“How can I help?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
“Still a lie, Ciprian.”
“It’s not something you can help with,” I argue.
Her fingers stop moving in my hair, and I curse myself for ruining it. “Let me be the judge of that.”
It’s tempting, but I shouldn’t tell her this. She could figure out who I am and kill me for misleading her. An enclave heir, unprotected, alone, and deep within fringe territory . . . some of the supernaturals around here would cheer if she took me out.
But I want to tell her. Fuck, I want to tell her exactly who I am. Ciprian Casanell, habitual screwup and Dimitri Casanell’s last resort for a nightmare demon legacy. The one who relies on humor and wine to get the job done, single-handedly breaking through every layer of family tension and distracting them so they never once have to look in the godsdamn mirror.
If I threw all my cards on the table, would Celine still look at me like I matter?
Here, on the bathroom floor, as I sit on the wet shower curtain, my resolve slips. The pain of being overlooked by my own family is too fresh to ignore.They didn’t even call.
“It’s fear,” I blurt. “I need fear to recharge my magic.”
For a moment, Celine says nothing. Sprawled out and helpless, I call myself ten different kinds of stupid. She’s disgusted. Or she knows who I am. Feeding on fear is an extremely specific demonic trait. If she has even a basic knowledge of my kindor enclave politics...
A trickle of fear hits my parched, magical core. It sinks in like the first drop of rain in the desert. And it doesn’t belong to me.
Celine’s hand tightens in my hair, no longer stroking, but latching on. She’s using it to anchor herself.
Energy slides into me at a steady stream.
Opening my eyes, I look at her in wonder. Red hair, pin straight tonight, falls over her shoulders. Her brown eyes are wide open, but unseeing.
Her fear intensifies. The stream has a current now—strong, cold, and demanding. I lap it up.
My headache vanishes.
Her bottom lip trembles.
“That’s enough, Celine,” I say, hating that I’m getting better even as her eyes well up with tears.
She ignores me, gripping my hair tighter. The feathers of her wings sharpen and quiver, making a spine-chilling sound—slaughterhouse chains stirred by a summer breeze. It’s too beautiful to come from fear. She’s too beautiful to feed my darkness.
“I’m fine now,” I tell her, rolling my muscles around until I realize it’s not even a lie anymore. I’m not fully recharged, but like everything about Celine, her fear is potent.
A wave of terror hits me, fifty times the size of the last current, and she whimpers.
The sign of her distress breaks the irresistible grip her fear has over me. I roll to my knees and cradle her face, my thumb grazing her lips.
“Celine, please stop,” I beg.
Her eyes are squeezed shut; eyelids creased with the force she’s exerting.
Fuck it. I can’t stand another second of this.
Signing my own death sentence, I press my lips to hers. My kiss is soft and gentle—everything I wish I could be for her. Not a monster who needs fear to function. I move my lips against hers and try to apologize through the kiss. For lying. For feeding off her fright. For yanking her godsdamn shower curtain down. I apologize for it all.
She gasps into my mouth, and I brace for a punch that doesn’t come. The hand fisting my hair adjusts its grip, pulling me in instead of pushing me away. Then Celine kisses me back.
I drop back on my heels, giving her room to process. Maybe she doesn’t realize what’s happening yet. Or not. She grumbles against my mouth, then crawls forward to straddle my thighs. Our kiss turns hungry and hot. I lick into her mouth, and her tongue battles with mine.
An angel and a demon clinging to each other in a Las Vegas bathroom? I must have fallen into an alternate reality. Five minutes ago, I was at rock bottom, now my wildest dream is coming true.
