Instantly, his senses sharpened and focused. His sense of smell brought a whiff of her vanilla-honey scent. His sense of hearing homed in on her rapid, pounding heartbeat. And his sense of sight narrowed in on the tick of her pulse at the base of her throat.
The urge to pounce, to take her down and get carnal right here, right now, was nearly overwhelming. Instead, he moved in slowly, matching her step for step as she backed up.
“What are you doing?” She swallowed as she bumped up against a massive support beam.
“I’m going to show you why you need to come home with me.” He planted both palms on the beam on either side of her head and leaned in until his lips brushed the tender skin of her ear. “You won’t regret it.”
“I already told you. I don’t fuck fallen angels.”
“So you said,” he murmured. “Do you kiss them?”
“Ah… no, I —”
He didn’t give her the chance to finish her sentence. Pulling back slightly, he closed his mouth over hers.
Strawberry gloss coated his lips as he kissed her, and he swore he’d never liked fruit as much as he did right now.
Her hands came up to grip his biceps, tugging him closer as she deepened the kiss. “You’re good,” she whispered against his mouth.
“I know,” he whispered back.
Suddenly, pain tore into his arms as her nails scored his skin. “But you’re not that good.”
Before he could even blink, she shoved hard and ducked out from under the cage of his arms. With a wink, she strutted away, her fine ass swinging in her form-fitting scrub bottoms. She stopped at the door of a candy apple red Mustang and gave him a sultry look that made his cock throb.
“Give up now, buddy. I can out-stubborn anyone.” She hopped into her car and peeled out of her parking stall, leaving him in the dust.
Blaspheme was practically hyperventilating as she drove through New York City’s crowded streets, wishing she’d taken the Harrowgate to work today. But no, she’d chosen to drive from her Brooklyn apartment to Underworld General one last time, a sentimental stupidity that had not only taken up precious time, but had also run her straight into a fallen angel who somehow, after a short, unpleasant verbal exchange at the hospital a few weeks ago, thought they needed to date.
No, not date. Just have sex.
Her entire body heated at the thought, something it had no business doing.
But gods, he was incredible. Standing in the UG parking lot, he’d looked like a giant goth biker, wrapped in leather and chains, his massive boots sporting wicked talons at the tips. Even the backs of his fingerless gloves were adorned with metal studs at the knuckles. She’d always hated the tough-guy bullshit, but Revenant had fucking owned it. She got the impression that he lived his life that way; if he wanted it, he owned it.
Even when he’d changed his look, he’d still been like something out of a magazine or movie. The cowboy boots had made her want to take up riding – not necessarily horses – and the business suit had given her some racy desk fantasies.
He wasn’t going to give up on her, was he? At least not without a fight, which she was going to give him. She couldn’t afford to have a fallen angel sniffing around.
Cursing, she fumbled through her purse for her cell phone and dialed her contact from the moving company. Sally answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Bonnie,” Sally said, using the name Blaspheme adopted when dealing with humans. “The movers said they’ll be done loading your belongings for the second shipment to London by the end of the day.”
“Good,” Blas said. It would be nice to go directly to UG’s new London clinic directly, rather than having to use the hospital’s emergency department Harrowgate to get there. “I should be there in an hour —” The Call Waiting beep interrupted. “Can I get back to you? My mother is ringing in.”
Sally’s cheerful, “No problem,” was followed by a promise to make sure the movers would take wonderful care of Blaspheme’s things and not to worry, and a moment later, Blaspheme’s mother was on the other line.
“Hi, Mom.” Blaspheme slammed on her brakes to avoid rear-ending a piece-of-shit truck that apparently hadn’t come equipped with a turn signal or brake lights. She shot the driver the finger through her front windshield.
“Blas.” Her mother’s raspy voice came from right next to Blaspheme.
Screaming, Blas dropped the phone. “Holy shit!”
She opened her mouth again to yell at her mother for popping into the car from out of nowhere, but when she saw the blood, her voice cut out. Deva, short for Devastation, sat in the passenger seat, every inch of her body covered in blood. The broken end of a bone punched through her left biceps, and a deep, to-the-femur burn had wrecked her right leg.
“Oh, gods,” Blaspheme gasped. “What happened?”
Her mother lifted her trembling hand from her abdomen, and Blas got an eyeful of bowels poking through the laceration that stretched from just above her navel to her hip bone.
The injury itself was grave enough, but emanating from it was a vibe Blaspheme couldn’t place. Whatever it was, it felt… wrong. And very, very fatal.
“I —” Deva sucked in a rattling breath… and slumped, unconscious, against the window.
“Mom!” The POS truck moved, allowing Blaspheme to whip the Mustang around a corner to head back to Underworld General. She automatically reached out with her mind to find a Harrowgate, and although she located one a block away, there was nowhere to park, and no way she could abandon the vehicle in the middle of the street.