he said, voice low and rough and thick with honesty and lust. “And you are Noa, a witch of the Coven.”
Noa stilled, pressing her hands down on Diel’s shoulders to halt his thrusts. “I can’t be a witch,” she hissed. His words had struck her as harshly as a cat-o’-nine-tails lashing at her back.
Diel pulled her closer. She felt his heart racing against hers as their skin kissed. “You can.” His cock pulsed inside her. “That’s your heritage, your birthright. They can’t ever take it from you.”
Noa went to argue, to refute his claim. She wanted to move away from him, give herself space from too much emotion, from a past and a legacy she had tried to remain distant from. But as she did, she heard the fire crackle and pop behind her, heard the thrashing wind rattle the windows, heard the rain pouring down outside … and then she felt something else, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
As Diel held her close, skin to skin, brand to brand, scars against scars, she felt a deep sense of completion. Not in the sexual sense, but as though some missing part of her had been found, some aspect of her wounded soul had been patched over, the beginning phases of healing set in motion. And as she looked into Diel’s eyes, sapphire eyes that were no longer tormented by two halves of one warring soul, she knew he had been that missing piece.
Noa took hold of Diel’s hand and entwined his fingers with hers. She felt an invisible cord wrap around their tightly clasped hands, creating a sacred bond. A flood of light seared through her, cleansing and reviving.
And as she looked up at Diel, she saw it mirrored in his gaze too. The invisible cord pulled tighter, as if it was their very own handfasting ceremony. Noa closed her eyes. She could almost see her grandma dancing around the fire in celebration, arms stretched out, long gray hair whipping high with the wind as she sent the elements to her surviving granddaughter. Her granddaughter who had met someone who both shared and understood the heavy burdens of her soul. Someone to lighten to the load.
Noa rocked back and forth on Diel’s lap, feeling every inch of him move inside her, feeling him in her soul. When she opened her eyes, he leaned in and kissed her, their hands never breaking. And after they had both reached their silent climaxes, Noa lay over Diel’s chest and listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Minutes later, his breathing evened out in sleep.
Lifting her head, she stared at his pretty, relaxed face, his mass of messy hair, and she knew that invisible cord remained around them, keeping them bound together.
She thought back to what they’d talked about—her past, her spirituality, her beloved family. And her heart shattered. She had known her family. She mourned them, missed them every single day. But she had known them. Known that people had loved her.
Diel had no memory of life before Purgatory. He didn’t know if he had a family beyond his Fallen brothers. He didn’t know where he came from, how he came to be taken by the Brethren. Dinah had learned from Gabriel that Diel’s history had never been in any records; he had never existed on any database. At least not one that they could find.
Noa held his hand tighter, silently vowing that she would discover who he was. And as she pressed a kiss to his chest, over the brand that they shared, she knew she would never give up until she had found out. Until they found out just who Jegudiel, her fallen angel, used to be.
Chapter 17
“Again!” Father August shouted, and he watched as his Witch Finders started the drill again. He shook his head at their ineptness, their lack of understanding of the complex moves. Auguste marched forward, grabbed the newest priest by his arm, and threw him to the ground. “Get up,” he spat. The fledgling priest crawled to his feet. His face was pale, and Auguste could practically smell the fear pulsing off him, as putrid as week-old milk.
Auguste sliced his hand across the back of the priest’s cheek, and with a kick to his stomach, the young man fell to the ground, groaning in pain. Auguste’s fists shook with disappointment and rage. He looked at the rest of his Witch Finders. Father Quinn had sent more recruits for