Grabbing Zoe’s hand, I pull her up and start to run for the stairs, but a fiery projectile whistles past us—only a foot away from my head. I barely have time to wrap my arms around my partner, spin, and use my body as a shield before the ordinance hits. Something slams into my back to the right of my spine, knocking the breath from my lungs.
For a precious second, the world stands still, and then every fiber of my being is consumed by agony. Zoe writhes under me, yelling right in my ear. “Sin! Get up! We have to move!”
With a groan, I roll off her, and she pushes to her knees as she draws her weapon.
“Call for backup!”
“There is...no backup that can...get here in time. Regina…” The only thing saving us now? Our damaged hearing and roar of the burning cars all around us. Otherwise, the Fae would have already compelled us into obedience. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I search for a way out. A diversion. Somewhere we can survive another blast.
After firing another two shots at the men, she glances back at me. “Oh, God. Sin. There’s...a piece of rebar sticking out of your back!“
“Do you think I had not noticed?” I snap. My strength is fading quickly. Too quickly. “Help me up. We must get closer to the stairs.”
Zoe takes my arm and drapes it over her shoulders. We stumble towards the twisted metal and pile of rubble, ducking behind a mangled car. “We’re sitting ducks here!” She fires another shot, then drops into a crouch.
“I can get us out,” I manage, my voice cracking on every other word. “But only if I...” Fuck. I promised her I would not feed from her. But if I do not, we will both die. Or worse. I have no choice. Better to beg for forgiveness than to watch her descend into madness at Thorn's hand.
Zoe arches a brow. “Holy shit, asshole. Are you asking if you can feed from me when there’s a guy with a fucking rocket launcher reloading a hundred feet away?”
Zoe shoves the pistol into its holster, then tangles her hands in my hair and slams her lips against mine.
Fuck me. She tastes like watermelon and fresh rain. The heady mix of her fear and arousal flows through me, and I cup the back of her neck, guiding her into my lap. I want her. All of her. From her soft moans, she feels thee same.
I could spend years kissing her. Decades. Lifetimes. But as soon as the telltale prickle starts along my shoulder blades, I pull hard on the tether between us, soaking up as much of her energy as I can in this final moment, then break off the kiss.
“You...will not like what comes next, my little pearl. Hold on.”
A furrow deepens between Zoe’s brows, despite the high that comes from such a deep feeding. “Sin?”
I stand in one fluid motion, ignoring the piece of rusted metal still embedded in my back, and strip off my jacket. Bullets pelt my chest, but they bounce off harmlessly—save for leaving burned holes in my shirt.
The corner of the garage glows from the power flowing through me, and with a roar, I break the chains I have kept locked since Lucifer released me from Hell. My wings burst forth with a great whoosh, I scoop Zoe into my arms, and take off at a run.
The man with the AK-47 continues to fire, despite Regina trying to shout in his ear, and I wrap my wings around my partner to shield her, picking up speed with each step.
A wave of celestial energy—a power I did not know I could still muster—sends both men and Regina flying back, and I slam into the concrete wall hard enough to burst through into a back alley where I let instinct take over.
Zoe screams as my feet leave the ground, locks her legs around my hips, and buries her face against my neck.
I doubt she will be able to hear me, but I have to try to reassure her. “You are safe with me, Zoe. I promise.”
Seventeen
Zoe
We’re flying. Holy fucking shit, we’re actually flying. My partner has wings. Beautiful black wings that make almost no sound as he carries us over the city.
His blood soaks into my sweater, and when I find the courage to open my eyes, his expression is pained and his skin pale. The steady beat of his wings falters, and we tumble maybe twenty feet before he regains control and turns, making a beeline for a tall building in Pacific Heights.
As we land on a narrow balcony, he loses his balance, and I do my best to keep him upright, but I feel like I’ve had half a bottle of Jack on an empty stomach—dizzy and weak and freaked the fuck out.
“Sin. Keep it together.” I try to force some strength into my tone, and he blinks hard, then buries his face in the curve of my neck to stifle a groan. The sound startles me, as does the intimate contact, but only for the split second it takes me to realize his wings are now gone. “Where are we?” I ask when he tries to straighten, fails, and leans heavily on me once more.
“My place.”
The balcony door is unlocked, thank God, and I try not to gape as I help him through the lavish living room and into the bathroom where he half-sits, half-collapses onto a plush, black rug over tile that probably cost more than I made last year.
“You have to remove the rebar,” he grits out and flops onto his stomach. “I will heal...”
The last word is barely audible, and when I gently slap his cheek and call his name, there’s no response. Shit.
Move, Zoe. You can do this. He needs you.
His black shirt is already shredded from the bullets and his wings, and I tear it from his body in long strips. They’ll do until I find a first aid kit. “This is going to hurt,” I say as I wad a length around the thick piece of metal protruding from his back and then wrap my fingers around the rebar. Bracing myself with my foot against his hip, I pull. Hard.
The sound. Oh, fuck. You don’t ever forget a sound like that. But the metal clatters to the floor, and blood soaks the wadded up material. “If you were lying to me about healing, I’m going to kill you.”
Smart, Zoe. You’d be killing a dead man.
Despite my fears, when I swap the soaked remnant of shirt for a thick black towel from the rack, the bleeding has slowed, and the edges of the wound look almost as if they’re starting to knit back together.
Mostly convinced he’s not going to die in the next few minutes, I crawl over to the sink and pull myself up. My eyes are sunken, almost bruised, and I’m covered in cement dust, dirt, and Sin’s blood. My legs ache where the lockers fell on me, and my shoulder throbs.
My partner still hasn’t moved, but he’s breathing, so I rummage around in drawers and cabinets until I find a fully stocked first aid kit and extra towels.
Everything is pristine—or was until he bled all over the floors—so I take off my boots before I rush through what has to be one of San Francisco’s top ten most expensive places to live in search of the kitchen. I pass a media room, for fuck’s sake.
But I come back with a bowl for warm water and more towels. “Sin?” His eyelids flutter, but that’s the only indication he can hear me. “It’s way too early in our partnership for this. I’d say you owe me, but you saved my life, so I guess we’ll call it even.”
Babbling steadily, which has to be my brain’s way of keeping me from losing my shit, I strip off his pants, socks, and—sweet Jesus—his boxer briefs. The man has an ass I could bounce a quarter off of. Even with so many long-healed scars, he’s magnificent, and I think I say that at one point when I swipe a washcloth over his hip.