, I shake my head, then rip my shirt down the middle and drag my pants down. After one moment’s hesitation (namely because I don’t deserve any pleasure at all), I start, wrapping my salty hand around my cock.
My touch doesn’t do even a quarter what hers does.
Each stroke is shockingly lacking after feeling her wrapped around me, clawing me and pulling me closer, surrendering to every pleasure I can give her until she’s begging for it to stop despite taking more and more from me.
But touching myself is safer than letting her do it …
Even if I’m thinking of her while wishing my hand made my halo vibrate.
I growl her name as I pant, gripping the headboard as I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining Charlie here with me, stroking me with her hands, her lush body pressing against mine, guiding me back to her pussy – better than paradise.
“Heaven help me,” I moan, sure that I’m going to need it since my focus is shrinking down to Charlie herself. Her emotions, her wants, her pleasure, her happiness and I’m still not measuring up.
God, forgive me because all I want is to bask in her these last few days.
I want to know this version of her, hear everything about her life before me, learn every story, every joke she likes, and enjoy the burning scraps of this world together whether we’re wrapped in carnal bliss or simply together.
It’s selfish.
It’s damning, but it’s honest, which should count for something.