Chapter 85 Chapter 85
I push back from the island, the stool scraping against the floor like a growl in the quiet. My hands move on autopilot, stacking the plates with a clatter, rinsing them under hot water that stings my skin. The dishwasher hums to life as I load it up, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. Adrianna watches me, her presence a magnetic pull that makes my pulse throb low in my belly. I snatch the Beaujolais bottle from the counter, the cool glass slick in my grip, and do not bother with fresh glasses—fuck that. I turn to her, eyes locking on hers, and grab her wrist, firm but not rough, tugging her up from the stool. Her body follows mine without resistance, that soft heat of her skin against my fingers sending sparks straight to my core.
We move through the hallway, my steps quick and purposeful, her bare feet padding behind me. The bedroom door creaks open, and I pull her inside, the dim lamp casting long shadows over the alaskan king-sized bed with its rumpled sheets still smelling of sweat and sex from nights past. I release her wrist only to point at the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” I say, voice low and commanding, the word laced with the need to take control after all the chaos. She sinks down, legs parting slightly as she perches there, her thighs pressing together in a way that draws my eyes to the hem of her shirt riding up, exposing a sliver of pale skin. I set the bottle on the nightstand with a thud. “I am running us a bath. We can talk while we soak—get rid of all stress.”
Adrianna nods, her fingers twisting in the sheets, and lets out a soft sigh.
“A hot bath would feel wonderful on my achy muscles. Help with the bruises too.”
Her voice is quiet, but it hits me like a punch, those words painting pictures of chains biting into her flesh, that feathered bastard's hands marking her.
The mention of bruises ignites something feral in me, the calm I had scraped together shattering like glass under a boot. I storm into the en-suite bathroom, twisting the faucet with a vicious yank, steam rising fast as water gushes into the deep tub.
“Levi and Apollo better be torturing that winged fuck Michael harder than they have ever tortured anyone,” I spit out, my voice echoing off the tiles, fists clenching at my sides. “Rip his fucking feathers out and make a goddamn pillow, make him bleed for every mark he left on you. I want him to scream until his voice breaks.”
The anger surges hot through my veins, mixing with the soul bond's dark hum—a revenge fantasy flickering with demons pounding angelic ass, cum and blood staining holy ground.
She follows me in, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes softening as she watches the water fill.
“It is sweet that you get so angry over such small wounds,” she says, a teasing lilt curling her lips, like she's trying to lighten the storm raging in me.
Sweet? The word dings something in my chest, a flicker of doubt creeping in—does she see me as just the fiery sidekick, all bark and no depth? My hands pause on the bath salts, the granules spilling over like my crumbling resolve. If I do not spill my guts now, I will chicken out, regret gnawing at me later while I lie awake, pussy aching for her touch but my heart starving. I straighten up, turning to face her, the steam curling around us like a veil.
“Why the fuck would I not get angry? That asshole hurt you—touched what's mine.” The words tumble out raw, my gaze dropping to the faint purple blooms peeking from under her collar, imagining my tongue tracing them, sucking hard to claim her over him. “If I was powerful enough, I would kill Michael myself. Rip his throat out with my teeth, watch him choke on his own blood while I fuck you on his corpse.”
Adrianna steps closer, the air thickening with her scent—sweat, wine, and that underlying musk of fear and resilience that makes my clit pulse. She reaches out, her fingers grazing my arm, cool against my heated skin.
“If you were the one who killed him, I would never be able to see you again. All that angelic fallout, the bonds snapping—How is it supposed to be better if you are dead or gone?” Her voice drops, eyes searching mine with an intensity that strips me bare. “And if I was gone for good? What am I supposed to do then?”
Her question hangs heavy, slicing through the rage, exposing the fear I have buried under layers of lust and loyalty. I swallow hard, the steam making my shirt cling to my tits, nipples hardening under the damp fabric. Fuck, she is right—killing him might sever the soul bonds twisted threads that keep her tied to this world, tied to me. The thought of losing her twists like a knife, my mind flashing to empty nights without her body grinding against mine, her pussy clenching around my fingers as she comes undone. I step into her space, our breaths mingling, the soul bond thrumming with dark promises of angels broken and demons claiming what is theirs.
“I would do anything to keep you,” I whisper, voice cracking, my hand sliding up her thigh, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just below the bruise. “Anything. Even if it means watching them tear him apart while I hold you.”
She does not pull away, her body leaning into my touch, eyes darkening with that shared hunger—the revenge-laced lust that binds us tighter than any chain. The tub fills behind us, water lapping invitingly, but the tension coils hotter, my free hand itching to strip her bare, pin her against the sink, and bury my face between her legs until she forgets the pain. Her lips part, a soft exhale escaping, and I wonder if she will push me away or pull me closer, the night unfolding with confessions and climaxes yet to come, Michael's distant screams fueling our fire.