My Dark Angel

An Unlikely Savior

“This is where you live?” I stop in the doorway of the tiny apartment, peering underneath my savior’s armpit at the space inside. There isn’t much of it. “It’s a dump.”

I’m still a stressed-out mess, but not because I’m frightened of the beast of a man before me, not anymore. Saving someone’s life is just the ticket to earning someone’s trust, I guess.

I’m still not sure what happened back there. It all happened so fast. My mind is still replaying the noises, the flash of images in my head; The squeal of tires, the blast of a gun firing, strong arms wrapping around me, pulling me to safety. The moment he touched me, I came undone with a mixture of fright and something else I can’t quite name.

The man I’d excused of my sister’s murder, saved my life.

To that, I owe him a debt. There is something even more profound than the drive-by shooting and near car collision I'd just barely survived. The moment he’d pull me into his arms, he stopped feeling like a stranger. That warmth I first felt when stepping onto the curb in front of The Guardian and into his orbit has spread to every part of my body, making me feel things I’ve never had before.

I’m afraid of exploring that unknown emotion further. So for now I brush off this intensity between us as best I can and act casual.

The man snorts. By the way he holds himself, I can tell some of the alcohol has lost it’s edge in the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. Now with the booze wearing away, he just seems annoyed. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

I should be annoyed too, ten minutes ago I’d just nearly missed becoming roadkill, with a couple of bullets sent my way for the trouble. Most girls would be a sobbing mess maybe, or going into a silent shock would also be appropriate for the situation. Instead, my reigning emotion is confusion, and most of my jitters seem to be caused by the close proximity to the dashing stranger who had literally swept me up in his strong arms and carried me to safety.

It’s like one of those enemies to lovers romances I’ve been obsessed with lately. I steal a sidelong glance to the muscular man who smells of whiskey and sin. With his dark hair spilling over his eyes and his corded muscles, he’d look right at home on a cover of some smutty romance novel.

My mouth goes dry as I think about those arms and how capable they felt when they scooped me up like I weighed nothing.

Who is this guy? And why is he making me heat up as if I’ve never seen a man before?

Because I’ve never seen one like this.

“No, I don’t mince words,” I smile weakly, eyes darting around his studio. By the look of a few cardboard boxes scattered around the floor, he just moved. Most are open, like he’s unpacking only by means of what he needs piece by piece. The walls are bare, only a few pieces of high-end furniture are placed around the studio, looking completely out of place in the shabby apartment.

God, I’m so nervous. But not because I almost died a few minutes ago, instead I’m nervous because I’m alone with him and the butterflies in my stomach haven’t seemed to get the memo that this man is a complete stranger who was somehow tangled in my sister’s screwed up life.

“Do you bring many girls back here after you save them from gunshots and car crashes?” My cheeks burn as I realize my question comes off as more of a flirt than a serious inquiry. I hold my breath as the man twists around, his weighted glare clamping down on me, knocking the breath from my chest. He slowly strides towards me, eating the distance between us in two easy steps.

He’s got the poise of the devil, the pouting lips of an angel, and the chiseled body of a god. Instinctively, I take a step back, pressing myself against the wall beside his front door. My heart pummels my chest and my breathing goes ragged as he reaches for me.

To hold me? To kiss me? To push me out the door?

I let out a sigh of relief as his arm stretches past me to push the front door closed with a flick of his wrist.

Geez, why the hell am I acting like this? Pull it together, Sophie.

“Not many,” he finally answers after several seconds that crawl by on hands and knees. He lets go of the door handle but makes no move to put more distance between us.

I gulp. He’s so close I’m afraid he’ll hear my heart, pounding away like a terrified, cornered animal. I don’t want him to think he scares me. But I don’t want him to know the real reason behind my nerves.

He excites me, and that fact alone is the only thing that frightens me at that moment. “T-thank you.” I manage to choke.

“For what?”

“For saving me from that car full of thugs, obviously. I feel sorry for whatever pour soul might be their next victim tonight. Maybe we should call the police.”

My savior laughs. The sound is as soft as gravel and somehow sweet all at once. “The police are useless. As for their next victim, these aren’t common street thugs looking to stir trouble for any random stranger. You were their target.”

A chill slips down my spine. “But I don’t even know anybody in Seattle. I’m from Portland.”

I watch him carefully as he seems to examine my features, with an unmasked expression baring a fondness that is clearly misplaced. He’s looking at me with…love.

What the hell.

My heart melts for this man and I am desperate to learn more about him, even if his own heart might still belong to my sister…

“They know your sister. Somebody took notice of you, and if your theory about Elise’s death not being a suicide is correct, then it makes sense that the culprits came after you to finish the job.”

“So now you believe Elise didn’t kill herself?”

He quirks his head like he’s considering all the facts. After a moment he nods, dark brows pinching together in a pained scowl. “Makes sense now that drug dealing shifters are shooting at a woman with the same face. I’m such damn i***t for not seeing this. Elise was too stubborn to kill herself.”

He takes a step back, and then another, shaking his head. “Of course she got mixed up with them. How did I not put two and two together?”

“Who’s them?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, I give a jump as he releases a guttural growl that tears through the entire apartment. The sound is gut-wrenching and full of heartache. I feel compelled to comfort him, to reach out, and… The thought freezes in my brain.

What, Sophie? You’ll what? Hold him? Kiss him? He isn’t yours. He didn’t ask for your sympathy or anything else you can offer him. You invaded his night, remember?

I give a slight jump as he suddenly slams a fist onto the corner of his little kitchenette, dirty dishes rattling in the sink.

“The pieces are coming together and I was too drunk to see any of them before. Of course it was them.”

“Who’s them?”

With his back turned to me, palms planted on the veneer of his countertop, and his head hanging down below his shoulder blades, I can see his body tense at my question. I get the feeling that he’s deliberating whether or not he’s going to clue me in on what’s going through his mind.

By the dark demons I see rooted deep in the hallows of his eyes, I’m not sure I want to be let in.

He lifts his head and his dark orbs settle on me. Something between us sparks, like an invisible flame trying to take life. I shiver, but I don’t dare break his gaze.

“Those were shifters who shot at you. You’ve heard of them.”

Shifters. There’s no question in his voice, everyone has heard of them. It would’ve been impossible to escape the news a few years back when the existence of shifters became known to most of the world, even if I was Amish.

“I’ve heard of them. But how do you know they’re shifters? You only got a glance.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s about to explain himself but he bites his lip, thinking better on it, and shakes his head. “There’s a pack around these parts that moved in recently, Tacoma specifically. Close enough to be a nuisance.”

“I think it’s unfair to assume they’re murderers based on the seldom fact that they’re shifters.”

The man lets out another growl, this one more bestial than the last, sending a thrill down my spine that seems to electrify my entire body. When he advances on me again, slowly, my entire being is humming in anticipation. It’s like a magnetic pull that keeps forcing us together, and for whatever reason, I’m happy to give in to the invisible force; it all feels too right to resist, even if I can’t fathom its existence. He closes that annoying gap between us in an instant and looks down.

I tilt my head back to look up at the hulking beast of a man, looming over me like a dark god of the underworld. He reaches up, bulky muscles rippling under taught skin at the movement. I suck in a breath of air, and for one titillating moment, I think he might touch me again.

It could have been the intensity and chaos of the moment a car almost smeared me across the sidewalk, but when he put his hands on me, plucking me off my feet and into his arms, something happened between us. It is thrilling, electric, and almost sensual. I want to feel it all again, this time without a ton of steel hurtling at me at 50MPH.

He moves like he’s going to caress my nape. Instead, he takes a small clump of my hair and coils it around a thick index finger. He’s being coy, yet I get the feeling he’s hesitating.

It’s like he’s afraid to touch me again.

“Funny,” he says, his voice husky. “You jumped to a pretty quick conclusion that I was the one to kill your sister, without having any evidence of the fact.”

“I retract my statement.”

“Good,” he drawls in a growl that’s nearly a purr. My skin prickles.

“I don’t think you killed my sister. But I’d like to know exactly who you are and what your relationship with her was.”

Instead of answering my question, my savior acts as though I didn’t ask it at all.

“Back to the shifters,” he plucks gently at my hair in thought. “The ones you’ve seen in the news, they are poster children for their kind. They might seem like good people, and maybe they are. But the pack that infests these parts isn’t anywhere close to the type of people you see smiling on the news, volunteering at soup kitchens, and starring in teen romance movies. They’re thugs, drug dealers, and woman beaters. These people are animals.”

“D-drug dealers?” A buried memory pushes into the front of my mind. “Elise called me a couple weeks before her death, asking for money. It was a large sum.”

His eyes narrow and he releases my coil of golden hair to press his palms against the wall on either side of my head, imprisoning me between massive biceps. I’m a prisoner, yet I feel…safe.

“Think it might have been smart to mention that earlier?”

“I didn’t think I would be asking for your help.”

“Well, you need it. Don’t you?” His eyes burn with an intense heat that scorches my skin.

I consider his question. Do I need it? I want to deny the fact that I need anyone, that I can do this on my own and once I discover the killer or any shred of evidence that points to the killer, I can call the police for reinforcements. But it’s a sad and pathetic plan, one that won’t hold in a stiff breeze. If this guy is right about the shifters, I’ll be way over my head. I’m already in over my head with this tatted Hercules of a man who’s saved my life minutes after I accused him of murder. The police wouldn’t be enough to frighten away any shifters, but the sight of this guy when he’s all worked up might be enough to make a demi-god s**t his backbone. At the very least, he could keep me alive for longer than I’d manage on my own. Hell, he’s already accomplished that tonight.

I do need him.

“Are you offering me your help?”

The perfectly rounded lips, just inches from my own, curl into a cocky smirk. I hate myself for wanting to kiss it right off his face.

“I am.” His baritone voice contains traces of something dark and forbidden, like the rest of him.

My cheeks heat under the gravity of his fierce stare. Why do I feel like I’m about to make a deal with the devil himself? And why does it feel so right?

“And what do you want in exchange?” I whisper. The vulnerability in my own tone is enough to bring the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. What am I doing? I need this guy’s help but…

I don’t even know his name.

His intrusive gaze rakes down the length of my body, my skin prickling in the wake of his leering eyes of black. I don’t need to read minds to know what he’s thinking. In the pits of his inky irises, I see something good, something that makes me feel inexplicably safe in his orbit. Behind that, I see festering depravity that threatens to consume my very soul should I venture too close.

The thought of it sends a deep ache between my thighs and brings my pulse to a wild thrum, beating against my ribs like a war drum.

Was this why I couldn’t get Seattle out of my head that day I followed this man to the bar from the funeral?

I don’t believe in destiny, I don’t believe in fate. But some truly powerful force is re-forging the armor I’ve worn for twenty-five years to make room for this man in my heart whose name I don’t even know. This creature of the night, who smells of whiskey and misery, is some sort of deadly narcotic, and I am in need of an overdose.