The Darkest Secret. Gena Showalter
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weren’t lucky.
Her eyes widened as she stumbled to a halt, Micah moaning, nearly falling. She held tight. They were surrounded—but not by the demons she’d expected. Robed warriors filled the entire enclosure, wings of white and gold outstretched. Scowls lined every single one of their faces, but even still those faces were glorious, radiant. So beautiful … so majestic … dazzling her. She couldn’t look away. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away. Exquisite.
Angels. These men were angels.
Maybe she and Micah were lucky. Maybe Galen had sent reinforcements to rescue them.
“Help us,” she beseeched. “The demons captured us, and we’re trying to escape.”
A lovely dark-haired male stepped forward, hard gaze pinning her in place more forcefully than any of the others.
“We were told to wait out here.” His voice was just as thrilling as his face. A sensual breeze, an exotic caress. “We did so. We were told not to interfere with what happened inside the room. We did not. But now you have come to us. Now we interfere.”
Realization cut like a knife. The angels hadn’t been sent by Galen. They were helping the demons. Horror barely registered before Micah was ripped from her grip. She’d never seen the angels move, had been too riveted by the one in front of her, but losing her man snapped her from that lost, dreamy haze.
With a scream of outrage, she kicked the angel in the chest. He stumbled backward only a few steps. She spun, reaching for Micah. Her voice must have snapped him out of his pained, weakened stupor, because, as two angels dragged him down the hall, farther and farther away from her, he blinked open his swollen eyes.
When he spied the distance between them, he roared. Loud and long and ragged, but only she seemed to hear him. No one else paid him any attention, no one else cringed. As she elbowed her way to him, the angels attempted to grab her. She twisted and squirmed for freedom.
All the while, Micah fought his captors. Soon, the two holding him weren’t enough. Soon, she wasn’t pegged as the biggest threat. The angels turned their attention to the warrior, all but one needed to subdue him.
Haidee! Haidee!
Before she could reach him, the one that had remained behind caught her, strong arms banding around her and squeezing tight. Breathing became a thing of the past. Still. Her struggles never ceased.
Micah’s didn’t either, she noted as she was at last carted out of the hall. “I’ll come back for you,” she screamed. “I swear I’ll come back.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
STRIDER FUCKING hurt.
He hurt everywhere but especially his gut. Maybe because Ex had sliced him open from hip to hip, spine to navel. The angels had had to stuff his insides back, well, inside. They’d even stitched him up and tended his feverish, sweat-drenched body for three solid days.
He would have healed sooner if he’d won the fight with Amun and Ex like a big boy. But he hadn’t. He’d lost. And so his pain had been magnified a thousandfold, and he’d been too weak to do a damn thing about it. Talk about humiliating!
Now he was still bed-bound and propped against pillows, but at least he was awake and aware. His demon was silent, too afraid to poke his head from the shadows of Strider’s mind and lose another challenge until they’d recuperated sufficiently.
Torin sat in a chair in the far corner, and Zacharel, the black-haired angel Lysander had left in charge, leaned against one of the metal posters of Strider’s bed. Both were watching him, waiting. Clearly impatient.
Could a guy not suffer in peace?
This room was supposed to be his sanctuary, his private escape, but he’d opened his eyes a little while ago to find Torin pacing beside him—and not out of concern, the curious bastard. Zacharel had been exactly as he was now. Unmoving, gaze penetrating.
“What happened?” Zacharel asked. His voice mesmerized even as it repelled. The undertones were lilting, almost melting—and yeah, it was still embarrassing as shit the way Strider reacted to these angelic beings—but everything else about that voice was cold, uncaring, detached.
Like his eyes. A vivid jade-green, they should have been welcoming, should have reminded Strider of summer. Or hell, even of Torin’s wicked sense of humor. Instead, those eyes were green ice. There was nothing inside them. No emotion of any kind. Not good, not bad, just a spiraling abyss of emptiness.
Strider had met some freaky immortals over the centuries, had thought he’d seen everything, but this one … no. There were none like him. Nothing fazed him. Strider had a feeling he could stab the angel in the heart and Zacharel would merely glance down before continuing on with whatever he’d been doing.
“Demon. Concentrate. What happened?” Zacharel again, and he didn’t raise his voice in the slightest. See? Emotionless.
“For gods’ sake, Strider,” Torin snapped. “Open your damn mouth and form some words. While you’re at it, stop staring at the angel like he’s a tasty treat.” Not so emotionless.
Strider’s cheeks warmed with a flush. He’d leave the tasty treat comment alone since he was too foggy to come up with a decent response. And no, Zacharel didn’t react to it.
“I went to the girl’s room. She wasn’t there, but I saw where she’d peeled back the wallpaper and found an old doorway that led into Amun’s bedroom. She barred it. So I went to his door, but she’d barred it, too. That one I kicked in.” And he’d expected to find Amun headless. Or, at the very least, Haidee under the dark influence of Amun’s new demons.
The rage he’d felt at the prospect … the despair. And yet, neither had compared to the jealousy he’d experienced when he’d discovered the truth. A jealousy that had shamed him. One, he couldn’t be attracted to Ex. Two, Amun was his friend. He should have sheltered him from the temptress’s wiles.
“And?” Torin prompted, exasperated.
“And he was awake, lucid.” At least for a little while. Until Strider had approached the girl. Then Amun the Demonically Insane had returned. “Surprisingly, the black phantoms were gone and stayed gone.” He didn’t mention that Amun had been on top of Ex, with his hand down her pants, his face aflame with pleasure.
Hers had been, too. So much pleasure.
She hadn’t fought the warrior. She had encouraged him, begged for more. A trick, Strider had thought. Surely she had planned to lure Amun into a false sense of security and then strike.
But when Strider had approached her, determined to stop her from hurting his friend, Amun had attacked him. And when Strider had tried to defend himself, Ex had attacked him. To aid Amun.
What the fuck, man? He hadn’t understood at the time; he’d been too busy trying not to die. Now he thought he got it. Ex had wanted to leave with Amun. Which meant she’d planned to take him to her Hunters so they could kill him.
Still. That didn’t explain why Amun had defended her. Why the warrior had touched her so intimately.
Strider had known the dude a long, long time. They’d fought together, hung out and partied together. And by “partied together” Strider meant that Amun had watched him party and guarded his back. Amun didn’t sleep around, was usually the most reserved of the warriors, and was sometimes as boring as shit. The good kind of boring, though. You knew you could rely on him for anything. He was solid, a rock, and you always knew where you stood with him.
He wasn’t prone to angry fits, was the most levelheaded guy Strider knew. He would rather take a bullet himself than watch his friends take one. Yet, to protect a murderous bitch, he’d attempted to splatter Strider’s brains all over his bedroom floor.
Amun must not have