“I damn you to your darkest fear.
“I bind you to dread’s cold embrace.
“Until your truth you boldly face.”
Killian hadn’t betrayed anyone. Except for Oliver. Fuck. If the curse was going to punish him for that crime, it might as well kill him now. Except for the angel bleeding on his bed. Killian pulled himself out of his own pity party and stared at Maddox. His skin was ruddy, a layer of stubble darkening his jaw and cheeks under the blood that had dried on his temple.
Black hair, thick and wavy, had felt impossibly soft as Killian had tucked Maddox’s head under his chin while carrying him. And the man—was he a man?—was muscular and compact. Like a fighter.
As he stared, the angel stirred and forced his eyes open. “Help…me,” Maddox whispered. “Killian?”
“I’m right here, mate.” Sliding a hip onto the bed, Killian rested his hand on Maddox’s shoulder. A burst of warmth flowed through him, and across his chest, his burns flared. “Fuck,” he muttered as he used his other hand to loosen his tie. His abdomen throbbed with each breath, and now that he wasn’t in the throes of an adrenaline spike, all of his injuries started to make themselves known as well.
Maddox’s cheeks reddened, then paled dramatically as he tried to shift on the bed. “Have…to set my…wing. My arm. Before they heal badly.”
“Will you be all right for five minutes?” If he didn’t do something about the burning in his chest and the slice from the shattered champagne flute, he wouldn’t be any good to anyone—especially Maddox. And the man seemed to be in complete agony.
Maddox’s lips moved, but Killian couldn’t make out his response. Leaning closer, he caught Maddox’s scent. Something clean and pure and very male. Granite and leather and the finest tobacco. “I didn’t hear you, Maddox.”
“Think so.”
Pushing to his feet with a groan, Killian stumbled into the suite’s bath and tore his shirt open. “Bloody hell.” Blazing across his chest, almost like a tattoo, were several curved lines etched into his skin. On his left side, one stretched from his sternum, over his pectoral muscle, almost to his collarbone. Several others looked almost like half-moons running directly under the long curve. On the right, dark triangles overlapped. Each mark glowed red around the edges, like he’d been branded with a hot poker.
As he stared, another black dot seared itself into his flesh, and he bit down on one of the hotel towels to stop from crying out. No more. Give me ten minutes. For Maddox.
His bargain with the Divine must have worked, because the pain faded, and the new dot didn’t grow or change shape.
His dress shirt fell to the floor, and he pressed his fingers to the deep gash just below his ribs. Blood still dripped from the wound, and he rummaged around in the toiletry bag someone had been kind enough to fill for him until he found gauze, medical tape, and a tube of antibiotic ointment.
“Convenient, that,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. “And definitely not standard issue.”
Unwilling to even touch the new brand, he cleaned the gash with an alcohol-soaked pad, hissing at the pain, slathered it with ointment, and wrapped it tightly. Then, he gathered up all of the supplies— including a suture kit—filled a glass of water, and headed back to Maddox.
MADDOX
He had to be seeing things. The gorgeous man heading towards him had dark, angry lines tattooed on his chest, and they seemed to glow with each step. Killian’s six-pack ended in a deep v that disappeared beneath his black pants, and a patch of brilliant white gauze on his side was tinged with red.
“You’re hurt.” Maddox forced the words through gritted teeth, reaching his one good arm up to brush his fingers against Killian’s side.
“I’ll live. Will you?” Killian’s blue-grey eyes softened as he stared down at Maddox. “I’ll help you. But which, err, wing is broken?”
“My left. Same arm. A few ribs. Collarbone, I think.” Maddox was so thirsty, so weak, and he didn’t think he could stay conscious much longer. But he didn’t want to stop staring at Killian. There was something about the man that called to him, and it wasn’t just that he was hot as fuck.
Killian slid his arm behind Maddox, and they were so close, the man’s warmth enveloped him. It was…comforting. Something he could hold on to…for at least a short while. Until Killian lifted him, and his broken arm and wing flopped helplessly to his side, sending pure, unadulterated torment shooting through his entire body.
“Keep it down, mate,” Killian said sharply as he eased Maddox against his chest and slid behind him to rest his back against the headboard. “We’re not the only guests in this hotel.”
Had he screamed? His throat hurt like he’d screamed, but he couldn’t remember. He must have. Letting his head rest on Killian’s shoulder, Maddox tried to breathe through his misery until the cool edge of a glass pressed to his lips.
“Drink. Slowly.” After three sips, Maddox felt marginally better, and Killian set the glass down. “I know nothing of setting bones. Or of…angels. I thought your kind were immortal.”
“S’posed to be.” Maddox was so tired, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. “Even on earth. Should have…healed by now. Ever since the mansion…”
“Bloody hell. The curse hit you too. Did you see green smoke? Before everything went sideways?”
“Smoke. Yes,” Maddox whispered. “Couldn’t move.”
“That vial. You stole it from Magnolia House, didn’t you?” Despite his words, Killian’s tone hadn’t changed. If anything, it had gentled, and Maddox didn’t want to lie to this man. The intense urge to tell him everything didn’t make sense, but nor could he dismiss it.
