Page 78 of Angel's Enemy Omega

Arsene’s eyelashes flutter, his jewel-bright eyes dulled with pain. Nur fumbles for something to say, but platitudes feel worse than nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Not—that. Hand. Hurts.”

“Oh.” Nur releases the hand he’s been pulverizing, shame washing over him.

He hesitates, not sure if he should leave. Comfort doesn’t come naturally to him. Nothing comes naturally to him exceptbiting words and feeding his own endless hunger. He’d gladly fight another chimera for Arsene right now, but this? Telling his mate soothing lies? He’s useless here.

“Tell me a story.” The hoarse demand penetrates his self pity. Arsene’s hand flops against his thigh. “Anything.”

“Astory?” Nur reaches for his mate automatically. He forces himself to be gentle as he takes Arsene’s hand back.

He searches the haze of memory for something interesting to tell Arsene. What story would an angel want to hear about Hell?

What story would his bonded mate want to hear?

“I’ll tell you about the first time I met Vasia,” he says finally.

Arsene grunts quietly in acknowledgement and squeezes his hand.

Nur staysby Arsene’s side all day, the chatter of camp rising and falling around them as the humans pass by. The dogs yip again, sharp warning calls, but someone shushes them. The human pups chase each other past the door of the tent with bright laughs. Arsene falls into unconsciousness, not quite asleep. Through the bond, his pain leeches away. A strange alchemical process is happening deep inside, spinning clean threads from the tangled mess of Nur’s soul. He aches to protect Arsene, to shield him from all the suffering the universe holds. But he suspects Arsene already knows more about suffering than he lets on. The things left unsaid about New Yden’s sentinel training ring loud in his ears.

After every new exchange, Nur’s hunger diminishes. A foreign warmth grows in his core, tendrils of new growth taking root. The ever-present ache he feels leeches away, uncurlingimpossible relief. As he becomes new, Arsene descends deeper into sickness.

They repeat the exchange three more times into the night. Each time Arsene’s cries are weaker, the protests of his body less. Fear grows in Nur’s heart. A new possibility emerges.

What if it works, but leaves Arsene corrupted?

Arsene’s pallor fades and dark circles bloom under his eyes. His mind seems to drift farther each time. His hand is limp in Nur’s grasp. Every transfer is marked by fresh howls of pain, and Nur can hardly stand it. On the dawn of the second day, he turns to Irvin helplessly.

“Can’t we stop now?”

Irvin’s expression is tight, his eyes dark with exhaustion. “We have to keep going until the corruption is gone. If any single drop is left, this will have been for nothing.”

“Not…done…” Arsene gasps from the bed.

“How much more can you bear?” Nur demands. “We could stop here. When your mission is done we’ll be side by side anyway. I can manage the hunger until then.”

“How long will it give you? A month? A year? Five years?” Arsene struggles to sit up. “I want you to be free forever.”

Irvin grabs his shoulders. “Lie back! Hell, you stubborn people.”

Arsene shakes him off, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. “Nur, listen to me.”

“I can’t lose you.” All the things he doesn’t want to feel spin around in him, kicked up like dust from another life. His life for Arsene’s? It’s no contest. Without Arsene he’ll be a ghost haunting his own life. “Ican’t. I wouldn’t survive. Please.”

Arsene snatches Nur’s hands out of the folds of his shirt, where his claws are shredding the material. “Stop that. Irvin, leave us alone for a moment.”

Irvin nods grimly.

“Talk some sense into him,” he says to Nur.

Arsene’s eyes are bright and blazing. Nur wants to grow big enough to protect him, to dig his claws into his own ribs and tear them open so he can enfold his mate into himself. He’d wear his Hellform forever to keep Arsene safe. He’d gladly become a beast, a mindless vessel for Arsene’s love.

“I can’t.” He digs his teeth into his cheek until ichor burns his tongue.

Arsene’s unsteady hand swipes the ichor from the corner of his lips. He puts his finger to his own mouth. His shoulders slump. Nur braces himself for the worst—an admission, a refusal.

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