Page 48 of Forging Darkness

He leaves the sword in place as he scoops me up, anchoring his arms under my knees and along my lower back.

“Playtime’s over.” The words are dismissive, but the tone of his deep voice is hard as stone.

With a flap of his wings, he launches us into the air.

Caught unaware, my breath catches in my throat. His movements are more assured than mine. I’ve never flown this high on my wings.

I drip onto the crowd as we sail over the tiered seating. The Forsaken are whipped into a frenzy as they fight over the droplets. My stomach churns to think they’re ravenous for the taste of me.

My nails scrape against the warrior’s rounded shoulder spaulders. My body tenses as I wait for Fallen to give chase, but it doesn’t happen. Instead we clear the top ridge of the coliseum without issue.

I expect us to fly clear of the archaic compound, but instead the angel-born heads straight for a spire on the far end. A pulsating light glows at the tip of the tower, reminiscent of the orb that was sent to the Council’s compound. Except this one emanates a bright silvery glow like a star, rather than a warm blue or gold color.

I crane my neck from side to side, battling the wind blowing my hair in every direction to scout as much of the surrounding area as possible. As far as the eye can see is an endless range of snow buried mountains.

The frozen air claws at my exposed skin as we slice through the icy drifts. The fluffy lavender snow has become razors slicing my face and arms.

I try not to focus on my hamburger meat thigh or that I’m plastered against a stranger’s chest. My mind hazes from blood loss. I tuck my wings as close as possible to protect myself.

This is bad.

Our descent slows, and within moments, we glide through a large arched opening high up on the tallest tower and touch down. The angel-born sets me down on an ornate white chair that allows my wings to comfortably hang over the low back, and I proceed to bleed all over it.

Straightening, he throws a hand up and a ball of fire shoots from his palm into the stack of wood in the fireplace next to us.

I start, not only because of the blaze, but also the ability. I’ve never seen anyone else control fire like I can. My heart thumps, and I can’t say if it’s in excitement or trepidation.

Things are happening super-fast, and I have to stay focused. I’m a captive, and even though this angel-born may be like me in some ways, that doesn’t automatically mean he’s my ally.

Grasping the front of his helmet, he jerks it off and drops it to the stone floor. He tugs his gloves off next and shucks off his breastplate and spaulders in record time, his eyes locked on my bleeding mess of a leg the entire time. But since the instant he yanked off his helmet, my gaze hasn’t left his face.

Holy. Angel. Babies.

This guy is beautiful.

His skin is like polished marble, so pale it has a silvery glow to it. His eyebrows—in contrast to his silver blond hair—are dark slashes above sapphire eyes only a shade lighter than black.

But his physical appeal isn’t the only reason my mouth hinges open and my eyes remain glued to his face. He doesn’t fit the typical angel-born formula. I’ve only ever seen one other Nephilim like him.

Me.

Questions bounce around my head as I watch the warrior bend and riffle through a drawer. He pulls out gauze, disinfectant, and a bottle of clear liquid. Squatting in front of me with the materials neatly laid around him, he finally meets my gaze.

“May I?” he asks, indicating my mangled leg. His voice is deep and smooth and reminds me of honey. I haven’t found my voice yet, so I simply swallow and nod.

When he peels back the buckled gold cuisse from my thigh, the skin around his eyes tightens. The rest of his features remain stony.

Uncorking the bottle of clear liquid, he mutters “water” before using it to clean the bits of sand, dirt, and congealed blood out of my wound. It feels like my thigh is being stung by bullet ants, but I bite my lower lip and don’t allow the whimper choking my throat to escape.

He finishes the task and the entirety of the injury is revealed. I make the mistake of glancing down. A wave of nausea and light-headedness rolls over me. The Fallen’s claws ripped through skin and muscle, exposing parts of my body I could have happily lived a lifetime without seeing. If I were human, this injury would be life-threatening, or at the very least lay me out for weeks, and take months of physical therapy to recover from. As an angel-born, the worst of it will be healed in a day, but that doesn’t make the sight any less gruesome.

My upper body sways as the blond stranger prepares to disinfect the wound. My vision goes wonky until a hand grips my arm, shaking me back into the here and now. I blink back at him. When he seems satisfied I’m not going to pitch forward, he goes back to tending to my thigh.

I hiss when he sanitizes the wound.

“I’m sorry this happened. The sport got a bit out of control.”

A bit?And also,the sport?

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