Guild Hunter 01 - Angels' Blood

hell with it. “So, how does an archangel do it?”
    A gust of wind buffeted them, stealing away her words. But Raphael had heard. Leaning in, he brushed his lips over hers. “I haven’t agreed yet.”
    She blinked. Then scowled as he drew back. “What, you’re playing hard to get now?”
    He turned. “Come, Elena. I need you healthy.”
    Cursing him under her breath, she shut the car door—the interior was already soaked—and walked toward the house, Raphael a quiet presence by her side. But not restful. No, he was quiet like a jaguar was quiet. Lethal danger momentarily contained. She was still scowling when they reached the door.
    The butler held it open. “I’ve prepared the bath, sir.” A glance at her, a hint of curiosity. “Madam.”
    Raphael dismissed Jeeves with a look and the butler melted away into the woodwork. “The bath is on the next floor.”
    She headed up the stairs, stomping more than stepping. He’d teased her to fever pitch, but now, today, when she actually needed the release, he was playing with her. Exactly as you did with a toy, she realized. Fine, if he wanted it that way, she’d focus on work. “Were you able to confirm if he had sex with the women?”
    “Yes, but only at the town house. The warehouse victims were all untouched in that way—that’s why we believe the others were also virgin before he took them.” He was at her back, following close enough that his breath whispered over her nape as they reached the top. “Down the hall, third door to your left.”
    “Much obliged,” she said sarcastically, noticing that there was nothing but air beyond the railing to her right—as if the core of the house was one huge, open space.
    “Does it mean something—the sexual contact?”
    “Could be. But there were no marks on the bodies aside from the death wounds, so that part may have been consensual.” Archangels were charismatic, sexy, quite unbelievably compelling. Uram may have turned into a monster, but outside, he probably appeared just as attractive as the Archangel of New York. No, she thought immediately, Raphael was in a league of his own.
    “Or it was after death.”
    She was too tired to be disgusted. “Possible.” Reaching the third door, she put her hand on the doorknob. “He may have sublimated the feeding urge with sex for a small amount of time. But only blood’s going to satisfy him now.” Her hand tightened. “More women are going to die because I lost the scent.”
    “But less than if you’d never been born,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “I’ve lived centuries, Elena. Two or three hundred deaths is a small price to pay to stop one of the bloodborn.”
    Two or three hundred?!
    “I won’t let it get that far.” She pushed open the door—and stepped into a fantasy. Her breath rushed out of her as she stood there, staring.
    Flames leaped in the fireplace to her left, the golden glow surrounded by dark stone that shimmered with hidden threads of silver. In front of the fireplace was a huge white rug that looked so fluffy and comfortable she wanted to roll around on it—naked. Talk about pure indulgence.
    On the opposite side of the room was a door that seemed to open into the bath. She could see the edge of white porcelain fittings, a counter made of the same marble as the fireplace. Inside, she knew a hot bath awaited, a bath her cold bones desperately needed. But still she stood there.
    Because between the fireplace and the temptation of the bath was a bed. A bed bigger than any she’d ever seen. One that could’ve accommodated ten people without any of them touching the other. It sat high off the floor but there was no headboard or backboard, just a smooth expanse of bed covered by lush midnight-blue sheets that promised to stroke across her skin in an exotically delicious caress. The pillows sat on the opposite end to the door, but could as easily have been on this side.
    “Why”—she coughed to clear her throat—“why so big?”
    Hands on her hips, pushing her forward. “Wings, Elena.” A rustling snap as Raphael extended his wings to their full length, then the click of the door locking behind them.
    She was alone with the Archangel of New York. In front of a bed made to accommodate wings.

31
     
    Her body chose that moment to shiver.
    Raphael’s chuckle was husky, male in a way that said he knew he had her. “Bath first, I think.”
    “I thought you were playing hard to get.”
    He stroked a finger down her throat,