at me, but whatever it is causes him to purse his lips like he’s eaten something sour.
“Nakir,” the Witcher wannabe addresses the life-sized Oscar dude before me, “leave the girl alone.”
The golden man—Nakir—pouts, before his lips curve upwards into a mischievous smile.
“If you ever want to take a ride to God-town…” He allows the suggestive statement to trail off, and behind him, Raz roars in fury.
I don’t know why my demon’s so furious. It’s clear that the angel isn’t propositioning me. He’s an angel, for fuck’s sake! And…besides, I’m pretty damn sure they’re only mocking me before they kill me.
“Come. We will address this civilly.” The white-haired angel stalks towards the front of the farmhouse, only stopping to give Raz and Van, the two demons nearest to him, a disgruntled once-over. “And make sure you clean them up before you let them inside,” he says to the nearest angels. He crooks his finger at me in the universal come-hither gesture, and with one last helpless glance at Kastros’s pale face, I follow the angel inside.
What? It’s not like I could run away faster than they could fly.
Immediately to the left of the entrance is a modestly furnished living room with ivy-colored walls, two floral couches that seem better fitted for a grandma’s house than a bachelor pad for murderous, psychotic angels, and a fireplace that’s currently unlit.
The flock leader nods towards one of the sofas, and with heavy trepidation, I perch on the edge. My eyes scan the room, searching for anything I can use as a weapon, but unless I want to get freaky with a plastic vase, I’m shit out of luck.
Fuck angels and their bullshit decorating choices! Why don’t they have swords hung on the walls from their epic battles? Or marble busts that I can chuck at their heads?
I can only pray that my death will be swift, that my guys will somehow miraculously survive, and that Adam will be looked after. Fear scratches my insides like a sharp claw coated in poison. I can feel it rushing through my body, stealing the air from my lungs and prohibiting my heart from beating at a normal rhythm.
The Witcher wannabe doesn’t speak for a long moment, watching me as intently as I watch him. I can hear footsteps and the sound of limp bodies whacking against the floor as the other four angels drag my guys inside, but I don’t dare look away from their flock leader. I almost feel like this is a test, that if I look away first and break eye contact, I’m condemning us all to death.
“I will take a flaccid fish and hit you with it until your head explodes!” Akor bellows as he’s wrenched into the room, dropping onto the second sofa beside the flock leader. Witcher wannabe makes a face as he takes in Akor’s disheveled appearance, before dropping his gaze to the dirt on Akor’s shoes which are now touching the couch.
The rest of my men are dropped onto the rug in front of the fireplace. Raz twitches, craning his neck, eyes searching until he finds me. Agony is splayed across his face combined with an overwhelming amount of guilt. His teeth clench, and I can almost taste his anger in the air. But he’s so powerless that he still can’t move.
I shove aside a flashback to my accident, when I was trapped with a seatbelt still on, car upside down in the dark. I’d felt the exact same way. Furious and frantic. Wild.
The golden man, the dirty propositioning angel—Nakir—sits directly beside me on the coach, casually draping an arm over my shoulders. All four of my men growl, and Akor even manages to propel himself weakly off the couch. Before my pink-haired demon can reach me, the angelic archer, who just came in from outside, casually lifts a leg to trip him, and Akor face-plants.
“Forgive my manners,” the white-haired angel says in a smoky voice. It’s the type of voice females everywhere would pay to hear on an audiobook. It practically oozes sex. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“Let us go.”
“Feisty,” Nakir purrs. “I like it. Can we keep her?”
“I’ll cut your balls off,” Akor replies seriously, still facedown on the floor.
“Nakir, behave.” The leader pinches the bridge of his nose before piercing me with a look. “My name is Raphael.”
The couch drops out from under me, and then the floor, and then the fucking dirt, until I’m miles underground. Whaaat? I blink at the stunning man, struggling