Page 17 of Devil's Tulip

While I stare at him speechlessly, he drives into the private property, the gates closing almost ominously behind us. He brought me tohis house? Why? I should be panicking right now, kick the door open and run back into the forest like some unhinged Disney princess. But I’m so fucking relaxed. Because I just woke up? What the hell is wrong with me? Where are my survival instincts?

What is it about this man that makes me feel so safe and warm inside? I literally just met him tonight—or rather, last night—for goodness’ sake. It can’t be that he looks safe. In fact, he looks the opposite of safe, with his tattoos covering what seems to be his entire body, ink snaking past his elbows and crawling up his neck to the sides of his skull—and multiple piercings adding to his rough edge. Oh yes, and let’s not forget the splatter of blood on his shirt from the manhe murdered at close range.

Yet, I feel safe.

The road curves again, and as he leans into the turn, a house comes into view—a charming single-story home with sandy beach-white walls that seems to be made more of glass than brick. It’s both modern and timeless, with shrubs that are just a little overgrown, softening its clean, unexpected lines.

It’s very pretty. Quaint. And I fall in love with it almost instantly, but…

“Why are we here?” I ask, turning to face him again. And for the first time, it occurs to me that I don’t even know this man’s name.

“Where else would we be?” he says, like it’s obvious. “Manhattan, where your uncle is waiting for us? Nobody knows I own this place. Technically speaking, it doesn’t even exist. It’s the safest place you can be.”

He cuts the engine, and silence settles between us.

My heart melts traitorously as I watch him. Without thinking, I place my hand gently over his, my fingers brushing a small bloodstain—reminding me of what could have happened tonight if he hadn’t shown up when he did. How things could have gone so wrong. I’m still not sure what his intentions are, but for now, I’m grateful to him.

“Thank you.”

Something flickers in his icy blue eyes as he registers my touch. Then he glances up at me with so much heat it sends my heart into overdrive and makes my core tighten reflectively. He’s so fucking hot.

I gulp, quickly snatching my hand away and trying to change the subject. “What’s your name?”

Instead of answering, he gets out of the car, and I frown at him as he rounds the hood and opens the passenger door for me. I step out slowly, thinking he won’t say anything, but then he shuts the door behind me and crowds me against it. His now familiar scent—mixed with rain and the faint metallic tang of blood—surrounds me, turning my brain to mush.

“Michael,” he murmurs. Hell, even his voice is so damn sexy, the dark tendrils flirting with my mind.

I blink at him in confusion, and he smirks, tapping his index finger playfully under my chin as he steps back. “My name is Michael.”

Michael.

An old memory of my mom floats to the surface, her voice clear as day in my head.

Saint Michael the Archangel, defends us in battle. He’s our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. The prince of the heavenly host’s presence is heralded by storm and lightning, accompanied by deep, throbbing thunder. His eyes reflect the maelstrom of the Holy Ghost.

“Michael, as in the angel?” I blurt out, the bittersweet memory of Mom’s fierce belief in some greater power somehow echoing my experience last night, messing me up.

A strange feeling surrounds me as I watch him, and I swear the low-rising sun forms a sort of halo effect behind him, making his hair appear platinum.

The more I stare, the more I almost believe he actually is some kind of avenging angel sent to save me. From the momentI first saw him, there’s been something otherworldly about his beauty, something that defies explanation.

He chuckles darkly, running his long fingers through his hair, artfully mussing it and highlighting the ink decorating his skull. “More like the devil.”

He turns away from me, walking towards the thick glass doors of the house. My gaze drops down his back to the gun I know is hidden somewhere there, and a shiver runs through me as I remember the cold rage on his face when he killed my uncle’s man—and how nonchalantly he stuffed his body into the trunk of his car.

Hell, the blood still staining his clothes and hands doesn’t seem to bother him at all.

Yeah, he’s no angel. In fact, the angel Michael probably doesn’t even exist.

No, Iknowhe doesn’t exist.

Where was the mighty Michael when my parents’ car slipped during that rainy night on the highway? Where was divine protection when that robber took everything we had and then took their lives too? Where was heaven’s warrior when I needed him most?

Angels don’t exist. Period.

I shake my head to clear these useless thoughts and start to follow him, my hand instinctively reaching for my necklace—only to feel bare skin. My heart lurches, and I stop walking as I frantically pat my neck.

It’s gone.

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