The man with the AK-47 continues to fire, despite Regina trying to shout in his ear, and I wrap my wings around my partner to shield her, picking up speed with each step.
A wave of celestial energy—a power I did not know I could still muster—sends both men and Regina flying back, and I slam into the concrete wall hard enough to burst through into a back alley where I let instinct take over.
Zoe screams as my feet leave the ground, locks her legs around my hips, and buries her face against my neck.
I doubt she will be able to hear me, but I have to try to reassure her. “You are safe with me, Zoe. I promise.”
Seventeen
Zoe
We’re flying. Holy fucking shit, we’re actually flying. My partner haswings. Beautiful black wings that make almost no sound as he carries us over the city.
His blood soaks into my sweater, and when I find the courage to open my eyes, his expression is pained and his skin pale. The steady beat of his wings falters, and we tumble maybe twenty feet before he regains control and turns, making a beeline for a tall building in Pacific Heights.
As we land on a narrow balcony, he loses his balance, and I do my best to keep him upright, but I feel like I’ve had half a bottle of Jack on an empty stomach—dizzy and weak and freaked the fuck out.
“Sin. Keep it together.” I try to force some strength into my tone, and he blinks hard, then buries his face in the curve of my neck to stifle a groan. The sound startles me, as does the intimate contact, but only for the split second it takes me to realize his wings are nowgone. “Where are we?” I ask when he tries to straighten, fails, and leans heavily on me once more.
“My place.”
The balcony door is unlocked, thank God, and I try not to gape as I help him through the lavish living room and into the bathroom where he half-sits, half-collapses onto a plush, black rug over tile that probably cost more than I made last year.
“You have to remove the rebar,” he grits out and flops onto his stomach. “I will heal...”
The last word is barely audible, and when I gently slap his cheek and call his name, there’s no response. Shit.
Move, Zoe. You can do this. He needs you.
His black shirt is already shredded from the bullets and his wings, and I tear it from his body in long strips. They’ll do until I find a first aid kit. “This is going to hurt,” I say as I wad a length around the thick piece of metal protruding from his back and then wrap my fingers around the rebar. Bracing myself with my foot against his hip, I pull. Hard.
The sound. Oh, fuck. You don’t ever forget a sound like that. But the metal clatters to the floor, and blood soaks the wadded up material. “If you were lying to me about healing, I’m going to kill you.”
Smart, Zoe. You’d be killing a dead man.
Despite my fears, when I swap the soaked remnant of shirt for a thick black towel from the rack, the bleeding has slowed, and the edges of the wound look almost as if they’re starting to knit back together.
Mostly convinced he’s not going to die in the next few minutes, I crawl over to the sink and pull myself up. My eyes are sunken, almost bruised, and I’m covered in cement dust, dirt, and Sin’s blood. My legs ache where the lockers fell on me, and my shoulder throbs.
My partner still hasn’t moved, but he’s breathing, so I rummage around in drawers and cabinets until I find a fully stocked first aid kit and extra towels.
Everything is pristine—or was until he bled all over the floors—so I take off my boots before I rush through what has to be one of San Francisco’s top ten most expensive places to live in search of the kitchen. I pass amedia room,for fuck’s sake.
But I come back with a bowl for warm water and more towels. “Sin?” His eyelids flutter, but that’s the only indication he can hear me. “It’s way too early in our partnership for this. I’d say you owe me, but you saved my life, so I guess we’ll call it even.”
Babbling steadily, which has to be my brain’s way of keeping me from losing my shit, I strip off his pants, socks, and—sweet Jesus—his boxer briefs. The man has an ass I could bounce a quarter off of. Even with so many long-healed scars, he’s magnificent, and I think I say that at one point when I swipe a washcloth over his hip.
I wish I could stop here and drag him to his bed, but the man is fastidious to a fault, so I have to roll him over and clean off the rest of the blood.
I slide my hands under his bulk—one at his hip and another at his chest, and I’m about to heave when he whispers, “Zoe. I can...manage once I can stand. Help me get to my knees first.”
It takes us three tries, and my high school principal, Sister Margaret, would be horrified that I don’t avert my eyes from the very impressive full frontal view of him I get as I help him to the shower and turn on the faucet.
With his hand braced against the marble, he grimaces, then steps under the spray with his back to me. “There is another bathroom down the hall with spare towels and a robe in the linen closet. You are running on pure adrenaline. Unless you want to sleep covered in my blood—which I would prefer you do not as my sheets are all thousand thread count, I suggest you clean up now.”
I’m about to snap at him for not caring if I pass out when he glances over his shoulder at me, a glint in his eyes. “Though I would prefer you join me in here.”
“I’ll be fine on my own, thank you. And I’m not going to sleep here tonight.“
