“Who is he?”
I shove away from Legion’s chest, breaking his hold on my body. “What are you doing here?”
“I asked you a question.” His tone is as sharp as broken glass, his glare stormy.
“I asked you one too. You can’t just keep popping up like this.”
“And leave you unprotected? I can. And I will.” He stares at me with furious bewilderment, as if I’ve just slapped him across the face. “What’s going on, Eden? I asked you—begged you—to come back home with me. And you’re telling me that you’d rather I stay away? That whatever the fuck went down between us isn’t enough to bring you back?”
“No. I’m not. I’m saying I need time. I don’t know…” I shake my head. I can’t explain like I need to, because telling him the truth would break us both. “I don’t know what I want.”
“You don’t know if you want me.”
“No, no. I know I do, it’s just…”
Adriel.
Lilith.
Lucifer.
So many factors standing in our way. Legion lied to me about Adriel. Lilith lied to me about everything. And Lucifer…he may have been the only one telling me the truth. And now I’m lying to Legion about him. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
“Look, you said so yourself,” I go on. “Lucifer let me go. The Calling is broken. You have no more use for me.”
He advances quicker than I can see, pushing me against the tiled wall and pressing his body into mine. I gasp at the feel of his heat and his hardness, my senses on overdrive. I was fine up until now. I was doing my damnedest to resist the urge to let him wrap his arms around me and smother me with his massive frame. He knows what he’s doing. The knowing smirk on his face as he looks down at me, the corded muscle of his forearms caging me in…he knows the effect he has on me. We could talk in circles all day, but the moment he touches me, I have no choice but to submit to his fire.
“Are you telling me that you’re uncertain about me?” he murmurs, his warm breath stirring the wisps of hair at my ear. “That you’re uncertain about this?”
“I’m saying…”
Then his lips are crashing against mine—hot and soft and commanding. His fingers are in my hair, pulling with enough pressure to angle my head up to give him access to my mouth. He coaxes it open with just a brush of his tongue then kisses me deeply, slowly. Like lazy Sunday sex that lasts for hours and hours to the soundtrack of falling rain against fogged windows. I melt into him completely, standing on my tip-toes and wrapping my arms around his neck. That small show of surrender triggers something beneath his cold, hard exterior and ignites flaming hot frenzy. I’m off my thigh-high heeled boots, pinned against wall, and his palms are holding—no, gripping—the backs of my thighs. He swallows my whimpers like water, letting them quench his devastating thirst for more.
He breaks away only to pin me with that unrelenting silver stare. “He doesn’t touch you,” he commands. “He doesn’t lay a fucking finger on you.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I reply breathlessly. I’m panting; I feel dizzy. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or just him.
“I just did.”
He kisses me again, this time assaulting my mouth with tongue and teeth. He isn’t gentle. He isn’t nice. And fuck if it doesn’t turn me on. My nipples strain against my bra, aching to be sucked. He’s so hard under his jeans that the scrape of stiff denim against my panties is enough to make me throb and tighten with the first signs of orgasm. I must have come half a dozen times last night, yet I feel like I’m on the verge of release.
Then, as urgently as he kissed me, he sets me down. My legs wobble on my heeled boots and I grasp his biceps to steady myself.
“What was that?” I pant. My head is swimming and I feel like I may faint, either from oxygen deprivation, alcohol or longing.
“That was me. Telling you… He doesn’t touch you.”
“You sound jealous,” I manage to say between labored breaths.
“Jealousy is a human emotion, Eden. I don’t like it. So why the fuck would I feel it?”
I look up at him, my gaze hazy yet firm. “Funny. You sound a bit like Lucifer. Maybe you’re more alike than you’d like to admit?”
Rage. Pure rage paints his face. “I am nothing like him.”
He steps back, and cold invades the foot of space between us. It seems like we’re oceans apart. Whatever black magic existed a moment ago with my back against the tiled wall and my thighs wrapped around his hips has dissipated, welcoming a biting chill that makes me shiver on unsteady legs. His expression is stone, and I get a glimpse of that monster that held me down on his bed, his hand wrapped around my throat as he tried to exorcise my soul’s intruder.
He didn’t deserve that. I knew it the moment the words left my kiss-burned lips. But the ability to censor my thoughts has never been a gift. And even though it was a mean, petty thing to say, the fact that he’s so affected by the accusation tells me all I need to know: It isn’t a lie. Lucifer and Legion are of the same flesh, of the same blood. They were bonded in their quest for rebellion long before the thirst for vengeance and anarchy blackened their hearts.
Of course, he’s not much different than Lucifer. He may sin differently, but he’ll always undoubtedly be a sinner to his core.
“Look, I’ve gotta go…” I finally mutter, moving towards the door.
I brace for him to stop me, but…nothing. Not even a word. Tell me to stay, I inwardly urge. Tell me I’m being stupid and callous. Force me back up against the wall and make me regret ever leaving you.
But this isn’t some angsty teen drama where the hero furiously confesses his undying affections for his dumb-as-a-doornail damsel in distress, while also fighting with the intense urge to revert to his true nature. Legion has never pretended that he’s something more than he is, and this—this thing between us—will never be more than what it was.
When I glance back as I fiddle with the door’s lock, he doesn’t even look at me. He stands as still as a statue, the tick of his jaw the only sign of life. I wish I could go to him—tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I’m afraid and insecure, and beg him to make it better. But I can’t. And I won’t. I may not have much, but I have my pride.
When I yank open the door, there’s a line of side-eying women waiting to get in and relieve themselves of overpriced martinis and wine. I mutter a half-hearted explanation and brush past them. But before I exit the completely, I spare a glance back into the bathroom.
Legion is gone. Maybe this time, for good.
“All set?” Christian asks expectantly when I approach the table. The bill has already been paid and Sister and Ben have taken their little make-out session back to the apartment, meaning I’m stuck with Christian for at least a couple more hours. Damn. How long was I gone?
“Yeah, sure,” I reply, trying to muster a smile.
I can still feel Legion on my lips. Can still taste him on my tongue. His fingerprints are burned into the backs of my thighs. Shit, I’m still wet from the friction of his jeans against my panties. But I suck it up and allow Christian to lead me out of the crowded restaurant and onto the frosted sidewalk. The city is alive, despite the frigid temperatures. I wrap my wool coat around me tighter, longing for heat. I’d gotten so used to the warmth the Se7en provided whenever they were near. It was like traveling with your own personal fireplace.
Christian notices my shivering, and moves closer to me as we stroll down the block towards a cluster of bars and more restaurants.
“Do you want my coat?” he offers. I shake my head before he can slip it from his shoulders, which I note are broad and sculpted under his sweater. Not bad.
“I’m fine. Thanks though.”
“You sure? I hate wearing coats. I didn’t even own a decent one until I moved here.”
I suck in a lungful of ice-misted air and nod. “Yeah, Chicago winters are pretty brutal.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him give a boyish shrug. “I can think of worse things.”
Several more steps and we arrive at a sports bar type spot that seems much more casual than the restaurant we just left, yet just as bustling. Crappy music, cheesy décor, but it’s warm, and as promised, there are pool tables past a sea of tables littered with baskets of wings and fries and bottles of cheap beer. We swerve through the crowd, stopping every few seconds to offer halfhearted excuse me’s. Christian keeps a hand on my lower back, but not so low as to come off as presumptuous or possessive. He’s just being polite, which is…nice. After the way Legion shoved me against the wall, his fingers yanking my hair and his mouth stealing my breath, everything about Christian seems nice, demure, safe. And that has to be a good thing.
We find an open table and I grab a pool cue while Christian racks. When a waitress comes by to see if we’d like anything, he lifts a questioning brow in my direction.
Let’s look at this objectively, shall we?
I’m on a date with a guy I literally just met a couple hours ago. I don’t even know his last name (well, he may have told me, but let’s be honest…I probably wasn’t listening). I’ve already had a few, and my sister, the only family I have in this world, is doing God knows what with her beau. And let’s not forget…demons are stalking me.
But, the Called is off my back. Lucifer has given me his word that he won’t hurt me, or any more innocents. And if he does show up, his M.O. seems to be more along the lines of seduction, not destruction. Lord knows that’s the last thing my fragile state of mind can handle right now.
My life is complicated, yet more normal than it’s been in a while. Plus, I’m strapped. Not normal, but not a bad thing either.
“Sure,” I answer, shaking myself from my ruminations. “A beer.”
Christian orders two of something on tap. Not really sure what it is, and by the time we start to really get into the game—he’s kicking my ass, by the way—I don’t care. I’m having…fun. Also not normal, and definitely not a bad thing.
Christian is jokingly attempting some trick shot to sink a solid yellow ball into the corner pocket when he nudges some spray-tanned, muscle-bound blockhead wearing too much cologne and so much fake gold jewelry it’s a mystery his neck isn’t green.
“Watch it, motherfucker,” he snarls, sizing Christian up, his fists clenched at his sides. He even has the nerve to have a gold tooth.
“Sorry, man,” Christian replies sincerely, before stepping to the side to give the Jersey Shore reject some room.
“Yeah, you better be sorry, fucking fairy.”
Whoa.
A chorus of nasally cackling ensues from his squad of faux tanned and teased THOT-scicles, all wearing various shades of sequined desperation.
“Aw, Johnny baby, don’t be mean to the little sissy. His fake girlfriend looks like she’d slit her wrists,” one peroxide-dipped dimwit has the nerve to say. She flirtatiously runs a candy apple red press-on fingernail over Johnny baby’s veiny forearm.
How precious.
I should just let it go, but you know that social filter? The non-existent one that makes me say stupid shit, even to the people I care about? Yeah. Thank fuck for it.
“Excuse me, but—Johnny baby, is it?—yeah, I know that steroids can shrink your balls, but I wasn’t aware that they actually turned people into dicks. Quick, Snookie Barbie! Stuff him in your mouth before the little fella gets away!”
The indignant gasp from the other side of the pool table only stretches my sickly sweet grin wider as Johnny’s posse of petrified pussycats stumble over an array of unimaginative insults. Slut. Whore. Bitch. Sheesh. I’m not sure if I should feign offense or throw a damn thesaurus at them.
“You gonna let her talk to us like that?” the wanna-be Mob Wife asks her red-faced beefcake. He’s breathing so hard that I’m afraid he may rip his already 2 sizes too small t-shirt into shreds like a deep-fried Hulk.
“Shut up, Debbie,” he barks, shaking off her grasp. He steps forward, prompting Christian to intercept his path with raised palms.
“Hey, man, let’s just calm down. She was just joking. No harm, no foul.”
“Bullshit,” he grunts. “You better teach your bitch to watch her fucking mouth before she loses her teeth.”
I roll my eyes, buff my fingernails against my chest and inspect my cuticles, much like I’d seen Niko do when he was in IDGAF mode. God, I wish he was here right now. He’d have a field day with this bunch.
“Lose my teeth? Such tough words from such a small man. You do realize this isn’t an episode of The Sopranos, right? So why don’t you take your saggy-tit skanks back to your grandma’s basement so they can pop your ass pimples, before you get hurt. Mmmkay, pumpkin?”
“You’re fucking dead, slut!” Johnny roars, shoving Christian out of the way. He doesn’t go down—hardly even budges actually—but still tries to reason with this buffoon. The fuck?
“Dude, seriously. It’s not that serious. Chill the fuck out.”
“You want some too, you fucking cocksucker?!”
Johnny raises a meaty fist to strike, but before the rage spittle from his tight lips has a chance to fall onto his knock-off Burberry sneakers, I’m already inside his head, rendering him completely helpless. I don’t even take the chance to feel around in there. It’s all black, empty—a cesspool of insecurity and malice. I want to cleanse myself of his mental bile as soon as possible. Being inside his useless brain actually makes me feel dumber.
“Put your hand down.” My voice is clear and imposing, devoid of alarm. Christian and the cunty crew watch with amazement as Johnny does exactly what I command. He stares straight ahead with wide, glassy eyes, unable to move under my compulsion.
“Now, turn and apologize to my friend Christian for being a micro-dick bigot.”
Just as I ordered, Johnny stiffly turns to Christian, his movements robotic. Unable to fight the compulsion, his voice wavers as he says, “Sorry for being a micro-dick bigot.”
Christian just stands there, speechless, looking from Johnny to me then back to Johnny. Normally, I wouldn’t do this. Hell, I’ve never flexed my mental muscles in front of people before. I don’t know if it’s the liquor, or my own jacked up self-awareness, but I’m sick and tired of being docile. I’m sick and tired of being scared. So many times, I could have fought back, and I remained quiet. Not anymore. I’ve been to Hell and back. What else do I have to fear?
“What are you doing to him, you fucking freak?!” Johnny’s main girl, Donna, yelps. My head whips to her so fast that it almost feels unnatural. Superhuman. And without thinking, I sink invisible talons into the soft, spongy tissue of her brain.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
I’m holding them both. At the same time.
I’ve never, ever done this before. Shit, I’ve never even tried. And I can’t even freak the fuck out about it for fear that I’ll lose the connection. I quiet my own mental ramblings, take a deep breath and focus on harnessing my will into them.
“Shut your mouth.”
Red-painted lips instantly clamp together into a thin, angry slash.
“Sit down.”
She drops to the soiled floor, right into a puddle of spilled beer littered with soggy fries.
I turn my attention back to Johnny.
“Punch yourself in the face.”
The resounding crack of bone against bone is enough to turn my stomach, but I don’t falter, even when the rest of the girls cry out in shock. I know there are eyes everywhere. I should stop—I need to stop. But I don’t want to. His pain, his blood…they only seem to motivate me.
“Do it again. Hard.”
The whole bar seems to quiet in stupefied horror, making the crunch of shattering cartilage and tearing flesh that much more sickening.
“Now every time you get the urge to be a disrespectful little fuck boy, I want you to punch yourself in the face,” I demand. “Do you understand? Answer me.”
“I understand,” Johnny whimpers through the stream of thick blood gushing from his nose.
I nod once. Then I turn to the girls.
The scene has been burned into my mind for days. The way Lucifer commanded women without even saying a word. How they tore into each other’s flesh with terrifying glee. I was disgusted, horrified, physically sickened. But more than that, I was fascinated. How? Why?
Don’t, a small whisper echoes in my head.
But even that voice cannot coax me from the allure…from that intoxicating draw to power. I want it for myself. My entire frame is prickling. I’m literally itching with the need to feel that power in my veins.
“Eden…” I hear Christian call out. He’s beside me now, but I don’t feel his presence anymore. I don’t feel anything at all.
My lips part. I suck in a breath.
I can taste the poison words on my tongue, begging to be spoken. Venom so addictively sweet, yet fatal.
Don’t, the voice says again, louder this time.
It doesn’t matter though. My mind is made up. I’m already past the point of no return.
This is who I am. Who I was meant to be.
Who can stop me now?