Page 37 of Touched By Death

His big hand encircles the back of my neck, and he leans down to press his lips to my ear. “When I finally kiss you, I want it to be for the right reasons.”

“I thought you liked me as a friend. Nothing more.”

His heated breath fans the column of my throat, and he tightens his grip on my neck as he shifts impossibly closer. “I lied.”

Fisting his T-shirt, my heart thrashing madly in my chest, I tip my chin up to his mouth. I’m dying for his kiss. Thirsting for his touch. And maybe he’s right; maybe I’m trying to soothe an ache inside me. Maybe I’m seeking Daemon in their striking similarities, but all thoughts of Daemon are gone now. Vanished into thin air.

His stubbled chin slides across my jaw, closer to my parted lips that seem to tingle with anticipation. I hold my breath, eyes falling close when he hovers, inches away from my yearning mouth. He’s going to kiss me.

There’s a knock on the door, and he stumbles back. Rubbing the back of his neck, he avoids my gaze as Amenadiel pops his head inside. Eyes flicking between us, the line between his brows deepens, and he enters the room, looking from me to his son and back. “Everything okay in here?”

“Yes,” I manage to choke out, chancing a look at Dmitriy, unsure what just happened. The angel in question clears his throat, shoots me a weak smile, and bows like this is a historical fairytale, before slipping out of my room.

I blink after him, lips pursed. Did he admit he likes me? Everything is such a damn clusterfuck.

At the sound of Amenadiel’s heavy footsteps, I look away from the door to find him watching me wearily. He’s done that a lot lately—skated around me, like he’s unsure in my presence.

“What?” I question, a strange, defensive sensation washing over me when he flicks his eyes to the door.

With a slight shake of his head, he scans my room while walking closer to me. “I sent my son to check on you, but it didn’t feel right not to pay you a visit myself.” His dark eyes land on me, and I frown. Everyone is acting weird around me lately, and it’s confusing as hell.

Ridding myself of the odd sensation, I cross my arms, forcing myself to hold his gaze. Boldly. “Have you visited my dreams again?”

With a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back, he circles me in that unnerving way of his. “What’s the deal with you and my son?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“What do you remember of the night when you found out about my nephew and Dariana?”

Cocking my head to the side, I follow him with my eyes. “What’s with the interrogation, Grandpa?”

His lips twitch, as if he’s holding back a smile. “Grandpa, huh?” Surging forward and grabbing my jaw in a punishing grip, which sees my wings flare behind me, he stares into my eyes, searching for God knows fucking what. This man gives me whiplash with his mood swings. Wrenching free is futile against his bruising grip.

My nostrils flare with indignation, and a vicious snarl rips from my throat while he continues to flick his curious eyes between mine.

“I know you’re in there, Genesis. Leave my son out of this!” he says tersely before dropping me like a sack of potatoes.

Rubbing at my sore chin, I sneer. “Do I even dare ask what that was about? You’re crazy, Amenadiel. Fucking crazy!”

His eyes flicker with regret, and he sets his jaw and shoves his hands into his pockets. It’s only then that I realize he’s forgone his suit jacket and removed his tie. His maroon shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and I hate to admit that my eyes snag on the exposed skin and muscle. His wings are bigger than his son’s, and as he turns away to leave, I admire their impressive size. The way they seem to reflect the flames that flicker in the fireplace.

“Is there something I should remember from that night?”

At my question, he slows to a halt at the threshold of my room and looks at me over his shoulder. His powerful body follows, swinging around, and he approaches me carefully, studying me with his dark, expressive eyes. “You don’t remember anything out of the ordinary?”

Confused, I purse my lips. “Lucifer told me about his plans for his son.”

“Anything else?”

My eyes bug out. Anything else? The fact that the people I love have lied to me is bad enough without whatever this is. “No,” I reply, stumbling back when he comes for me.

“Seen any more doors lately?”

“What is this?” I ask, alarmed, as the backs of my legs connect with the bed.

With a growl, he grabs me by the throat, and I yelp, clawing at the prominent veins on his forearm, where his sleeve has been rolled up.

If it stings, he doesn’t let on. “Hurt anyone I care about, and I’ll slaughter you so fucking slowly that by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for death. And even then, I won’t grant it to you. Not until I’ve peeled your skin from your bones.”

---