Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 18 Don't Want to Be Good

*Chiara

After months of pain and suffering, the sweetest voice in her head promised her freedom and release. Beautiful creatures of shimmering stardust reached for her from the walls, bound behind an impenetrable, but clear, veil. They smiled and beckoned. They whispered and promised.

They were one.

One.

She could be safe and warm, one with them. Forever.

But that lying, monstrous demon was in her way, holding her back from that sweet, beautiful being in the tunnel walls—the multitude, the legion, the many that was one.

Life.

No, Death.

Yes. She would give herself to Death. She would end the suffering, the struggle—end her suffering and pain.

But Logan kept stopping her. He took her sword, he took her and picked her up. She kicked and bit, scratched and cursed.

He carried her, hands bruising hard. All along the walls, the shining beings beckoned and whispered. They glowed with beautiful, soft light, hands and faces inviting. She wanted to crawl into those walls and hide in those arms forever.

She hated him, this demon who forced her to go where he wanted. Hated him for being stronger, for killing her kind, for cutting off fucking angelic wings, and tossing them aside as if they were trash.

She hated him with all her heart. The end of the tunnel appeared. She had to act now.

Chiara snuck one hand lower to his waist where she knew he would have hidden weapons. Her fingers closed on a hilt. She kicked, arching her back at the same time to distract him, then drew the knife.

She plunged it in his chest.

Logan dropped to his knees, cradling her. She was so close now, so close to the end.

She blinked. He pressed her down, leaning over her. He was bleeding and gasping for air.

"That really hurt, love," he whispered. "But you missed my heart."

He pulled the knife free. Blood flowed from the wound as the knife tumbled with a sharp clang to the stone floor.

She took his pale cheeks in her hands. "Let me go."

His jaw and mouth tightened. "Never."

With a strangled groan, he lifted her in his arms and stood.

Death, beautiful, beckoning, frantic to keep her. The whispers turned to shouts.

The inviting hands turned to claws. The claws were in her head, scraping and scratching. She cried out—or tried to. Nothing came from her throat.

She clung to Logan as Death froze and ripped and tore through her mind. She was coming apart, it was breaking her.

Rage stirred, wakening her angelii. Her last stand against the minions of hell would be as full angelii. She sucked in a deep breath, willing herself to shift.

"No, you don't," Logan said.

She fisted her hands, ready to fight, but then his lips were on hers. His kiss was a command to belong to him, only him. His arms held her still, no matter how she raged against him, no matter the scratching and hissing bites or pain she inflicted on him, he held her. The sharp copper of blood was on her tongue—she had drawn it. He kept kissing her, hands tangled in her hair, arms pressing hers down. Chest to chest.

She was helpless in this fight against him.

She didn't want to fight him. Her angelii, trapped in her heart thrashed to be let free—to kill, to destroy, to go out fighting evil and sin.