Beneath the mask, the right side of his face is striated with open gashes, red wounds that look fresh, though I know he must have carried them for a long time, ever since he gained this form.
As Raoul and I watch, tiny black tendrils poke out of thegashes and writhe in midair. A few of them sprout leaves as they extend and expand. It’s as if a dark, deadly forest lives inside the Angel, ready to emerge and invade the world around him like a malevolent disease.
Part of me cringes at the sight of the vines, recoiling from the virulent magic I sense in them. But I force myself to reach out, to let one of the tendrils curl around my finger. With a twitch of my hand, the vine explodes into black ash. They’re fragile, these vines of his. An echo of some greater power he used to possess.
Raoul shifts under me, and I scoot back to let him sit up. He strokes the wounded side of the Angel’s face, and with each contact, more tendrils dissipate into black dust.
I want to erase the lost look from the Angel’s eyes, to soothe the ache I see there, to seal up the wounds of his heart. So I lean forward, and I kiss one of the open gashes.
Then, on impulse, I sweep my tongue along the wound.
There’s a hum of reaction, a magical response to the enzymes in my saliva, so I lick the Angel’s cheek again, another swipe over the ravine in his flesh.
When I lean back, the edges of the gash are coming together, sealing shut, forming a long, pale scar.
“Oh shit,” whispers Raoul.
Heart pounding, I stroke the Angel’s face with my tongue, bathing every cut, ignoring the twitch of the vines, the ashy burst of their tendrils when they contact my skin. Each gash closes, and when I’m finished, there are no more vines, no more raw red flesh. The Angel’s face bears several white scars but no open wounds.
His fingertips drift wonderingly over his right cheek. I can see the realization dawning on his face—that if he had trusted me and bared himself to me, he could have been healed sooner. His sufferingcould have been alleviated, his fears allayed.
The symbolism of it penetrates my heart more deeply than Raoul’s words.
If I open myself to loving these men, maybe I could heal, too. I won’t have to work on these relationships alone; Raoul and the Angel will be there, too, working beside me. I know I can survive by myself, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe this trifold knot of ours isn’t a snare at all but security. Strength. Relief. Maybe, instead of making each other worse, we can make each otherbetter.
Days ago, I made the choice to share my body with them. This decision feels more important…monumental, in fact. And like that other choice, it happens softly, swiftly, in some deep place of my heart.
I thought choosing them would feel like a trap closing, but instead it feels like I’ve been released from torment. The bridge has been crossed, and it’s burning behind me. I see the heat of the flames in the Angel’s golden eyes, in the flash of Raoul’s smile.
I look from the Angel to Raoul and back again. “If we’re going to do this, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I don’t need a guide or a guardian. I don’t belong to either of you.” I pause, cupping Raoul’s face with my left hand and the Angel’s with my right. “You both belong to me.”
“Hell yes,” breathes Raoul.
Instead of answering, the Angel rises, drawing me to my feet as well. Once I’m standing, he drops to his knees and presses his face against me.
For a moment, he simply remains there with his arms wrapped around my hips and his cheek against my waist. My hands find their way into his hair instinctively, twining through the black curls.
The Angel inhales slowly, like he’s savoring my scent, and thenhe nuzzles against my lower belly.
Arousal swirls through my body, every inch of me waking up to his nearness, his tenderness.
His fingers find the waistband of my dance shorts. Carefully, he drags them down my legs, along with the panties, inch by tantalizing inch, until they’re loose and lax around my ankles.
Then he kisses my bare pussy, the tip of his tongue stroking my clit with an abject devotion that takes my breath away.
Raoul makes a sound of fervent enthusiasm and rises behind me on his knees, caressing my ass like it’s his favorite thing. He lifts my shirt and begins planting kisses on my lower back, right over my spine.
The two of them kneel there, worshipping my body. They press their repentance into my flesh with their lips, trace their love on my skin with wet tongues.
And for the first time in my life, I begin to believe that I’m worthy of happiness.
Raoul trails his hands up my body, getting to his feet as he follows my curves upward. He slips both hands under my breasts and moves in until his body presses against my back and his lips brush my ear. The Angel remains at my feet, holding my thighs while he licks me softly, firmly, relentlessly.
When I whimper, Raoul kisses my temple and murmurs, “Come for him, sweetheart. Come on his tongue.”
Raoul is cupping my breasts, his fingertips stimulating my nipples, and it’s heaven, it’s hell, it’s more than I can take. The sensations spiraling through my body demand release, climbing in an irresistible crescendo toward the peak. And then, just when I’m writhing at the brink, the Angel’s tonguevibrates.
I come with a hoarse scream, shuddering through the force of theecstasy. My whole body shakes, and Raoul holds me steady, soothes me with whispers of wicked satisfaction until I go limp, my limbs turned to useless jelly. I sag in Raoul’s arms while the Angel looks up, his mouth glistening. His scarred face is the loveliest thing I have ever seen.
