She watched him take off into the infinite darkness of a mountain night, before closing the doors with fingers that had dug dark red crescents into her own skin and crawling into bed. But though she pulled every single one of the blankets over her, it took her a long time to stop shivering.
She'd thought she'd known, had thought she'd understood. But she hadn't. Ever since she'd woken, she'd been treating Raphael as if he was "safe." Tonight, she'd had a rude awakening. Raphael would never be safe. All it would take was one slip and he could kill her.
Was she strong enough to take that risk, that chance?
"You've made me a little mortal."
He'd said that to her the night she'd shot him, the night he'd bled so much that she'd cried, her hands trembling as she attempted to stop the crimson flow of blood. Had he been afraid then? Did Raphael even understand fear? She didn't know, wasn't sure he'd answer her if she asked.
Elena knew fear far too intimately. But, she thought, her muscles relaxing, she hadn't been afraid at the end. When her body lay shattered in Raphael's arms, she hadn't been afraid. And that was her answer.
Yes, she said speaking to Raphael, not knowing the strength of their mental connection, not sure how far it'd reach.Yes, I want you to come back.
He didn't answer, and she didn't know if he'd even heard her. But deep in the night, she felt the caress of lips against the curve of her neck, sensed the dark heat of a big male body curving around hers, her wings trapped in between . . . an indescribable intimacy between two angels.
Chapter 8
Elena woke alone, but there was a cup of coffee waiting for her on the nightstand - right next to Destiny's Rose. Raphael had given her the priceless treasure - a sculpture carved impossibly from a single diamond - not long after they first met. She kept trying to return it, only to find it back on her bedside table the next morning.
Eyes on the gift, one that was undeniably romantic, she struggled up into a sitting position and drew in the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee. However, she'd hardly taken a sip when she felt it - the cool stroke of satin blended with the promise of a pain that would hurt oh-so-good.
"Dmitri." Throat husky, she put down the cup and tugged the sheet above her br**sts.
Just in time.
The vampire walked in with the most perfunctory of knocks. "You're late for training."
Her eye went to the envelope in his hand. "What's that?"
"It's from your father." He handed it over. "Be down in half an hour."
She barely heard him, her eyes fixated on that envelope. What did Jeffrey Deveraux want now? "I'll be there." Words forced out past the rocks in her throat.
Dmitri left her with a kiss of diamonds and cream, a sensual taunt that trapped the air in her throat, made her thighs press together in involuntary reaction. But the distraction was momentary. All too soon, she was alone, staring at the envelope as if it might grow fangs and strike. "Don't be a coward, Ellie," she told herself and reached out to slit it open. It was, she saw, addressed to her care of the Guild.
Her lips twisted. How he must've hated that, having to go through his daughter's filthy, inhuman occupation to get to her.Abomination . That's what he'd called her the final night she'd spent under his roof. She'd never forgotten, would never forget.
Her fingers clenched on the enclosed letter as she almost ripped it from the envelope. For an instant, she didn't understand what she was seeing, then she did and her emotions crashed in a violent wave.
It wasn't from her father. The letter had come from the Deveraux family solicitors - a note advising her that they'd paid the fees for her storage unit out of courtesy for her father's business, though the items in that unit now belonged solely to her.
The paper crumpled in her fist. She'd almost forgotten . . . no, that was a lie. She'd deliberately put the memory out of her mind. Her inheritance from her mother, she understood. Marguerite Deveraux had left Elena half her small personal estate, the other half going to Beth.
But the things in that storage unit . . . they were from Elena's childhood.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"Come here, little hunter. Taste."
Shoving aside the blankets with hands that wouldn't work right, she got out of bed, the letter lying abandoned on the sheets as she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Her fingers slipped off the knob. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she tried again. Finally, thankfully, the water came down in a soft, warm rain. It washed away the sleep, but nothing could erase the memories now that they'd awakened.
Ariel had been the best big sister any girl could want. She'd never once told Elena to go away, though Elena knew she must have been a pest with her constant need to know what was going on in her teenage sister's life. Mirabelle, the oldest of them all, had been more apt to snarl, but Belle had also taught Elena to play baseball, spending long, patient hours teaching her how to throw, how to catch.
Yin and Yang, her mother had called her two oldest. Ari was the sweetness, Belle the spice.
"Belle, where do you think you're going dressed like that?"
"Aw, come on, Mom. It's all the rage."
"It might be all the rage,mon ange, but you'll be grounded for a month if your father sees your butt hanging out of those shorts."
"Mom!"
Elena remembered sitting at the kitchen table, giggling, as her long-legged fifteen-year-old sister stomped upstairs to change. Across the table, Beth, too little at five to really understand, had giggled with her.
"And you two little monsters, eat your fruit."
Her heart twisted at the memory of her mother's uniquely accented voice; her fingers rose to her cheek, searching for the faded echo of Marguerite's kiss. "Mama." It came out a broken whisper, a child's plea.