I’ve read that the mate bond affects humans differently. The desire and need for our mate is tenfold for us. But I don’t think Harvey minds, judging by the way he sighs and holds me closer with every kiss I plant on his neck.
“I’m a Horseman,my saving Grace. I will manage,” he whispers, his warm breath sending goosebumps down my spine. Before pulling the door open, Harvey pats my bum twice and gives it a firm squeeze.
Oh boy.
16. He wants me to be his what?!
Nevaeh
Before Hazel can open the back gate, where brainless bimbos with terrible skin and a swarm of dumb warlocks are marching toward us, Angel runs ahead of me and blocks my path.
He looks unusually nervous before asking, “Do you trust me?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Hazel silently backing away until she’s out of sight. I’m sure she’ll be back soon to complain that our mushy moment cut into her precious Deviant gutting time.
The last time Angel asked me this, I said no without hesitation. But now, everything has changed. I’ve changed. So has our bond.
He has given me a roof over my head, friends who’ve got my back, and a kind of comfort I never thought I deserved. I didn’t think any of it was in the cards for me before I met him.
So there’s only one correct answer. “I think I do.”
I shrug, suddenly feeling shy, and drop my gaze to the tile patterns below me so I won’t have to see the disappointment on Angel’s face. But all I hear is silence.
When I sneak a glance at him, there’s an excited smile on Angel’s face that he doesn’t even try to hide. His dimples are on full display, and I take it as a sign that I need to stop expecting the worst from people… from him.
“I’m so proud of you.” Angel cradles my face and kisses me hard.
My mate only backs off when Hazel clears her throat and scolds us to rein it in. Angel still wears that goofy, lovesick grinas he throws the door open to face our enemies. For someone about to face a bunch of disgusting Deviants, he has a lot of spring in his step.
Angel conjures his bow out of thin air and stays two steps ahead of Hazel and me, shielding us both.
I can’t help being envious of his ability to summon a weapon at will. Seiji is not a Horseman yet, so he disguises his whips as a jeweled belt looped over his waist, but even that’s better than not having a signature weapon at all.
I can’t wait to summon my scythe and raise hell one day.
Hazel and Grace both carry weapons, too. Grace has to because her Divine is no help in a fight, but Hazel does it because that deranged woman loves getting her hands dirty even though she can melt someone’s brain with a whistle.
My kind of woman.
I like getting right up in my enemies’ faces, watching the light leave their eyes as I peel away their souls one layer at a time. It’s strangely satisfying.
Before I allow my Divine to come out and play, I create a barrier in my mind and cage it inside. I rely on my essence in small, controlled doses as I carve a path through the horde of rabid Deviants, burning every soul I touch to ash.
Hearing their screeching wails is bittersweet because, as much as I revel in destroying them, I know these horrific sounds will keep me up at night.
Deviants can’t hold or conjure a weapon, but that doesn’t make them harmless. Every touch of their cursed soul makes your insides shudder with dark magic.
When a melting hand grabs my shoulder, I thank the countless nights of torture that trained my body to endure this burn.
I grab the Deviant by the throat and squeeze until his head separates from his rotting body. Warm goo and melting flesh coat my hands, and I immediately regret not asking Hazel for a weapon.
A Deviant collapses at my feet with a deep gash on his neck,distracting me from my next kill. I was worried their numbers might overpower us, but Angel is cutting through them like a man on a mission.
His movements are so fast and effortless, like he’s taking a stroll in the park, not fighting creatures who belong in a museum in hell.
A wicked laugh from behind breaks my trance, reminding me that I’m not here to admire Angel but to put some of my anger and frustration to good use.
“Ah, there’s my favorite prisoner.” A warlock steps out of the shadows, Deviants looming behind him like attack dogs waiting for their master’s command to pounce.
