He answered in an even, controlled tone. “Needles and IVs.”
She swallowed against a rush of nausea.
Pulling his hand away, he sighed. He lifted his fingers to his face. She noticed for the first time a line of tiny needle scars on his cheeks, right over the venom glands. A whimper escaped her lips—heavens, considering the nerves associated with the venom system, needles must have caused him so much pain, comparable even to the whippings.
His eyes widened and he dropped his hand, as if just realizing he was touching his face. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick and haunted. “There was a lab assistant who tried to be more humane about it, once. Against Lawrence’s instructions, she tried to take venom directly from my fangs, using a film-covered cup, like they do with snakes. But, I bit her. I was young and I didn’t understand it would kill her.”
Lexine ignited flames and pressed herself against his chest. “Biting when threatened is instinctive. The reaction is especially strong in children. Even in the best of circumstances, humans should never handle demon young.”
He tensed under her hold and took a step back, but she tightened her arms. She refused to let him distance himself, not at this moment. Perhaps no one had held him since his kidnapping, but he was so close to letting his guard down, she could sense it—she felt it in the slight tremor of his arms. If she let him run now, would they ever get to this place again, or would he build his walls even stronger and higher?
He sighed.
He wrapped his arms round her.
He slumped.
Lexine almost had to hold him up.
“I know.” He sighed, his warm breath on her forehead. “But of all the people I’ve killed in my lifetime, she’s the only one I regret.”
He settled his hand on her jawline and coaxed her to lift her face.
A voice in her mind persisted that Jett wasn’t interested in her romantically and would never be. He might only be interested in helping her salvage her ability to choose her own mate. However, now that she knew he was the mate in her dream, that fear dwindled and courage rose in its place. She straightened and parted her lips as Jett dug his fingers into her hair.
She wasn’t about to risk scaring him off before she had the chance to see if the spark between them could indeed be something more. If he developed feelings for her before she told him about the tattoo and scars in her dream, maybe he wouldn’t view her announcement as a leash and collar to be slipped at all costs.
And if he left, anyway? Or if nothing grew between them? Well, then she’d have proved choice remained despite the dream, after all. Either way, she no longer had to fear a future of sharing a bed with a poacher, forsaking everyone she knew and loved. She would never have walked that path.
She wanted to dance and laugh her throat sore. But all thought faded as his mouth covered hers, leaving only awareness of his lips, his heavy arms, and his heady scent of tea and honey. He broke the kiss, but lingered close.
“You’re grieving. Now is not the time to try all the things I want to try with you.”
Breath deserted her.
“You have my cell number. Call me for anything.” He stepped back, but held her gaze before turning for the door. “Good night, Lexine.”
She stared after him, certain she’d just seen a side of him no one else had ever witnessed, the male he would have been if he’d never been kidnapped—who he still was, buried beneath his antisocial armor. “’Night, Jett. Stay safe.”
…
Jett stalked through the woods, unable to calm his breathing.
He desired that female more than he’d realized.
Such a foreign thing, desire. Sexual desire, and the desire for company and companionship. His guarded friendship with the archangel in the basement prison took years to develop, and the dedication that resulted from that relationship still possessed him as strongly as his own need to survive. He didn’t feel any particular need to spend time with Raphael—he did so in the prison only to ease the archangel’s anguish. Lexine, though, Jett longed to stretch out at her side and bury his face in her hair, to walk with her in the morning for the simple joy of the shared moment with another person.
He passed the night in the woods, the solitude familiar but unwelcome. He thought about Lawrence’s plans and about Lexine, but came to no conclusions about either. Though he only slept once a week like any demon, he couldn’t remember the last time he spent the entire night on his feet, pacing, snapping dead branches off trees, practicing with his throwing knives, anything for an outlet.
When dawn arrived, a shadow shifted among the other dark corners of the woods. Lark stepped out from behind a pine tree. “Raphael would like to see you.”
Jett shoved Lexine from his mind as best he could and focused on the grim-faced Guardian. Though not in the mood for conversation, he’d yet to talk to the archangel after the failure in town. Lawrence remained a threat, the trail nonexistent.
Unacceptable.
Lark turned and Jett fell into step next to him. They reached the house and proceeded inside. This time, Lark made no attempt to take his weapons.
“No pat down?”
“Enjoy the first one that much, did you?”
“Fuck off.”
Raphael stood by the windows on the far side of the second-floor room, a steaming mug in his hands. He turned and smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning, Lark. Jett.” Wren’s voice carried from the kitchen. The archangel with black-speckled wings appeared a moment later and settled on one of the tall, backless chairs.
Raphael took a step closer to Jett. “I have something I need to ask you, Guardian.”
The word, aimed at him for the second time in recent memory, hit him like a bullet to the chest. “I’m not—”
Movement and the glint of a polished blade caught Jett’s attention. He growled and threw his body between the archangels and the wielder of the weapon.
Lark stepped back, grinned, and sheathed the blade.
“What the hell was that?” Jett, crouched and ready to fight, locked eyes with him.
“You’re not a Guardian? Could have fooled me.”
Jett straightened. “Do not test me. Next time I might rip your throat out.”
Lark’s shrewd gaze held steady. “You couldn’t so much as scratch me.”
“The fuck I couldn’t—”
Lark drew his blade again and landed a punishing kick to Jett’s chest. As Jett fell, he twisted, craned his neck, and grazed Lark’s ankle with his fangs. He hit the floor, got his feet under himself, and prepared to spring at the other demon.
Lark stood at Raphael’s side, a dagger poised at the archangel’s throat. He held the blade in his fingers, the harm-less hilt against Raphael’s skin.
“Your father was a Guardian and you inherited that legacy,” Lark said. “The humans trained you to the best of their ability. The Guardians could train you to use your superior senses and reflexes to their full potential.”
Raphael lifted his hand and shoved Lark’s dagger away. “Jett is a guest in my home.”
“Just making a point.” Lark sheathed the blade.
Jett, kneeling on the floor, held a hand to his chest where Lark had kicked him. Breath sawed in and out of his lungs. Blood mixed with the too-sweet venom in his mouth—not his blood. He glanced down at Lark’s ankle and grinned. “Might want to bandage that.”
Lark lifted his knee and pulled up his torn pant leg. He inspected the twin scrapes left by Jett’s fangs. “You bastard.” He straightened. “I hope you come to your senses. There’s nothing I’d like more than to train your ass. I haven’t had a student move that fast in a century.”
“I know your weakness, and I exploited it. You have a great deal of pain in your left hip from an old injury that didn’t heal correctly. Thornton limped on occasion because of it. You hide it without flaw, except that kick just now was a little low for your height.”