Page 25 of Angel's Temper

Chapter 13

The stockpot had been cleaned, dried, and buffed to a shine so brilliant that Brass couldn’t ignore his shame staring back at him. And because it wasn’t a day that ended in Y if some form of torture wasn’t on the menu, he’d had to marinate in Molly’s parting shot while he gave her the space she needed and worked on cleaning up at least one of his messes.

Brass slapped the kitchen towel onto the counter as he mentally corrected yet another foolish gaffe.

He didn’t give her anything. That was just it. After she verbally smacked him across the face with his own dick—an obviously oft-used skill set on her part—she’d stormed away, taking every inch of space she’d needed, most likely knowing he’d be reluctant to give it. She hadn’t asked, nor did she wait for him to reply with words she had no interest in hearing.

Because whatever he might have said would have had exactly zero bearing on her lived experiences. She had no room or use for his pleas—for there definitely would have been a few of those in there—had she stuck around to hear them.

She had, in one sentence and a flourish of fervent retreating steps, clearly depicted what self-preservation looked like for her, and not just on the surface, but in anguished action and repressed emotion. The pinched brows, the squared shoulders, even her reluctance to push one of the elongated tendrils of hair out of her eyes when she delivered her blow, it had all been intentional.

Molly had wanted him to see how quickly she could don her stone skin, and how, just as quickly, he could be dismissed like the piece of shit he was.

Brass glared at the stockpot again, as if he could frighten his reflection into not revealing more about himself than he was willing to see. The visage sneering back at him matched his anger beautifully and infuriatingly called to light other elements he’d been avoiding.

How damn wonderful.

The hair around his ears had grown shaggier than customary, contrary to his normal fastidious upkeep. Shadows pooled in harsher grooves along his cheeks and jaw, which had grown gaunt over the last month or so. His usually clean-shaven chin twitched beneath a fine spray of auburn stubble, which traveled farther down his neck than he’d ever allowed before.

Mages damn him. When the hell had he let himself get like this?

When I realized none of it mattered anymore.

Brass swiped a hand over his mouth and down his chin, as if he could rub clean the evidence of the physical toll his curse was taking on him.

When he met his eyes again, he flinched at the golden specks that had begun to consume his usual amber irises. Already, his curse was melding with his angel fire, providing yet another hint of what awaited him come the solstice. Would it control his celestial power through subjugation, calling it forth to answer to a new master? Or would his rage snuff out his fire entirely, as the spark of the Eternal Flame that his power was born from was also part and parcel to his humanity?

He swallowed back his revulsion, then turned to look down the hall where Molly’s bedroom was located.

Less than three weeks.

The deadline stormed after him like a sea gale, pushing against his back until he could feel the icy snaps of wind kissing his neck no matter the height of his collar. The closer he loomed toward that storm, the more of himself he lost to the same chasm of time he’d been trying to outrun these past two thousand years.

Until Molly, until whatever magic she unknowingly cast about her somehow beat back the storms and allowed him to breathe in a freedom he’d long since forgotten about.

“I can’t trust it, the magic,” he whispered to his audience of dishes in the drying rack. “But hell if I can deny it either.” Nor did he want to, he realized starkly. The force of the admission struck him dumb, so much so that he had to brace himself against the counter.

What the ever-loving hell had he been doing all this time? Had Molly, even in just the short time he’d been around her, not been his own form of self-preservation? The very concept he’d forced her to defend, while he stormed all over her life expecting her to answer for things she had no choice in?

Mages, the strength she’d needed to confess her suspicions about a connection between the two of them, suspicions she had no cause to understand but was brave enough to voice regardless . . .

And he’d shut her down immediately, shitting all over that bravery and dismissing her vulnerable curiosity.

“God-fucking-dammit,” he seethed into his hands. Then the idea came to him moments before he was tempted to rip off his face from the shame of it all.

They’d landed in this mess because they’d both needed each other in some way, and if Molly was going to trust him again, he’d have to give just as much as she did, in a currency she could take to the bank.

He didn’t spare his reflection another glance before he stalked down the hall.

The gentle knock on Molly’s door came sooner than she expected, and her heart ticked up a reciprocal rhythm in time with the stupid sound. Could a girl not even be allowed the time to work herself up to a good sulk before having to face whatever kind of music was coming for her?

Apparently not.

“I don’t want to do this right now,” she called out.

“You don’t have to,” Brass’s deep voice mumbled against the door. “You just need to listen.”

She rolled her eyes. “I get it. You’re sorry. Message received.” Her flattened palm slashed the air above her forehead in a would-be salute. An answering thud hit her door, and she couldn’t be certain whether it was a fist or a forehead. If he made one dent or, God forbid, a smudge on her satin-finished paint job, she’d?—

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