Chapter 8
EIGHT
Traditional nish thatsha betrothal vow:
The magic in my heart—my most cherished gift—will always come second to you.
MALACH
The locks slide free one by one while I sit rigidly on the couch.
They’re bickering, and Celine’s voice is tight with .
. . pain? My control snaps, and I surge to my feet as the door swings open.
Her shirt is soaked with blood, and the thick, shapeless fabric tied around her waist does a terrible job of hiding it.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
“She is.” Luca nods at me, the yellowish tint to his eyes telling me this argument has been going on for a while. I knew I should have followed them.
“I’m fine—fuck.” Celine careens to one side, her body jolting in pain because she lied to me. “I mean, I will be fine,” she corrects herself sullenly.
“You’re right. You’ll be fine once Alistair gets here with the potion.” Luca wraps his arm around her waist, supporting her weight and ignoring her annoyed grimace.
“I already told you, no potions,” she snarls. “I don’t want Alistair here, and I don’t want to owe him for anything else. My ledger is already dripping red where he’s concerned thanks to Malach’s murder attempt.”
“Judgment,” I mutter. “It was judgment.”
“It was fucked.” She glares at me, her skin paler than usual with two pink streaks slashing across her cheeks, before setting her sights on Luca. “Since you’ve decided to interfere with my decisions, you can help me clean the blood off.”
“You can’t dance tonight, baby—”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Unless . . .” Luca draws the word out obnoxiously. “You take Alistair’s magic potion.”
“He could be trying to poison me.”
Luca rolls his eyes. “Yeah right. He’d rather walk naked down the Strip at high-fucking-noon. Go get in the shower and quit being stubborn.”
My eyebrows shoot up when her lips curl. Is she enjoying riling him up? Determined not to be left out again, I follow them down the hall, through the bedroom that smells strongly of my wife, and into the bathroom.
Celine notices me, and her brown eyes narrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Ascertaining the full extent of your injuries, as I vowed to always do.”
Celine sags and stumbles. I reach for her, but Luca is already there, grumbling under his breath, with a wild look in his eyes. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, baby. Stop arguing with Malach and get in the fucking shower before I lose my fucking mind.”
“You’re bossy,” she says, slurring her words. Her eyes, glassier now, focus on me with difficulty. “And you—using our betrothal vows to get your way. That’s shady.”
“Malach, help me,” Luca says. “I don’t like this. She should be healing by now. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”
Fingers trembling, I reach for the hem of her shirt and carefully pull it off, forbidding my eyes from wandering.
Celine’s head lolls to the side and falls against Luca’s chest. Her hair, like burnished silken flame, grazes my forearm. It’s the most intimate position I’ve ever been in with her. It’s ruined as soon as I catch sight of the deep gouges below her ribs.
“What weapon did this?” I demand, looking to Luca for answers.
“Spider legs, three of them,” he grunts, flipping the water in the shower on. “Hold her up, would you?”
I nod, sliding my arms under Celine’s to support her weight. She nuzzles my neck, but she’s mostly unconscious. I sigh. I hate her wounds but understand her need to fight. If Celine hopes to stand against her father personally or on behalf of our people, she must be at her strongest.
Luca helps her step under the spray and begins to carefully clean blood from the punctures, oblivious to the water soaking his clothes.
“You didn’t ask if she won,” he says to me.
“With injuries like these, she might have gotten her ass kicked. Aren’t you curious whether she earned the spot or not? ”
I frown at him. Foolish statements such as this make me question whether he’s worthy of her. “She wouldn’t accept a loss,” I say slowly. Perhaps that will make it easier for him to understand. “Not due to three simple wounds.”
Luca shrugs. “You’re right; she won. Her first official fight is next week.”
I nod, satisfied and unsurprised to be proven correct. “I’ll put together a rotation of drills to ensure she’s ready.”
“She’s going to be spread too thin.” Luca groans, and a strand of sodden hair falls in front of his eyes. “Working at the club is already physically demanding, with late hours. If she adds training, when will she rest?”
His concern is valid, but it’s new for me to hear it spoken aloud.
In the celestial realm, rest is rarely prioritized. Productivity, yes. Efficiency, doubly so. Order must be maintained, and it’s the responsibility of each echelon to divide its responsibilities accordingly. But rest? In my entire life, I’ve never heard anyone champion its importance.
I wonder how Celine feels hearing Luca guard her energy so fiercely. Is it nice? Threatening? With her eyelids heavy and her breathing slow, I’m not sure she even hears us.
Luca whips his head up at the sound of muffled pounding. “If you’ve got her, I’ll go let Alistair in.” The thumps get louder, and he curses. “Hopefully, before he breaks down the door.”
I nod. Holding Celine with one hand, I use the other to pick up the scrap of fabric Luca set aside. Slowly, I wash the blood from her ribs, careful not to disrupt the wounds themselves.
This is the first time we’ve been alone in years. The lost time scores me to the bone. The day Celine fled, she took my heart, my word, and every fragment of my loyalty with her. I’ve been half an angel ever since.
The bathroom door flies open and crashes against the wall. Alistair surges into the room, nostrils flared, his black hair hanging wildly around his neck. Uncivilized. He grips a glass vial in his hand so tightly I worry he’ll break it before it can be used to help her.
Celine jolts, her eyelashes fluttering as she tries to assess the obvious threat.
“Fuck, dude. Take it down a few dozen notches,” Luca snaps.
Alistair snarls and focuses his blood-red eyes on me. “Give her to me.”
Before I can remove his head from his body, Luca shoves him. “Knock it off, Ali. I’m not playing. If you want to get banned from her place for the next century, keep being an idiot. But if you’re trying to make things right, give her the damn medicine.”
The red in his eyes melts to faded blue. He nods and pours the potion into Celine’s mouth with shaking fingers. I tilt her head back until the pale skin of her throat bobs as she swallows.
“How quickly before it—damn.” Luca whistles and points at her side, where the deepest of the gouges is already knitting itself back together.
“I got the strongest one I had,” Alistair says.
“Was that necessary?” Luca raises his eyebrows. “You know what? Don’t mention that to her at all, Ali—it’ll piss her off.”
“You washed the blood away,” Alistair says, his lips curling into a pout as he rakes his eyes down Celine’s skin.
Luca chuckles and shakes his head. “You’ll get plenty of opportunities to convince her to let you lick it off after her other fights. Get lost before she comes to.”
Alistair growls low in his throat and yanks Luca into him, fisting his hands in his waterlogged T-shirt. He kisses him angrily, then darts from the room too quick for my eyes to track the movement.
The front door slams a heartbeat later.
Luca rolls his eyes and strips his wet shirt off. “Don’t drip on her bedroom carpet,” he tells me. “She hates that.”
“Luca,” Celine whispers, her lips moving against my chest. I can’t resist tightening my hold. He’ll take her from me. I know it, but I’m not ready to give her up. I’ll never be ready.
“Yeah, baby?” Luca hurries to the edge of the shower but doesn’t attempt to remove her from my arms.
“I’m dancing tonight,” she whispers. “If you don’t wake me up in time, I’ll be pissed.”
He shakes his head, then glances at me. “Can you take her to bed? I’m going to clean up this mess.”
I nod, noticing the streaks of blood the water didn’t wash away, as well as the puddles from wet clothes.
“My pants are soaked,” Celine says, pawing weakly at the skintight material.
Clenching my jaw, I pull them down for her, keeping my eyes on her face. I’ve imagined her this way hundreds of times, cradled against my heart where she belongs.
Tenderly, I lay her on the bed, pleased that her wounds have closed.
Pale pink circles are all that remain of the gouges.
I pull the blanket to her chin, fold it around her, and check the foot of the bed to make sure the covers are securely tucked.
I don’t want her to be disrupted by a draft, although the acrid heat here is brutal.
I lift my head when she calls my name, surprised to see her eyes fixed on my face. “I won today, but it was too close. You’ll have to push me hard to get me back where I need to be. We’ll be lucky to survive one wave of Dad’s assassins if I can’t—”
“Shh,” I say. Grabbing her hand, I pull it off the covers and hook our thumbs together, the rest of our fingers flaring in opposite directions.
Wings—locked, made whole by two hands joining.
It’s an older thatsha custom, but I want her to know I’m serious.
“I swear, My Truth, that I’ll prepare you to face him, but you cannot get stronger if you refuse to rest.”
Celine tilts her head, a small smile on her lips as she looks at our joined hands. “You’ve changed, haven’t you?”
I nod, although I don’t believe it. Can someone change when their purpose never falters? Since the first time I laid eyes on her, as a chubby boy with rounded cheeks and stubby wings, I’ve known she was my destiny. That was the moment I changed. Now, I simply adapt to fit her needs.
“Celine, you cannot leave me behind again,” I say firmly. “Let me be by your side. Not knowing . . .” Anxiety consumed me.
She searches my face before nodding, her eyes softening. “I understand.” She yawns. “For the record, I’m not hiding you, Malach, I just don’t want to draw more attention to the situation than I have to. Angels aren’t common in the Fringes.”
“I can keep my wings tucked,” I say reluctantly.
Her eyelashes flutter.
“Sleep now,” I whisper. “I will ensure the shifter wakes you.”
“Not sure how you plan to do that.” Luca emerges from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Do you even know how to read a clock?”
He slides under the covers, poking the screen of his cell phone methodically as he tucks himself into Celine’s side. I grit my teeth and barely stop myself from informing him that I can tell time in at least ten different ways—no clock needed.
“I set an alarm,” he whispers, kissing Celine’s temple.
She nods, her breathing evening out as she relaxes in his arms.
I leave the room before I ask to stay.