Page 77 of Death is My Ride or Die

The kitchen was an utter mess. I gathered as many dirty paper towels as I could and threw them in the trash. I washed my hands first, then got a roll of paper towels and three bowls. Two of the bowls I filled with clean, warm water, one with added soap, and the third was empty for dirty water.

When I carried my supplies back to the dining room, I saw Death had discarded the rest of his mangled shirt and was lounging back in his chair. The stitches had done their job to aid his supernatural healing, and his skin had already miraculously mended back together. I tried and failed not to ogle the hulking breadth of his shoulders, the obscene swell of muscle in his thick biceps and pecs, and the deep ridges of muscle in his abdomen. Aninjuredabdomen. One I shouldn’t have been checking out, let alone been attracted to, all things considering.

Wetting a paper towel in soapy water and internally scolding myself, I began to wipe away the blood from his skin. Keeping my mind out of the gutter was virtually impossible when my hands were rubbing suds all over his body like a freaking car wash. My hand shook as I ran a fresh damp paper towel over his stitches to try to clean the area. When I brushed his lower stomach, he straightened in his chair with a jolt and gripped my forearm tightly.

I looked up at him, those magnetic eyes clashing with mine. Steady. Imploring. Wanting.

“That’s enough.” His voice had reached a low timbre, and his accent had thickened. “I . . .appreciateyour assistance in cleaning the blood off,” he continued, the grateful words stumbling out inelegantly as he released his hold on me, “but there’s no need to disinfect the wound. I’m not prone to mortal illness.”

“Oh. Right.” I prayed that my face wasn’t as crimson-red as it felt. “In the alleyway,” I began, “when all those demons were attacking you, weren’t you injured badly like this? You were wearing your cloak, so it was hard to tell, but I swear you didn’t seem hurt in the warehouse.”

“It’s because I don’t have my scythe,” Death elucidated, lifting his hips off the chair and reaching into the back of his pants to retrieve a new pair of black gloves. “The blade helps me collect at a much faster rate. I’m not as satiated as I normally am. It affects my ability to heal, and it’s why the harpies managed to pin me down in the first place.”

He stood up slowly and walked to the couch, where he collapsed onto the cushions with a groan. “You should get to bed. It’s late.”

Sending me off to bed like a child. Was that how he thought of me? I was about to retreat into my bedroom when I thought better. I strode into the living room and stood in front of him with my arms folded.

Death wiped a gloved hand over his face. “Yes?”

“What you did . . . with my teddy bear,” I said, “I didn’t expect it. It meant a lot to me.”

Death shifted in his seat and adjusted a pillow.

“And I need to know . . . ” I stepped closer to the couch. “Did you mean it? What you wrote in your note?”

His mismatched green eyes flicked up to mine and lingered. I had my answer.

I closed the distance between us and bent down to press my lips against his. At first, his lips were firm and unyielding against mine, but then he let his guard down, and what I had intended to be brief peck burned to a fiery, aching caress that vowed to ruin me.

I pulled back to find that I’d ruined him too. His eyelids were half-lowered, his mouth parted, his dangerous expression torn between wanton desire and a monstrous hunger. I wasn’t sure which side had overcome him the most.

The Angel of Death beckoned me closer with a single inclined finger.

Suddenly, I was in his arms, my knees indenting the soft leather couch on either side of his waist. He clutched my hips with his large, demanding hands and yanked me down to his lap. Our hips ground together, and I could feel his chest hitch as he hissed in pain.

“Your wound,” I gasped. “I shouldn’t have—”

Death’s gloved hand collared around my throat. “Kiss me.”

A soft sigh escaped me as we ruthlessly made out, his mouth roughly seizing my lips over and over. My fingers slid up his solid chest to his neck, weaving into his hair and tugging. It drew a growl out of him that rumbled his chest, and his fingers dug greedily into my ass. I felt the sharp points of his talons pinch into my skin through his gloves and gasped. He swallowed my breath in another dizzying kiss as his hands lowered to the back of my thighs and then slid up to my waist, our lips exploring, hot, tasting, battling in the war we had started long ago.

He lifted the fabric of my shirt, warm leather grazing my bare skin as he teased his way up my ribs like climbing a ladder. When he cupped my breasts, my heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s against his deadly palms. Nothing but him. There was nothing but him.

Then he was gone in wisps of black smoke.

I fell forward onto the cold, empty leather couch. Death had materialized across the room, panting hard. He had his back to me, a hand braced on the wall.

“Fuck, Faith.”

He moved in a blur, threw open his bedroom door, and slammed it behind him. Beyond the door, I heard something crash. I don’t know how long I stared at the door in disbelief at what we’d done before I went off to bed.

Whatever we were, it was sick, twisted, sinful. He was dark and I was light, and I wouldn’t be foolish enough to let my heart fade into the obscurity of the gray between us.

But now, soon to be fighting side-by-side, I wondered if, like the madness of our bodies pressed together, we would be a force to be reckoned with.

XXII

“Cute drool.”

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