Page 90 of An Unexpected Ascension
“Is it really that terrible to feel bad about something you did?”
“Do you feel bad for what you did to me? At the very least, you have the ability to fix those marks on your body. I can’t get back into Heaven!”
“I promise, you don’t want to be in Heaven.”
He pulls himself from the bed, the aches forcing his movements to slow. In silence, we dress and don our weapons. Him with his sword sheathed at his back and me with my daggers holstered at each of my thighs.
In the musty hallway, I thread my fingers through his and pull him to a stop, forcing him to face me. My heart thunders inside mychest, but I swallow down my pride, and for the briefest moment, I let the walls housing my heart to lower.
“I need a towel and a bottle of liquor – clear.”
“Planning on blowing up the house?”
“No. I don’t particularly feel like being blown to bits,” I growl, waiting. “Please.”
“Look at us, learning our manners.”
Out of thin air, he makes my request appear, the cloth in one hand and the liquor bottle in the other. I unscrew the cap to the alcohol, bringing it to my lips for a few swigs, then hand it over for the demon to do the same.
“Not one for a liquid breakfast.”
“It’s for the pain.”
His eyes never waver from mine, curiosity and amusement swirling between those navy-blue depths.
I watch as he tilts his head back, draining about half the bottle without so much as a wince.
He hands it over and I douse one end of the towel with the alcohol before bringing it to his cheek. His eyes shudder closed and his chest stills, every muscle in his body contracting with the pain as I bring that soaked cloth to his wound. I press ever so gently, dabbing up the dried blood.
Then repeat everything once more for his lip.
“I guess you’re expecting a thank you now,” he murmurs.
“No. Just less complaining.”
He smirks, wincing with the movement in his face.
Dropping both the bottle and the towel, we leave. The fog from last night completely vanished, allowing us to see the Silva Timoris in the distance.
Chapter 29
The Angel
We stalk down the street, keeping a healthy distance from each other, until it comes to a dead end. Beyond is just desecrated land, grey cracking dirt where grass will not grow making it nearly a desert.
“Were you always a masochist or is that something you’ve recently discovered?” I finally bring myself to ask, merely for conversational sake.
“Were you always a sadist?”
My mouth flounders open at the implied accusation.
“I’m not a sadist!”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I have never hit anyone before.”
“You’ve hit me plenty now.”
