Revelation (27 page)

“Nuh-uh.” He laughed, his breath a hot tease. “Don’t make me tie you up, Morgan. You’re not in control. Just be.”

And he nuzzled her delicately, licking so softly, teasing just the very tip of her until she squirmed uncontrollably, her nerves stretched tight. Every muscle quivered, her wits fogged over with pleasure.

At last, he relented, suckling her, softly then harder, and she shuddered, the tension unbearable. It felt so good. Too good. “Oh, lord. Stop. It’s too much. I can’t!”

But he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t let her go. Just bent her to his will, parting her flesh with his fingers and licking and sucking until she reeled, feverish, the pleasure straining hard to new heights. Fuck, he was good at this. Giving up control to him made her shiver. When he finally let her come, she was going to explode.

“So beautiful,” he whispered against her flesh. “Now let yourself go, love.”

“Oh, yes.” She clenched her fists in his hair, dragging him closer, drowning in his touch and his hot male scent. Her nipples ached, her flesh tingling deep. So close. “More. Harder. Please, I want you in me—oh!”

He pushed two slick fingers into her, hard, glorious, and she gasped, and broke apart. Hot breathless release, sparkles erupting in her belly and shooting all the way to her fingertips. So good. She clutched him, panting, and he curled his fingers inside her and stroked that sensitive spot deep in her flesh, so raw and perfect that she wound up tight and exploded all over again, harder. Insane, screaming pleasure, her body afire, wild sensation that rippled on and on.

He kissed her there, delicious, like he couldn’t taste her enough. Her mind boggled, dim with insane delight. Twice, she’d come twice and he’d barely started with her. She still had half her clothes on. No man had ever done that to her. And still she longed for more, yearned for the smooth thrust of his hardness inside her, his deliciously brutal body on hers, velvety wings wrapped around her, the scent of his hair, his tongue in her mouth. Taste him, suckle him, let him take her any way and any place he wanted. “Oh God, Lune,” she gasped, disbelieving as shocks tore her nerves to glittering shreds, “I’m yours.”

And her midnight-winged angel gave an agonized groan, and tore himself away.

Luniel clawed the floor, ripping his nails red. His body twisted, cramping, a mess of desire and frustration. She was still panting from his touch, her dusky scent an agonizing temptation.

Fuck, she was the sexiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Spread her legs, feel her hot wet flesh, push himself inside her tight channel, make her come again, louder, harder, kiss her and bury himself deep in her and groan his pleasure into her mouth…

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock was so hard, it throbbed, the hot blood hurting him. He could still feel her tight bud between his lips, the way she moaned when he sucked on it and the pulsing explosion as she came and heaven’s holy grace, how he wanted her.

His torn fingernails healed, and he slammed his fist into the floor, timber cracking. He knew he shouldn’t have put his mouth on her. Shouldn’t have tasted her there, licked her, sucked her sweet flesh between his lips. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t resist her tempting woman scent or her stirring gaze or the flooding emotion in his heart.

And then she said it—
I’m yours
—and his deceit kicked him full in the guts like a hellspawn’s poisoned curse.

Lies. Selfishness. Cruel insanity. To pretend he could ever make her his. To imagine he had even an icicle’s chance in hellfire of deserving her.

He was weak. Unworthy. Twice already, minor skanky hellshits had hurt her, and he hadn’t stopped it. Against this Prince of Poison…Lune shuddered, sick. The best of intentions didn’t mean shit. He’d tried with Eleanor, and he’d failed. He couldn’t keep Morgan safe.

Lune wanted to scream. Hurt himself. Set himself on fire, let heaven’s curse burn the sordid truth from his flesh. He’d let Morgan think he could take care of her. Let her trust him enough to kiss him, touch him, offer him her precious body.

It was all bullshit.

“Lune?” Her voice, breathless.

Don’t look at her. Just…don’t.
“I’m sorry.” His throat
parched, and he had to repeat himself. “I’m sorry. Just…don’t touch me.”

A rustle as she knelt behind him, the tiny waft of Morgan-scented air across his feathers a sweet agony as she reached out and hesitated. “Lune, I don’t get it. Am I not…?” A swallow. “You don’t want to.”

His heart wailed at her pain, but he smacked it down. “I can’t give you what you need. I’m no good for you. Just go away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Quiet, but cool. He’d hurt her. A lot.

But better now than later. He risked a glance around, still on his knees, and her honey-brown eyes glistened with tears that shredded his nerves. He wanted to kiss those tears away. “I’m no good for you,” he repeated stubbornly. “I’ll only hurt you.”

“What do you call this?” Her chin trembled. “Don’t tease me. Either you want to be with me, or you don’t. Sorry, but you don’t get to do this by halves—”

“The demons will kill you, Morgan!” He swept around to face her. “They’ll damn your soul just to piss me off. What part of that don’t you get?”

“Look, I know I’ve been stubborn about believing you. But you’ve kept your word to the letter. I…” She flushed, but didn’t look down. Took a deep breath. “I do trust you, Lune. I can’t help it. I feel safe with you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” he said cruelly, but his treacherous heart did a giddy somersault. Heaven, she deserved so much more for that admission.

But he couldn’t give it. Not now. Not ever.

“Why not?” She waved her hands, frustrated. “We’ve done okay so far. I thought we fought pretty well together. Why are you so convinced you’ll get me killed?”

“Because that’s what happened last time!” Helpless fury brewed hot in his guts. “Okay? I loved her and the demon prince stole her soul, and I should’ve saved her but I didn’t. She’s screaming in hell forever because I was weak. You want that to happen to you?” Frustrated glitter burst from his wings, and he yanked them back, harsh. “Jesus. I should never have let you come with me. I should never have touched you.”

“A bit fucking late for that now.” Her gaze flashed dark, her mouth hardening.

“I said I was sorry.” Fuck, what a useless little word.

“Yeah. Well, I’m sorry, too.” She stumbled to retrieve her jeans, pulling them back on. A tear slipped down her nose and dripped on the floor. Lune wanted to howl with stupid loss.

But he made himself watch her. He deserved it.

He swooped to his feet, adjusting his armor with sharp yanks that nearly tore the buckles free. “I told you before. We need Quuzaat to tell us who he’s working for. I can’t jeopardize my mission to help you. You should go back to work, forget about everything—”

“The hell I will.” She rounded on him, cheeks flushing. “You just gave up the right to tell me what to do. ‘Until the last star burns out,’ you said. Well, this virus is
my
mission, and damn if I’ll give it up because you’ve lost your nerve. God, I can’t believe I said
trust
. I must have lost my mind.”

“Morgan—”

“Shut up. You know what your problem is? You’re scared. Of this Prince of Poison. Of me. Of anything that makes you vulnerable.”

His blood stung, mortified. “You have no fucking idea what you’re speaking of.”

“Don’t I?” Her eyes glinted. “News flash for you, angel.
We’re all scared.
But some of us don’t let it paralyze us. You want to bet against yourself before the game even starts? Fine. But you dragged me into this, and you can damn well help me finish it.”

Her defiance itched like a wasp sting. But it also made him want her all over again. He clashed his teeth, on edge. “Don’t be foolish. You can’t do th—”

“You can’t stop me,” she warned, her chin high. “I know where you’re going—the Prince of Poison’s party, right? That housing project, where that guy showed us? If you won’t take me with you, I’ll just get there by myself.” She smacked a dramatic hand to her forehead. “Alone? Oh, gosh! I’ll be demon bait!”

His wings twitched to smack sense into her. “Are you fucking insane?”

“No! I’m being realistic!” She propped a belligerent hand on her hip. “Don’t get an ego swell, flyboy, but you are the quickest, strongest, fittest, meanest, dirtiest badass killer I’ve ever met. And even if you weren’t, the column in my contacts headed
‘Guys I know who can slaughter plague demons’ only has one name on it.” She shrugged, cold. “Sorry, but tonight, you’re my date, and you’re not weaseling out of it by pretending you don’t want me.”

“It’s not that simple!”

“Isn’t it? Then tell me, tough guy: why did you really stop touching me?” Her gaze drilled him, relentless. “Are you afraid of this demon prince? Or afraid you might give a shit?”

Her icy tone stung, but her words burned, deep into the empty black void where his soul used to be. With a stinging crackle, dark resolve he thought he’d lost forever caught fire.

Electric heat burst from his feathers, fury and desolation and eight hundred years of guilt flaring up like tinder, starting a darker, purer blaze in his heart.

Keep it frosty, angel.
Michael, long ago, some dusty battlefield before Lune fell.
Don’t get involved. Monkeys come and monkeys go, but heaven has a very long memory.

Longer than Lune’s. Stronger than painful memories of Eleanor. And rich with higher purpose than his selfish obsession with Morgan.

He swooped up to her, closer than he dared, and leaned in, tasting her scent on his tongue, enjoying the dilation of her pupils, her breath’s tiny quickening, the dusky feminine whiff of her body reacting to him.

It didn’t matter.

Frosty fire poured into his veins. Stupid, to think his feelings were important. He was just a tool, and he’d do the job he was made for. Even if it scarred his heart for eternity.

Because eternity didn’t care. Raging against the pain was useless. It was all just a game.

“Do I
give
a shit?” He laughed, and it sparkled dark with ancient menace he barely remembered. “Morgan, I am so far beyond just giving a shit.”

She lifted her chin, so close he could taste her boldness. “Then what’s wrong with you?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me.” He brushed his lips across her ear, whispering. “I want to possess you, make you mine forever. I want to listen to you laugh and watch you smile. I want to make love to you until you weep with pleasure. I want to fuck you and make you come so hard and deep and hot, you
won’t remember your name.” He inhaled, tasting her delicious shudder. “And when the Prince of Poison eats your soul? I’m gonna scream my heart out for a thousand years.”

He eased back a little. Her mouth trembled, and she bit her lip, defiant. Determined. So beautiful, he ached.

But fuck the pain. Love was supposed to hurt. And fate was fate. It couldn’t be changed. Not by one heartsick angel.

So bring it on, you sick motherfucker. Let’s play.

Lune flashed his most chilling smile, and held out his arm for her to take. “But you know what?
None of it matters.
Heaven doesn’t care. So come on, Doctor. Let’s hunt the soul-thirsty bastard down together. If that’s really the way you want it.”

Their gazes met, and the air stretched between them, taut with words unspoken, feelings unshared.
I’m lost without you. Don’t fucking die on me.

But he didn’t say any of it.

She just folded her arms, and tilted that crooked grin that sped his pulse. “Wager’s on, flyboy. But give me a minute to change. If I’m dying tonight, I’m doing it with underwear on.”

Silvery light flashed, and Morgan blinked, the grubby East Harlem street corner flickering into view along with the salty smell of fried rice and pepperoni. A buzzing neon sign spelled “HAPPY WOK” in green above a greasy sidewalk café. A deli and grocery, a pizza store called “Muchos,” a fried chicken place with an animated crowing rooster.

Warm twilight licked her skin clammy. On the corner, the burned-out project loomed, broken brick walls casting threatening shadows. Some of the buildings still stood, blackened shells. More were only jagged black wall fragments and piles of twisted rubble. Beyond, traffic sped along FDR Drive, and the shore of Wards Island glittered, searchlights sweeping over the fenced hospital compound.

She shrugged out of Lune’s embrace, awkward. He still felt good. She didn’t want to think about it.

Didn’t want to think about what he’d said. That he’d abandon her to munching zombie death if he had to. That the demon prince would eat her soul, and there was nothing she could do about it. Before, it hadn’t seemed real. But now she was eerily certain he meant it.

He’d touched her. Loved her, so intimately, his passion’s rich intensity a fading glimmer deep in her body.

Now, his gaze fell on her, distant, cold as the ocean. She shivered, hot and chilly at the same time. He was so remote. So detached. So…empty.

Lune dragged his sword from empty air in a swathe of laser-blue light, and pointed it towards the burned buildings. “That way,” he said, icy. “Kill everything you see. Don’t hesitate. The Prince of Poison is the prize. And Morgan?”

She kept her gaze steady. “Yeah?”

His expression defrosted, a tiny gleam of warmth. “Stay close to me. I’ll fight for you. You know I will.”

Sorrow leached from her heart, but she staunched it. “Until it gets too hard, you mean?” she retorted coolly, flipping out her knife. “Sure. Thanks so much. Just watch your own back, angel. It’s a bigger target than mine.”

And she stalked forward, crouching, letting her hungry knife guide the way.

Inside the estate, darkness thickened. Her boots crunched on pebbles and broken bricks. A trio of rotting zombies jumped them from a dusty doorway, sick-gleaming eyes and clawing hands. They soon crumpled, stinking under steel and light flash. Black rubber-skinned bonecrushers cackled, hurtling out from behind a burned wall. Morgan hurled her knife, spitting skull bones deep. Lune’s blade scythed blue, and heads rolled.

Starvewraiths struck, screeching, talons ripping her hair. She dived, chin slamming the dirt. The spelled knife went spinning through the air to carve a hole in the monster’s belly. Black blood showered, and Lune backflipped and tore the thing’s head from its neck. The other one plummeted, headfirst like a ballistic missile, its cruel beak gnashing. Morgan rolled. Its face drilled the concrete six inches deep, and Lune sliced off its head.