Guild Hunter 01 - Angels' Blood

eyes.”
    “I’m sorry, Sara, but no.”
    “I’m her best friend, her sister in every sense of the word bar one.” She reached down to tuck Zoe’s blanket more firmly before turning her head. “What right do you have to keep her from me?”
    “She’s mine, too.” He tensed his muscles in readiness for flight. “Take care of yourself and those you call your own, Director. Elena will not be happy if she wakes to find you a worn shadow of yourself.”
    Then he flew, and the silence was so huge, it crushed him. Wake up, Elena.
    Still, she slept.

40
     
    Wake up, Elena.
    Elena frowned, batting away the sound. Every time she tried to sleep, he told her to wake. Dratted man. Didn’t he know she needed to rest?
    Elena, Sara has set her hunters on me.
    As if he had anything to worry about from even the toughest vampire hunter.
    She’s threatening to tell the media I’m doing unnatural things with your body.
    A smile in her mind, in her soul. The archangel had a sense of humor. Who knew?
    Ellie?
    He never called her Ellie, she thought, yawning. The first thing she saw when she blinked open her eyes was blue. Endless, fathomless, brilliant blue. Raphael’s eyes. And that quickly, she remembered. The blood, the pain, the shattered bones. “Damn it, Raphael. If I have to drink blood, I’m going to suck your gorgeous body dry.” Her voice was husky, her anger absolute.
    The archangel smiled and it held such fierce joy that she wanted to grab on to him and never let go. “You’re very welcome to suck any part of my body you wish.”
    She wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t surrender to the hunger she saw in those immortal eyes. “I told you I didn’t want to be a vampire.”
    He fed her chips of ice, cooling her parched throat. “Are you not at least a little glad to be alive?”
    She was a lot glad. Being with Raphael . . . oh, well, how bad could blood taste? But—“I’m not doing any vampire lackey stuff.”
    “Fine.”
    “I’m only drinking your blood.”
    That made his smile widen. “Fine.”
    “That means you’re stuck with me.” She jutted out her chin. “Try to throw me off for some bimbo and we’ll see who’s immortal.”
    “Fine.”
    “I expect—” That was when she felt the weird lumps under her back. “Whoever made this bed did a shit job. It’s all lumpy.”
    Blue, blue eyes laughed at her. “Really?”
    “Hey, it’s not fun—” Her words ended on a choked breath as she turned her head and saw what she was lying on. Wings. Such beautiful wings. A rich, evocative black that swept gracefully outward in subtle increments of indigo, deepest blue, and dawn until the primaries were a vivid, shimmering white gold. Midnight wings. Incredible wings. And she was squashing them. “Oh, my God! I’m crushing an angel. Let me up!”
    Raphael helped her rise when she held out her hand. The tube stuck into her arm hindered her movement. “What?”
    “To keep you alive.”
    “How long?” she asked, shifting to look over her shoulder. His answer was lost in the rush of white noise that crashed across her brain. Because she hadn’t been squashing anyone . . . but herself. “I have wings.”
    “A warrior’s wings.” He brushed his finger over one edge and the sensation rocketed through her entire body. “Wings like blades.”
    “Oh,” she said when she could speak again, “I guess I really am dead then.” That made sense. She’d always wanted wings and now she had them. Ergo, she was dead and in heaven. She turned. “You look just like Raphael.” He smelled of the sea, a clean, fresh bite that made her body sing.
    He kissed her.
    And he tasted far too real, far too earthy, to be a figment of her imagination. When he drew back, she was stunned to see the emotion in his eyes. It was shocking enough to make her forget the magic of the wings at her back. “Raphael?”
    That blue glittered fever bright, the skin pulled taut over his cheekbones. “I’m very angry at you, Elena.”
    “So what else is new?” she quipped, but found herself stroking the arch of his wing.
    “I am immortal and you tried to save my life by endangering your own?”
    “Stupid, huh?” Leaning close, she rubbed her nose over his. Stress-touches, she thought stupidly, they were called stress-touches, the little things that lovers did to anchor each other, the things that were their secret language. Her and Raphael’s language had barely begun, but it held a promise so raw, so rich, her heart twisted