“Let her go.” Though his whole body tensed as a tightly pulled bow string, the pistol in his hand remained steady, aimed perfectly, ready to bring blood if necessary—and hewanted itto be necessary.
Tsking again, Angelous murmured apologetically, “I am sorry, but I cannot do that. You see,mein Himmlischer Vater, my Heavenly Sire, has commissioned a portrait, a perfect masterpiece fashioned from flawed human flesh.” With a show of pride, he waved his hands over Haven’s knife-ravaged body.
The other man continued with his diatribe. “Your uncultured and imperfect eyes cannot see the beauty and perfection I am creating from this common, lowly human form.”
Logan held back a bark of rage. Casting a quick glance to Haven, he swallowed at the tears flowing from her eyes. She knew he’d come, could hear him, see him, but couldn’t find the strength to utter a word. A glimmer of hope flashed in her once-blank gaze, but fear and pain warred to overtake it.
Haven, he urged silently,just hold on a little longer.
“When I am done with her, she will be a climax of my masterwork, a gift to the inferior human race from my Heavenly Sire.” He flashed a smile of twisted beneficence, as though he bestowed grace on unworthy beings.
Swallowing past the sick in his throat, Logan commanded, “I said let her go. You’re done.”
Looking to all the world as if he had just slandered his character, Angelous’ expression seethed with dark intent. Wrath and malice poured from his body.
“You would have me stop, to leave before my work is complete? You would take my Sire’s approval from me?Nein!I will complete my commission; I will do as my Heavenly Sire has commanded. I will make this world perfect. I will make this masterpiece perfect.” With his last word, he flew to the table where Haven lay, thrusting his knife into the flesh beneath her breast. She heaved upward, a scream tearing from her throat as blood poured from the wound.
Shocked, Logan didn’t register the other man’s intent until he advanced toward him, blood wet blade in his hand, and a look of deadly purpose on his face.
“If I cannot finish my masterpiece, you cannot have her.”
Before he could fire a shot, Angelous barreled into his hand, knocking the pistol to the floor, sending it skittering under the table where Haven lay bleeding.
Dying.
Drawing on every ounce of fury and terror within, Logan pushed at him, reaching for the knife in the other man’s hand. Pulling back, Angelous raised the knife, seeking to slash his arms. At the last moment, Logan jerked away, barely missing the edge of the blade. As Angelous slashed wildly, Logan jumped away from the wide swipes, waiting for his opportunity to strike.
That moment came sooner than he’d hoped.
From the table where she lay, Haven cried out, “Logan!” Her voice a shrill and terrible sound.
Momentarily distracted by her cry, Angelous turned to look, and Logan reached for his wrist, pulling it down with great force against his rising knee. Bellowing in pain, Angelous released the knife. Logan scrambled for it. Desperate to end the fight, and get to Haven, he snatched it from the ground before Angelous could recover.
He lunged forward, burying the knife to the hilt in Angelous’ chest.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Stunned. Angelous staggered and glanced up to find the duke towering over him, his face a mask of hatred and pity.
Damn the man. How dare the duke pity him, the perfect son of the Heavenly Sire?
He was the Master Artist, the Bringer of Beauty from Blood.
A wave of pain rushed over him, and he fell to his knees. He swore at his weakness.
He’d never knelt before.
Blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth as he muttered, “Sire...Father...I am sorry.”
Horrifying blackness stole over his mind, and the last thing to filter through his thoughts was the image of his own favored knife protruding from his heart.
Logan turnedfrom the lifeless carcass of a truly wretched human being.
With frantic speed, he made his way to Haven. Shuddering at the sight of her mutilated, bloody body, he gasped in despair.
The table next to her held four precise rows of brightly glinting knives. Snatching up the nearest one, he cut the restraints at her hands. When they finally gave way, her arms fell to the hard tabletop. Feverish in his need to free her, he made quick work of the restraints at her ankles. The flesh around each neatly turned joint was raw and bleeding.
He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and forced his gaze to the knife wound in her naked abdomen. A thin, jagged furrow marred the skin beneath her left breast.
