My Dark Angel

Brewing Revenge

POV: Gideon 

My drunken mind can barely believe it when a ghost of my past steps from the shadows of the night to interrogate me of her own murder.

But no.

Miracles don’t exist, not anymore. Not for me. 

Elise is dead, and this woman says her name is Sophie.

Sophie. When I sample the feel of the name on my tongue, it’s like I am tasting a warm and delectable after a frigid winter’s day. It’s a feast after a famine, the most masterful poetry I’ve ever heard constructed from two syllables.

Sophie.

My dead ward’s twin sister.

Twin.

Upon closer inspection, even through the haze of my clouded vision, I now see this isn’t Elise. She may have the same pallor to her skin that reminds me of moonlight, the same round face with flaxen hair and shrewd, gray eyes. But the likeness ends there. 

Elise was thin, her diet or lack thereof left her rail-thin with not an ounce of fat on her. Her hair was never cleaned, her hoodie and jeans always stained and torn. She was a reader, one of her few redeeming qualities. The shadows that constantly lined her eyes were a product of her drug addiction as well as straining her eyes all night, trying to get in one more page of a tattered romance novel before falling asleep in an alley. 

Life on the streets was not kind to my ward. She smelled of filth and sin and sorrow.

This girl might wear Elise’s face, but her hair is clean and is worn loose around her shoulders. Her cheeks are full with a pinch of rosy color. She possesses delightful curves, with a round ass and full t**s that would make most men hard if they let their lecherous minds explore the finer details this curvy package had hidden underneath the wrapping.

My own c**k goes stiff as I let my thoughts wander to a place they have no business being. Her outfit certainly isn’t helping. She’s wearing a floral top that hangs loosely off her shoulders, exposing much of her perfect, porcelain skin.

This is what Elise might have looked like if she cared about her health. But at the same time, I’m sure she would have looked different in her own right. This woman might have been my ward’s twin sister, but she possesses something Elise never had.

Something irresistible.

My inner protector seizes up at her sight, her scent. This girl… She is heaven and hell wrapped all in one, beautiful package. She has Elise’s face, and as alluring as it is not covered in dirt and scabs, it haunts me.

But I soon realize the incredible blessing that stands before me, with the spark of something pure behind those storm gray eyes. This woman is my chance for redemption. It’s just my f*****g luck that she makes my manhood ache just looking at her. She makes me…wild.

I grit my teeth and every muscle in my body clenches tight. f**k, what’s happening to me?

She smells of temptation. It laces the air around her, mingling with that less pleasant but unmistakable metallic scent. Danger. All humans in peril wear this scent like perfume, and it’s so strong it often catches in the wind and carries to Paradise where the Archangel may intervene. All angels can sense it, guardian class or not.

I already know this woman has no guardian contracted to her. She’s alone, she wears that too on her sleeve like a uniform. It’s one we both wear.

I want to blame my instant hunger that roars to life, on the lone fact that is my chance of redemption. I can get my wings back. But my rock-hard erection begs to differ, it doesn’t give a s**t about my wings.

I doubt it’s the alcohol, in fact, it usually has the opposite effect.

Angels are snooty bastards who loath shifters, especially wolves. There are few who like to acknowledge that angels are shifters. So, when a shifter sees their fated mate, there isn’t anything that can stop them from being with them except for death. And right now I have never felt more alive.

It’s a b***h that Paradise still has their panties in a knot about angel and human romantic pairings. It’s a sin, one that would send even the best guardian to the Pit with their wings ripped out for their trouble. For the sorry bastards who believe in fated mates, it’s every angel’s hope that their fated ends up being another of their kind.

But for some, the world isn’t so kind. I’m sure Gabriel, the asshole from earlier, has found himself in that very predicament. It would explain why the angel stumbled to the bar smelling of cunt, with guilt plastered all over his face. The guy never drank, and there were rumors flitting around that he and his ward were close.

Paradise doesn’t give two shits if a fallen drowns himself to death between the thighs of a mortal woman. But if I indulge in this girl, I would be ruining my chance of ever getting my wings back.

Fuck me. What do I do? If I self-appoint myself as her guardian, I can’t touch her, and right now, even the thought of that is complete torture.

As I wrestle with what little morals I still possess, a screech of tires and the sound of a blaring horn tears me back to reality. I smell the air, tendrils of burnt rubber stinging my eyes and scorching my nose. In the next moment an old, gold Buick La Saber appears around the corner where The Guardian sits.

My inner protector slams around inside me, the natural instinct to shift immediately taking over. But I’m filled only with a sense of dread and emptiness as I remember in the next instant that my wings are gone.

The car races down the street in the lane nearest to the curb. It’s filled with at least four large, barrel-chested men. By the stench of dog wafting up underneath the overpowering cloud of rubber-scented smoke, and the blur of their tribal tattoos, I know immediately who they are.

Shifters, specifically the Tacoma gang. What the f**k are they doing in this part of Seattle? Their pack leader runs a motorcycle bar at the far edge of town but they know better not to come in angel territory. When the driver gives a jerk to the wheel, swerving the car toward us, I know something is horribly wrong. The yacht of a car slams up onto the curb and I throw my arms around Sophie’s waist, hurling her out of the way just in time for a ton of rusted steel to hurtle up onto the sidewalk.

She screams in my arms, the sound triggering something inside me. As soon as I touch her, something inside me snaps.

She’s yours. Torture, maim, kill, whatever tries to take her from you, my inner protector grits into my ear.

In the other ear, a deafening gunshot sounds. I twist my body in midair with the reflexes of a cat and land on my feet with Sophie cradled in my arms, my sneakers skidding backward across the pavement.

My chest heaves with labored breath, pressing into the precious bundle and the flash of metal, the barrel of a gun catches my eye just in time for it to slip back inside the passenger side window.

They’re shooting at her. Who could want her dead? They don’t know who she is, she would only be mistaken for Elise around these parts. Could Sophie be right? Maybe Elise hadn’t committed suicide at all, that it was just set up to look like one. Of course, the police would brush it off. Why would they care about investigating the murder of a homeless girl who didn’t mean anything to anyone?

But she meant something to me…and she meant something to this incredible woman shivering in my arms.

Whoever killed her somehow saw her, and they’ve returned to finish the job. My eyes narrow on the Buick, now peeling back into the street. I don’t miss the gun’s barrel, pointing towards us. There’s another shot, and then another, but I’m already running down the alley behind The Guardian away from the streets where the car can follow.

As I bolt into the night towards the safety of my studio apartment with my heart in my throat and the stench of a wild animal clinging to my nose, I vow that I will discover the exact cause of Elise’s death. Whoever did this, whoever pulled that trigger will f*****g pay.

I swear to god, they will pay.