Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

plunging into the sweet depths of her.
    When a voice came whispering through, shattering the moment of intense pleasure.

Chapter Nine
     
    “B randon, wake up . ” The whisper of a woman’s voice, the teasing brush of her hair on his face lured him from sleep.
    “Luciana?”
    A delicate perfume filled his nostrils. A scent he knew well. Roses and a hint of vanilla.
    Not a scent he associated with the demoness.
    In the early morning sunlight, he blinked, dazed for a moment.
    The eyes peering down at him were clear blue. Not green. The crease between them was one of profound concern. A flood of sunlight illuminated a halo of bright gold hair. The woman who hovered over him was so near that he almost flinched at her presence.
    “You must have been in the middle of a nightmare,” Arielle stated flatly.
    Her intense blue gaze swept over his disheveled state, assessing in a single glance. What a sight he must look, sweat dried on him, unwashed and unshaved. Her dainty nose twitched slightly; her mouth pressed into a thin little line.
    Yet, she knelt so very close. And lingered over him a little too long.
    When she straightened to stand, the sunlight behind her seemed to dim, and the intensity of her presence faded as she backed away. Dressed in one of her usual perfectly tailored suits, Arielle looked completely out of place in this dusty Venetian ruin.
    Luciana is…not your run-of-the-mill nightmare, he thought, blinking hard. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the last remnants of the dream from his mind’s eye. But that’s nothing you need to know, Arielle. His former supervisor and ex-lover had never been privy to his dreams; they were not something he wanted to share with her.
    Not in the past. And especially not now.
    Heat flushed into his face. And he was a man who never blushed. But he felt like he was back in his bedroom in Detroit as a teenager, busted by his mother for “reading” a nudie magazine. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering if Arielle had noticed his erection. Luckily, in her presence, it shrank at an amazing speed.
    “I came to help,” she said. “You look like you could use some assistance.”
    “I’ve been in Venice for two and a half days,” he said, irritated as he sat up. His body ached from lying on the hard concrete. He twisted, trying to stretch; he saw her eyes flicker over his bare torso. He chose to ignore that. “I’m not a rookie. I don’t need you looking over my shoulder.”
    “I came for your own good,” she said.
    For your own good.
    According to Arielle, everything she did was for someone else’s good.
    He had gotten his first taste of that ten years ago, when he had joined her unit in L.A. Arielle had taught him a lot. That was undeniable. Had let him follow her everywhere, had answered every question he ever had about being a Guardian. What’s more, when he had been sunk in grief over leaving his human existence and his wife, Arielle had been there to comfort him.
    But things had changed. At first, it was nothing he could put his finger on. Just a low-lying feeling in his gut that something wasn’t quite right with Arielle. And then the real controlling behavior had begun. Checking up on his every move, constantly nitpicking over the tiniest details. And she never broke from that constant neutral tone of hers. Just outlined her criticisms with unwavering composure.
    No matter what he said, she always insisted the criticism was for your own good.
    After three years of it, he’d had enough and applied for a transfer.
    Now, as she said it, those lips of hers pressed into an even flatter line.
    “Things have gotten out of control,” she said. “What are you doing, Brandon?”
    “My job,” he growled. “If you recall, the Company agreed that I would handle this assignment on my own.”
    “I know you’ve made significant contact with the demoness, and I know you allowed her to escape. Some members of the Venetian unit told me,” she said.
    Briefly, he recalled an image of the gray-haired, dignified concierge at the pensione. So he’d been ratted out. But, why?
    “Venice is a small town,” she said. “Word travels fast here.”
    She began to talk, and his head began to ache. She paced around the room, outlining a long list of reasons she had felt compelled to come here. Instead of listening, he watched her face as she rambled. Watched her eyes flicker over his body as he pulled on a shirt. There was something hungry in her gaze, and it irked him.