Page 7 of Cupid's Last Arrow

Both agents disappear.

Cupid draws me closer. His arms press me against his hard body as he tilts back so we’re upright. His wings beat faster, and we lift, gliding over to the trail. He sets me down slowly. Even after my feet hit the ground, he keeps a strong hand on my waist, waiting to make sure I’m steady enough to stand on my own. It’s a kind gesture after what I just went through, especially knowing he was ready to let me fall to my death if I didn’t agree to his terms.

“You okay?” he asks, his hand now on my lower back in case I collapse.

I wobble but don’t fall down.

“I… I will be.” I brace my hands on my knees and catch my breath. The moment catches up with me like time stood still while they argued over my fate, and now it’s all rushing to smash into me.

I feel a rush of wind and think he might have flown off, but when I look at him, I see his wings folding into his back until I can’t see them anymore.

“What?” I grab his arm and step behind him. “Am I hallucinating?”

He’s wearing a muscle shirt. Without thinking, probably because of recent events, I shove my hands into his armholes, feeling up his arms and down his back. There aren’t any wings, but I feel raised skin like scars that feel like feathers. I pull the fabric back and see a full tattoo of feathered wings, just sized down to span his shoulders and upper arms.

Cupid shivers and groans when I run my fingertips down a wing.

“Do you mind?” he asks with a strained voice.

“Oh, crap!” His voice breaks the enchantment of curiosity, and I immediately release my hold on him. “I’m losing my mind.”

My hand hovers over his shoulder blades, wanting to touch his wings again.

Cupid turns and catches my hands in his. He looks at me like I’m a lost puppy—a bit condescending, but sweetly condescending. If he really is a god, though, that makes sense. I’m some lower life-form to him, and when Ireallytake a good look at him, I can see why.

He towers over me, standing at least six feet four inches. His dark blond hair glows in the setting sun, and his dark lashes frame eyes of gold that sparkle with bronze flakes. He wears fitted faded jeans and a white sleeveless shirt that highlights his toned arms and white running shoes. He also has a strong jaw that could bring you to your knees. His flawless skin has a light honey tone, and he has the physique of an athlete, but not bulky—more like a swimmer.

Holy brain melt. I must have checked him out for a full minute… or five. I mean, heisa god, and it is my duty as an artist to notice that kind of thing, right?

My eyes fall to where he still holds my hands in his.

When he sees I’ve come to my senses, he quickly lets me go and explains, “It’s a bit of magic to conceal my wings, and it’sway more comfortable when I have to sit down or sleep.” Cupid smiles. “People wouldn’t deal well with seeing real wings on a man.”

This is real, isn’t it? Everything has unfolded like a dream, but it doesn’t feel like a dream. I almost died, and death and karma agents showed up while freaking Cupid claimed my life, so I have to work for him. This makes no sense. Why me?

My hands shake, my body temperature drops, and my breathing is shallow and getting faster.

“I think you’re going into shock, sweetheart.” Cupid pulls me close to his side with one arm and hurries me down the trail and back to my car.

He digs the keys from my pocket and helps me into the passenger seat.

When he gets in the driver’s seat, my eyes widen. “You know how todrive?”

“I’mwellover sixteen years old.” He grins. “Like, by alot, and I’ve picked up a thing or two over the millennia.”

He has existed formillennia…

Again, I ask myself,Is this all real?

I’m beginning to wonder if I have crashed into the rocks and this is my brain’s last firings, creating a wild story, with death and karma agents and freaking Cupid, of all people. That has to be it! It’s the stupid themed hotel in my subconscious. I’m dying, and this is my brain’s attempt to make sense of it.

Weirdly, I calm down with this thought. It makes more sense.

As we pull into the hotel parking lot, Cupid warily glances over at me. “Deedra?”

“Call me Dee,” I say by rote.

“Dee…” He tests the name on his tongue. “When we walk inside, you are going to have to look less like you just faced death.”

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