Excerpt

“Lucifer!” I screamed again, my voice raw and unfamiliar even to my own ears. I could feel the tears in my vocal chords and I could hear the raw sound coming from my mouth. No wonder he wasn’t coming, I didn’t even sound like myself anymore. “Luc--”

“Will you stop shrieking?” a raspy voice broke through my scream, causing me to turn around. My hand shot to my mouth to keep myself from screaming as I looked at him.

In my doorway, as nonchalant and comfortable as he always looked, Lucifer leaned against the doorway trying to look  every inch the king he was. Unfortunately, he failed miserably at trying to look at ease and comfortable. His busted lips were pulled up at one corner, breaking the scabs that had formed, letting blood carve lines in his skin. His left cheekbone had a cut as big as my index finger on it and was still dripping blood down the side of his face, the blood from his cheek and his lip mixing into a waterfall of rubies, and his hair was a tousled mess that looked sticky and matted against his scalp. His shirt was missing which gave me a perfect view of the way his ribs were twisted unnaturally and of the black bruise that was rapidly spreading across both sides of his body. His forearms bore the marks of torture, red cuts spiraling up his forearms and around his biceps, and on his chest, the mark that mirrored the one on my ribs was disfigured and glowed weakly.

“What the hell happened to you?” I managed to whisper as I approached him cautiously. I approached him slowly, like one would a dangerous animal, unsure of what he would do. The second I was close enough, Lucifer, in all of his glory, collapsed against me, squeezing me tightly against him. I could hear the pain in his grunt when my body collided with his and his uneven breathing stirred my hair when I touched him. His blood was sticky and smelled almost like myrrh but it didn’t bother me. I loved the scent of him, regardless of the shape he was in. His fingers dug into my back as he squeezed me into him as if absorbing me would heal his wounds.

“It doesn’t matter, it’s a scratch” he whispered against my hair, humor as thick in his voice as the control he was trying to gather. “I’m here now.”

My arms went around him carefully and I helped him move slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom. I leaned him against the counter as I turned on the water, making sure it was the right temperature not to hurt his wounds too much. He watched me quietly, his eyes never leaving me, his fingers never failing to brush my skin each time I was within his reach. His resplendent eyes were now dim, the tactical wariness in them having disappeared.

In the shower, he stood motionless as I washed him and he didn’t object to my touch. He bent his head to help me wash his hair and face, his eyes only closed for a moment before opening again. He watched me with the impassive look of someone who was used to being treated like royalty. He didn’t protest as my hands slid slowly to his chest, or when the heat from my palm redrew the lines of my mark. He didn’t protest when my soapy hands passed over the wounds on his arms, or the long gashes down his legs, he didn’t even make a sound when I pushed slightly against the bruises on his sides while I looked for broken ribs.

When he turned his back to me, my jaw fell open and I was grateful he couldn’t see me. His muscles were tight under his skin, like the muscles of a lion. His back was everything but flayed. Where his wings once were, the wounds I had healed not long before, gashes appeared again. These ones were as deep as deep as to reach the bones, their edges scarred with burn marks and I could see the beginning of a bubbling infection. Between them, markings were carved in scarlet, angry scratches and chunks of skin missing completely. Lucifer’s lower back was terrifying to look at also. Deep, angry cuts stared up at me, accusing me of treason against him. This was my fault.

“This isn’t your fault,” he whispered just loud enough to barely be heard over the sound of the water. “Don’t blame yourself.”

I pressed my forehead against the one portion of skin that was untouched by cuts and shook my head gently. “This is only my fault.”

“No, this was my punishment. It was because I let you heal my back. because I forgot--” he trailed off.

I didn’t need to hear him say what he forgot. I knew he was talking about forgetting who he was. I had been witness to the swelling of pride inside his chest but I knew something his oppressors didn’t. They thought that beating him like an animal would cause obedience and submission but they didn’t know they just made him stronger and more determined to ruin everything they had built.

I willed the tears out of my eyes and pressed my palm to the space between his shoulder blades. Energy flowed out of my body and into his, lighting his wounds and giving them a silvery glow. Slowly, the wounds began closing, the craters in his flesh smoothing over into lines as thin as the edge of a scalpel blade. Slowly, the bruises on his ribs began retreating also, fading into the paleness of his skin, and I was left alone with the accusers of my betrayal: his wing scars. I pressed my lips where the scarlet markings were and they too began to fade, Luc’s body tensing in front of me. The lines of his body were the only testament to the tension inside him.

“Anna,” he whispered, but never finished. He pressed his forehead against the side of the shower, his hands clenching into fists against the wall.

I watched, half amazed, as the energy from my palms flowed into those scars. I watched as gold threads wound themselves around his wounds and stitched them shut, removing all traces of the cuts and the infection. Lucifer tensed even more, a whimper escaping his lips, but I couldn’t stop. Somewhere inside myself I was conscious of the pain he must have felt to allow himself the whimper, regardless how small it was. Lucifer was nothing but arrogance and calculated control. He did not make mistakes, he was not beaten down, and he was not made subservient. No, the king of Hell, the fallen angel who ensured every living being would know his name would never be reduced to a pile of bones and skin that shook every time the wind blew. I couldn’t back away now, I couldn’t let this happen again. Not to him. I felt the threads tighten and pull at the seams and I watched him try to back away from me but my hand kept him in place.

“No,” he whispered. “Please.”

“No. I will not allow this to happen again.”

“Anna,” he moaned quietly, defeated.

The wounds closed and we waited, unmoving, to see if the stitches would take. I waited like I had in his room, with my heart in my throat, almost sure that they would split open and I braced myself for the howl of pain that would escape his lips. We stood that way for a long time, his forehead pressed against the wall of the shower, me standing behind him, wet to the bone. Slowly, the water began cooling, something we didn’t notice until my teeth started chattering together, and still I made no attempt to move away. Lucifer turned slowly to face me, his eyes glowing slightly. All humor was drained from his face and I expected a slap that never came. I wouldn’t have blamed him. I jeopardized everything he built and mocked everything he had endured when I decided to heal him again. Lucifer did not need me to heal him, or defend him. He did not need someone to protect him or fight his battles. His arms tightened around my waist and he pulled me from the shower, careful not to slip on the sleek tile. He helped me out of my soaked clothes and wrapped a fluffy towel tightly around me, and one around his waist.

“How mad are you?” I asked, afraid to meet his gaze as I wandered slowly back into my bedroom and watched the steady glow of my mark.

“Not at all.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “Change before you turn into an ice cube.”

The discussion was over before it even had the chance to begin. He would not hit me. He didn’t even seem mad. My heart drummed erratically inside my chest as I waited longer for a response out of him. My legs moved slowly to the closet and by the time I had thrown on a long t-shirt and a pair of pants, Luc was already changed into black slacks. When I swung the door to the closet, I found him on top of the covers, his eyes closed and his features relaxed. I watched him patiently for a few minutes before sliding next to him. As soon as I had touched the covers, his arm shot steadily around me and pulled me against the hard lines of his body. As he clung tightly to me, as if I was the only raft in a turbulent ocean, all I could think about were those cuts and the hell I would rain down upon those who made them.