Page 67 of Whispers of Fire

Lies. He looks at you like a dying man looks at his maker.

His rough hand strokes my hair gently. “Can hear your mind from here, Angel,” he says, his eyes still on the screen.

I make a small smile. How can this man always know what I think about?

He’s my dark knight, covered in leather and black clothes, riding a metallic beast, watching over me with his protective gaze.

Mine.

Just like he called me.

A surge of possession washes over me.

Could I live without this? Him? Us?

Could I accept the darkness of what he’s hiding? Could I accept him if he… killed?

As terrible as it sounds, I know I would accept him no matter what.

Is it bad that I can picture him covered in blood, cutting someone's throat and somehow… somehow it doesn't surprise me? Because despite feeling safe with him, I get that he's scary for most people. With his sharp blue eyes that pierce your soul, his muscular and tall figure that barely makes it through the door frame, the lack of expression on his face before he sees me, he's not the average man you walk by in the streets. He looks like… a killer, like a man who strangled a hundred men with his bare hands and didn't think twice about it. Because he did it for the club and the people he cared about. And somehow, it doesn't scare me away.

It should.

This is crazy and unreasonable.

But you'd have to be blind to not see how much he cares for the club and for… me. One day I hope he'll tell me about his past, about his family, and why he chose this life. Or perhaps this life chose him, perhaps he was meant to be there all along.

I bite my thumb, weighing the pros and cons of asking him about his family, but I'm afraid it'll ruin the night if he doesn't want to share that and make him face old memories he probably wants to keep buried. Right when I decide to ask him about his name, wonderin’ if it’s his real one, he cuts me before I have the chance to take the notebook resting on the arm of the couch.

“Wanna talk about what happened today?” he asks casually, but I sense a tension in his body, as if he is holding his breath. I raise my eyes to him, which makes our noses almost touch.

“I need to know, Angel, need to know who I have to punch for makin’ you so stressed.” Something is dancing in his pupils, like a fire aimed to hurt.

“I had a meeting with the Shepherd,” I write, my hands shaking to admit it.

It feels wrong.

He should be… mine.

And I should be… his.

I mean, I’ve never been in a relationship, let alone one with someone from the outside world, but Vox and I share something far deeper than I have ever hoped to share with anyone. And I truly feel like his, especially right now nestled in his arms. Hence why it doesn’t sit right with me to talk about it.

“At the Institute, right?”

I raise one of my brows, questioning him. He sighs, fidgeting with his hand like he’s hesitating to admit something.

“I’ve put a tracker in your phone to know where you are at all times.”

My mouth makes a little oh and he stares at it with intensity.

A tracker? That’s how he knew I was in a building.

“ Just wanna know you’re safe,” he says, clenching his jaw.

Why doesn’t it bother me…?

I must be insane because the thought of him keeping an eye on me is… intoxicating.

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