Page 1 of His Angel

Chapter1

ISAIA

She’s…angelic.

I never got the weight of that word until this moment, staring down at her sprawled across the bed like some divine offering.

My angel.

My holy fucking creature, breathing, existing, pulsing with life just for me.

Irrevocably mine.

No one else gets to touch this sacred thing. No one else gets to even dream of her. She’s my religion now, and I’m her goddamn disciple, ready to worship at her feet.

She’s out cold, drugged, her body limp and heavy from the shit I slipped into her system. It was the only way. Her adrenaline was a wildfire, threatening to fuck up everything I’d planned to get her here safely. I couldn’t risk her fighting, couldn’t risk her running. Not when I’ve just clawed her back to me.

The steady rise and fall of her chest, the faint twitch of her fingers—it’s hypnotic, a rhythm that hooks into my soul and pulls. I’m consumed, lost in the living, breathing masterpiece that’s become my entire world. Nothing else exists outside this room, outside her.

The scissors gleam in my hand, cold and sharp, and I ease them between her breasts, the blades kissing the silk of that cursed wedding dress.

It’s a punch to the gut seeing her draped in white…forhim. That piece of shit, Anthony Paladino. The motherfucker who tried to piss on what’s mine like a fucking dog.

It’s acid in my blood, searing me from the inside out, a venom I can’t shake. But then I slice—slowly, deliberately, the fabric parting under the steel—and a sick, twisted satisfaction floods me. Each cut’s a purge, ripping him away from her, shredding every trace of his claim.

The dress is stained with his blood, dark and crusted, and fuck. I might keep it. Frame it like a trophy, a reminder of what happens to anyone who dares touch what’s mine.

Her skin peeks through as I peel the silk apart, and Christ, she’s a vision. Her soft and perfect tits spill free. Pale swells rise with each shallow breath, nipples tightening in the cool air, pink and begging for my mouth.

I’m rock-hard, cock straining against my jeans, adrenaline still wild in my blood, and goddammit, I want to fuck her. I want to ram my dick inside her tight, perfect body while I sink my teeth into her skin and draw blood. Just the thought makes me groan, and I lift my shirt to look at the faint scar on my abdomen. It’s the cut that sucked her virgin blood into my system. The cut that made her a part of me.

Fuck, I want to do it again. It’s the only way I can get her inside me, a part of me that no one can ever take away.

Obsession knocks at my skull, and I pinch my eyes shut. I can still feel it, the agony, the madness, the psychotic chaos of thinking about her being with him. It was weeks I spent in hell, aching for her while they hid her from me. It was a kind of torture that hollowed me out, filled me with a rage that slit the throats of many while I searched for her. Blood stains my hands, seeping into my soul, but I only regret not killing more. For her.

But now she’s finally here. With me. And he can no longer get close to her.

Something primal licks up my spine as I trace a finger along the edge of one breast, feeling the velvet of her flesh under my touch. She’s warm, alive, and so soft, I don’t ever want to stop touching her. Feeling her. Consuming her.

A moan slips from her lips—low, breathy, the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard—and it hits me like a shot of liquor straight to the veins. She’s out, lost in whatever haze I’ve put her in, but her body knows me, responds to me even now.

I smirk, cutting more of the dress away, the scissors snipping through the fabric with a soft rasp, exposing her inch by inch. My fingers follow, trailing down the slope of her chest, circling the heavy weight of her tit before I cup it fully, squeezing just enough to feel her yield.

“Perfect,” I mutter, voice rough as gravel, my thumb brushing over her nipple, watching it pebble under the graze. “Fucking made for me, troublemaker. Only me.”

I lean in, breathing her scent, and the familiar notes of grapefruit and jasmine hit me hard. A growl rumbles from my throat as I drag my tongue across the peak, tasting the salt of her, savoring the way her body arches ever so slightly, even in her drugged sleep.

My cock jerks, aching to bury itself somewhere—anywhere—in her, but I hold back, savoring this slow unraveling.

The dress falls away in tatters, pooling around her hips, and I slide my hand lower, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her curves. She’s a goddamn altar, and I’m here to defile it.

My fingers catch the hem of what’s left, tugging it down with her panties, and there she is.

Bare. Vulnerable. All mine.

Her pussy glistens between her thighs like an invitation. She’s wet—Jesus, she’s soaked—and I groan as I brush my knuckles along her slit, feeling her slick heat.

“Even like this, you want me.” Parting her with a slow swipe of my thumb, I watch as her pussy-lips spread, pink and swollen, ripe for the taking. It’s an ache I can’t describe. A deeply-rooted throe that’s only soothed when I’m inside her, feeling her body take me, wrap around me, sucking me in deeper and desperately squeezing for a pleasure only I can give her.

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