Angel Blood

10- (The Start of) the Fall

His eyes flicker to the cuffs around my wrist. "Has he had you in those the entire time?"

I stare at him, the heat of fury sweltering in my belly as I allow all the depravity I've felt in the past two weeks to show on my face.

The silence between us is tense as he walks over to the bed and unchains my wrists, his face carefully blank. It's only at his closeness do I realize a bruise skims under his eye and his knuckles are busted as if they've been driven into a brick wall.

I rub the sore skin around my wrists, frowning as he strides back to the door, unbound and alone. "Where are you going?"

"Business. Don't wait up, angel."

...

Clicking through TV channels mindlessly, I realize two things:

1.) Sinclair Black is going to drive me to insanity.

2.) If I sit in this room any longer, I'll shoot myself with my own gun (when he gives it back to me, of course).

I take a deep breath, trying to ease the restlessness that festers in my gut. Maybe it's a good thing Oliver kept me bound. The temptation to wander from my cedar-scented prison tempts me to my core.

It takes me another hour before I get the courage to rise out of bed and pad over to the door, tugging the oversized t-shirt further down my legs nervously.

I attempt to open it, sighing wearily as the locked knob stays stubbornly still beneath my fingers. My heart shudders in my chest like a bird wretchedly flapping its wings within an iron cage.

I don't hesitate as my leg juts against the wood, wincing as it opens with a splintering pop.

I await the sound of approaching footsteps. When silence blesses my ears, I expel a relieved breath and take a tentative step down the stairs.

The quiet continues even as I reach the last step. When I turn the corner, the last thing I expect is Oliver's presence.

Granted, he's slumped over the bar like he's downed one too many, but still.

I still, dread tightening my chest as I wait for him to notice my presence. But he never does. Upon taking a step closer, I realize there's no alcohol to be found around him.

"Are you okay?"

I almost think he's dead until a muffled grunt sounds back at me.

My brow knits as I take a step closer. "What's wrong with you?"

He lifts his head slightly and a flash of metal catches my eyes. Two knives are embedded in the back of his hands, binding them flush against the bar. A stream of blood trickles from the open wounds and cakes against his inked arms.

"Holy shit," I breathe, moving closer to him. My hands reach for one of the handles but he bares his teeth at me like a feral dog.

"Don't fucking touch me."

My hand jerks back to my side as I stare dumbly at him. "You have knives in your hands."

"Yes," he bites through gritted teeth. Sweat beats his temples, slicking his dark hair to his face. "If he put them there, he'll be the one to take them out. Otherwise we're both fucking dead."

"Christ." I rub the chafed skin of my wrists absentmindedly. "Sinclair did this?"

Oliver doesn't say anything, his jaw clenching as he glances at the door behind me. It's the room I'd shot his friend in what now seems like ages ago.

"He's in there?" I can't find it within myself to leave him in this state. Oliver has a knack for being broody and acting like everything I do is an inconvenience, but he doesn't deserve this. His demonic blood makes him sturdier than the average human so the wounds won't kill him, but it'll leave him in excruciating pain for god knows how long.

"Don't," he bites, dark eyes flashing with warning.

I ignore him, hands clenching in preparation to aim one at Sinclair's perfect face—not only for torturing one of his men, but also for hooking me on his touch and then leaving me pining after him for two weeks like some kind of weak-minded schoolgirl.

I push the door open, stilling in the doorway as a familiar breathy voice fills my ears. Red hair spans over dark satin blankets, olive fingers clutching her pale waist as he drives into her from behind.

It shouldn't feel like a betrayal. I don't even like the man. But all I can think of is how the same hands fit so perfectly in the dip of my waist like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

Eyes the color of storm clouds flicker up to meet mine, a brush of dark hair falling into his eyes. His body seizes its rhythm, gaze narrowing on the stricken expression that crosses my face.

"Angel."