Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 40 One Drop

*Logan

Moments after jumping in the river, Logan cursed himself. Chiara's weight dragged them both further down, water stronger than him. He fought and kicked, but couldn't make sense of up or down with the frothing, raging river. It held them, it tossed them, it carried them where it wanted.

He needed air. Chiara struggled on his back, digging nails into his skin. She was drowning, while he helplessly raged.

Without warning, the water flipped them around and slammed them into something, Chiara taking the brunt of the blow. The instant later, she went limp.

She let go and he lost her to the water's darkness.

Adrenaline shot along his muscles. He swam in the last direction he felt her, reaching, searching.

Fucking Hell.

He was the Dark Flame, born nearly a thousand years ago and the deadliest warrior among his kind—he wasn't going to fucking drown or let the river take his angel.

His hand locked around her wrist. He tugged. His arm went around her waist. He kicked upwards.

Then they burst free of the water's iron grip. Logan pulled them both onto dry ground. Hacking coughs wracked him. Water came up from his lungs and stomach to spill on the ground. He took a scorching breath of air. Coughed. Another gasp. He couldn't get enough air.

But worse, Chiara wasn't moving. She wasn't coughing or breathing.

"Chiara!" His voice was gravel from his ragged throat, commanding her to wake up, but she was limp and blue. Her wings jutted out at horrifying angles on the rocky ground beneath her.

If there a time to save her with a power beyond his own, it was now. He reached for his belt, patting frantically.

His hand closed around the flask.

What saints had been watching her from above to ensure he still had Lucius's tiny canister strapped to his waist after the trials of five halls and countless fights?

Could those saints truly see into the darkest depths of Hell to help one of their own?

He didn't know, but he was grateful. He twisted the top off with his teeth, careful not to tip it and lose the precious contents.

There had to be at least one drop. One.

Please. If you are watching....

He fisted her hair, tilting her head back. Her jaw dropped slack, lips purple, skin sickly white. He tipped the metal container at the edge of her mouth.

There had to be at least one—

He shook the flask. In the dungeon she had been on the brink of death, body destroyed by Lucius's blows. But she came back from Death's hold. There had to be one drop of—

A crystal clear drop fell from the bottle into her mouth. The same moment, she stiffened, a desperate inhalation lifting her chest.

She blinked up at him and cupped his head to draw him down for a kiss.

She swiped at the seam of his lips, searching to deepen the kiss. His arms tightened around her. Their tongues touched, velvet on velvet.

The Fountain's water is life for angelic kind, as well as humans, but not for demons. He hissed in pain as a burning, scraping sensation spread through his mouth, down his throat, searing through his chest, but he didn't end the kiss. He didn't care how much it hurt him, so long as it meant she was alive.

Her wings cracked, bones popping back into place. He felt her brace for the onslaught of knitting bones under his kiss, but she didn't let go. Indeed, she kissed him deeper, melding her body flush to his.