Her Avenging Angel (Her Angel Romance Series Book 7) (4 page)

That she wasn’t a mortal had been the fifth thing he had noticed about her.

The fourth?

It had been the purity that shone from her, a touch of innocence that showed in how she reacted at times to the men around her and to him. Whether it was a stolen glance or a blush from her, it had him enthralled. Completely enchanted.

Utterly bewitched.

He had noticed many things since then, including that appearances were deceiving and she was powerful beneath that slender feminine exterior. The latest thing he had noticed was that she brought out a dangerous side of himself, one he had never realised the depth and strength of before tonight.

Since her confession that she felt the men here wanted to hurt her, he had found himself wanting to kill any male who so much as looked at her. He couldn’t stop himself from contemplating tearing their heads off or gouging their eyes out with his thumbs. He wanted them all away from her, wanted to take them all down, all to ensure one thing.

That she would feel safe.

Somewhere in the middle of the rollercoaster ride of feelings that had started the second he had set eyes on her and had been sending him hurtling up and down and throwing him for a loop ever since, he had realised something.

He could understand her and no one else in the bar could.

That disturbed him.

It unsettled him almost as much as the feel of her gaze boring into his throat and the need it stirred, a deep consuming desire to feel her teeth pressing into his flesh.

He was hungry and that was the only reason he was fantasising about letting the female take a bite out of him. He wanted to do the same thing to her. He wanted to devour her.

He pushed that wicked tempting thought out of his head, replacing it with ones about her language. He was one hundred percent certain that he didn’t have a clue what she was saying and didn’t know her language, but it seemed to filter into English in his head. It wasn’t a power she held, because no one else could understand her.

Was it a power he held?

He was still discovering ones that Asmodeus had passed to him when they had formed a master-servant bond.

Maybe he would ask the bastard about it later, when he returned.

Whenever that would be.

He wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t give a flying fuck about his duty right now, when in the presence of the immortal beauty beside him. Hell seemed like a million miles away, nothing more than a distant memory, and he liked it that way. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of the world and his sins wasn’t resting heavily on his shoulders. What was it about her that chased all his cares away?

Was it just because he was so absorbed in studying her, had all of his focus pinned on her and turned away from himself, or was it something else at work?

The female was taking her time with her glass of blood. Savouring it. Fuck, how he would do the same. He would treat it like ambrosia, manna, a gift from the highest power. He would taste every drop, savour every molecule, and relish every trickle of heat that would flow through his veins as his body absorbed it.

Nevar growled and closed his eyes, fighting the urge to swipe the glass away from her and down its contents.

He wouldn’t touch the blood. He was stronger than the curse the sorceress had placed on him. He would overcome it.

The little beauty next to him shifted on her seat, stealing his focus away from himself again and back to her. He opened his eyes and slid them towards her, studying her as she leaned on the bar and sipped her drink, her eyes pinned on the dark surface now.

Her black hair had fallen forwards with her, revealing a dark streak on her skin that cut down under the collar of the robe.

He reached out with his right hand and brushed the black material aside, revealing her creamy shoulder. He traced his fingertips lightly over the deep healing wound on her left shoulder.

A dark rosy hue climbed her cheeks and she shied away from his touch, bringing her right hand up to catch her robe.

She had walked in here naked as the day she had been born, brazen and bold, yet him seeing her bare shoulder had turned her shy.

She had tossed Villandry across the room when he had attempted to touch her, yet him laying his fingers on her caused her to blush.

“Who did this to you?” Whoever it had been, he wanted to kill them and avenge her. That dark urge swirled in his chest, malevolent and powerful, a force that felt as if it was strong enough to seize control of him by spreading through his limbs, twining tendrils around each bone, and hijacking command of his body.

Although, this time he would willingly hand control over to his darkness, embracing it in order to strike down whoever had harmed her.

He studied the healing mark that looked as if it had been done with a blade, his mood darkening as he recalled that it wasn’t the only one her body bore. Someone had hurt her, lacerating her pale smooth skin, and they would pay for it.

A brief shadow of panic crossed her hazel eyes and she looked away. “I cannot remember. I woke not far from here.”

“Naked?” he offered.

She nodded, but didn’t seem concerned by it. It concerned him.

He looked her over and the darkness stirred within him, roused by the insidious words whispering through his mind.

“You were not touched there?” His anger spiked at the thought that such a pure female might have been sullied in such a fashion.

That her fear of the males in the bar might stem from such a horrific act of abuse.

His claws elongated as the black writhed up his arms, gaining ground, his darker self pushing for freedom. His fangs punched long from his gums and he had to fight hard to tamp down the urge to call one of his black blades to him.

She didn’t seem to understand.

He looked down at her hips.

Her blush deepened. “No. It was a battle.”

That drew a frown from him. “You were naked though.”

She nodded.

His frown hardened. “How did you come to be naked?”

She looked into his eyes, hers as flat and emotionless as her face, and said, “I never had robes on.”

She touched the one she wore, glancing down at it and then back at him.

A smile curved her rosy lips. “It’s beautiful.”

It wasn’t. It was plain and black, but she treated it as if it was precious, stroking her fingers over the material, a smile on her face and a sparkle in her hazel eyes.

It made him wish he had manifested her something worthy of being called beautiful just so he could see how she would react to it.

So she was wearing something worthy of her.

She raised her eyes back to his and he knew he was about to sound like an idiot, but he needed to be sure he understood her.

“You fight naked?” He waited for a reaction to that, sure she would laugh at him.

She nodded. He looked her over again, recalling her curves and how they had inflamed him. Still inflamed him.

Fighting naked would certainly give her an advantage over a male opponent, but it provided no protection for her too.

“I can highly recommend armour.” He regretted it the moment it left his lips and she looked down at his, making it clear that she could see straight through his glamour to his real appearance. Her eyes danced over every piece of it, studying it so closely that he squirmed under the scrutiny.

He had loved his armour once, when it had been blue edged with silver, the colours of a guardian angel, and his wings had been stunning silvery-blue.

His contract with Asmodeus had turned it obsidian edged with violet and had corrupted his wings, turning them as black as Hell.

He could do nothing about either of them, no matter how deeply he wished he could.

So he kept his wings hidden so he didn’t have to see them and did his best not to look at his armour. He had once considered giving it up and disposing of it somehow, but it provided protection, and he didn’t think he could fight like the delicate-looking female currently staring in absorbed fascination at him.

Maybe he could fight naked with her.

His body stirred at that wicked thought and he shifted on his stool, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She would probably toss him across the room if she did.

He would give anything to have that power.

Where did she come from? She wasn’t mortal. She wasn’t angelic. He didn’t think she was demonic either.

She was something else.

And she was beautiful.

And he was sober again.

He didn’t care. Not right now. She had all of his focus, fascinating him with every little thing she did.

She sipped her blood.

Except that.

His stomach cramped, his fangs itched, and his hunger rose like a demon within him.

He breathed through it. In for five. Out for five. He didn’t need blood. In for five. Out for five. He was stronger than his hunger. The cramps subsided. He exhaled slowly, silently congratulating himself for successfully working through another attack, just as Liora had made him promise he would do. Some ridiculous thing she had called positive affirmation.

The female lifted the glass back to her lips and took another slow sip that painted them red and made him hunger to kiss her.

The darker needs lurking within him gave positive affirmation the finger and seized control, crushing his will to resist before he could muster it.

He tried to back off before he jumped on the female and stole the blood on her lips. The backs of his thighs snagged on the leather of the stool seat, and he fumbled in an attempt to remain upright. His left arm shot out, catching all the glasses on the bar and sending them flying as he fought for balance.

The female stared at him and cocked her head to one side.

He growled at her, dug his claws into the bar and dragged himself up, leaving deep grooves in the black wooden top. The shadows swirled higher, curling over his biceps and twisting around his thighs. His fangs lengthened and he ground his teeth, desperately seeking some calm so he could centre himself or whatever the fuck Liora had called it. His eyes blazed violet, burning in his skull as the skin around them bled into darkness.

His shoulder blades itched, his wings pushing for freedom.

Nevar snarled and buried his claws deeper into the bar top, clinging to it as he fought the change, refusing to give into it. It would pass. He just had to breathe.

What he really needed to do was let this hippy shit go and rip the heads off everyone who was now staring at him as if he was a one man freak show.

Including her.

He fixed his gaze on her.

Not including her.

Calm came over him like a cooling balm as his eyes met hers, washing through him and chasing back the darkness enough for him to get a grip on it and shove it back in its place, under his control. He breathed slowly and steadily, willing to try the hippy shit again because he had to admit it did work most of the time, and mentally apologising to Liora for doubting her methods, and everyone in the bar for wanting to tear their heads off and drink from their gushing necks.

The woman stood studying him still, her head canted to one side, a curious edge to her gaze.

“You have a sickness,” she said.

He nodded. “I brought it upon myself… and so I must conquer it myself too.”

She hopped back up onto her stool. “Why do you deny what will make you better?”

She held the glass out to him and he shot backwards, hit the stool, lost his balance and toppled over it. To add injury to insult, he landed hard on his knees and cracked his chin on the seat, and a few people nearby snickered at him, including Villandry.

Nevar shot Villandry a glare filled with intent that he knew the vampire would clearly read. One more laugh out of him and Nevar would make him intimately acquainted with something wooden and pointy.

“I’m sorry.” The woman drew the glass back to her, clutching it to her chest between her breasts.

He grimaced, clawed his way back onto his feet, and huffed as he sat down. “Blood only makes it worse. Vicious cycle.”

She drank the rest of the glass in one go, set it on the bar and pushed it behind her, where he couldn’t see it. He appreciated that. It was better than shoving it in his face and taunting him with it as she had a minute ago. She toyed with the belt of her robe, an awkward edge to her body language, and Nevar surmised that he wasn’t the only one having trouble not making an idiot of himself tonight.

Her head jerked up, her eyes leaping to his, and she blurted, “What are you?”

Nevar leaned back, caught off guard by her question and unsure how to respond. “I was wondering the same thing about you.”

Her smile bewitched him. There was a touch of innocence in it. Purity that he found alluring, as if she could cleanse him and make him good again. Impossible. The only way he could be good again was to die and be reborn as an angel of Heaven, and he had no intention of letting that happen. Heaven had tampered with his memories, controlling his actions. They had taken his free will from him. He would never return to that place and that life, under their control and unaware of how they played their angels like pawns, erasing memories when it suited them, keeping them in order.

“I don’t know what I am. Perhaps I am like you,” she said, luring him back to her, and he frowned at what she had said.

He shook his head. “Impossible. I was an angel, and now I am a demon, and not by choice.”

She played with the belt of the robe again, her black eyebrows dipping low and darkening her hazel eyes. “If you had a choice, would you still be an angel?”

He pondered that. “I would want to be an angel again to extinguish the evil inside me, but I have no desire to serve Heaven again. I want to serve no master.”

She stared at her knees, her gaze distant and her fingers paused against the material. She was still for so long that he grew concerned and leaned towards her without thinking, reaching one hand out.

She spoke before he could lay it over hers, her tone solemn and edged with pain, and he froze.

“I despise angels.”

He sat back and settled his hand on his bare knee instead. “Why?”