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RENEGADE
ROGUE ANGEL
BOOK ONE

SE TRAYNOR
 CONTENTS
1. Rogue
2. Rogue
3. Rogue
4. Rogue
5. Rogue
6. Zane
7. Zane
8. Rogue
9. Rogue
10. Rogue
11. Rogue
12. Rogue
13. Ethan
14. Ethan
15. Rogue
16. Rogue
17. Rogue
18. Liam
19. Zane
20. Kai
21. Rogue
22. Rogue
23. Ethan
24. Rogue
25. Rogue
26. Rogue
27. Liam
28. Zane
29. Rogue
30. Ethan
31. Rogue
32. Ethan
33. Rogue
34. Zane
35. Rogue
36. Rogue
37. Liam
38. Kai
39. Rogue

Also by SE Traynor
 1

ROGUE

T he clang of steel reverberates off the grimy brick walls as I spin, my blades an extension of my wrath. There’s no glory in
this dirty alley, just the stink of sweat and fear as I face down a pack of lowlifes who thought they could claim this city block as
their own hunting ground.
“Really, boys?” I taunt, twirling one of my angelic blades with a flourish that catches the dim light filtering through the fire
escapes above. “You should’ve stayed in bed.”
They circle me, eyes wide but mouths set in grim lines. Desperation makes humans dangerous and unpredictable. And these
thugs are reeking of it. They’re a motley crew, all leather jackets and stained jeans, some with crude tattoos inked across their
knuckles. I can see the tremors in their hands, the way their gazes dart to my wings—black feathers ruffled by the chill night air.
“Fucking freak,” one spits out, trying to sound tough, but his voice cracks like a pussy.
“Creative,” I shoot back, hardly breaking a sweat as I assess their shoddy formation. I’m not usually one for playground
insults, but banter keeps things interesting. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”
Their leader, a bulky guy with a scar slicing through one eyebrow, growls, “Take her down!”
As if they hadn’t been trying to do just that. I can almost taste their fear, laced with the bravado to not let a pair of black
wings and a couple of shiny knives scare them off. Poor sods don’t stand a chance, but they’ll realise it too late. Just like
always.
“Come on then,” I beckon with a sardonic smirk, readying my stance. My wings flex behind me, causing a few loose
feathers to drift to the ground—a dark contrast against the cracked concrete. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Fuck this!” Another lunges, pipe swinging wildly toward my head.
I sidestep easily, letting him stumble past me. His buddies are watching, learning, and waiting for a weakness to exploit.
But I wasn’t booted from the pearly gates for being sloppy. No, I was cast out because I had ideas. Because I dared to question.
And now, here I am, schooling mortals in the art of combat with the same stubborn defiance.
This is what I’m reduced to. A celestial warrior, once revered, now slumming it in human alleys, dealing with garden
variety criminals. It’s not Heaven, but at least it’s action. At least I get to make a difference here, in my own rebellious way,
fighting for those who can’t fend off the darkness themselves.
A fucking renegade.
It’s why they call me Rogue.
“Enough of this shit!” Scar-Eyebrow asshole roars, charging with the others close behind as they finally decide to attack en
masse.
“About bloody time,” I whisper, blades ready. My heart kicks up a notch, not from fear but exhilaration. Banished or not,
this is where I belong. This is where I shine.
Scar-Eyebrow snarls and comes at me, a rusted chain swinging in a deadly arc. But I’ve danced this dance before—my
movements are fluid, a symphony of lethal grace. I lean back just enough to let the metal whip through the air where my head
was a split second ago.
“Too slow,” I say, as if I’m commenting on the weather rather than dodging an attack meant to cave my skull in.
In one swift motion, I extend my arm, letting one of my angelic blades, made from celestial steel forged from the stars,
imbued with light and purity, sing as it slices the air between us. The sharp ring of metal against bone tells me I’ve hit my mark.
He cries out, dropping his weapon and clutching his now-useless limb.
“Oops,” I quip, though there’s not an ounce of apology in my tone. “That’s going to sting in the morning.”
The others circle like hungry wolves, but they’re puppies playing at being predators. Their eyes flicker to my wings, black
feathers slick and glistening under the harsh glare of the alley’s flickering streetlamp. I can smell their fear mixed with the
city’s grime and rot. It’s intoxicating.
A jittery one thrusts forward in a desperate jab that I’m already sidestepping, spinning on the balls of my feet. I catch his
wrist and twist; the knife clatters to the ground. A quick elbow to the face, and he’s down for the count.
 With a powerful flap of my black-feathered wings, I launch myself skyward, the downdraft kicking up debris and sending
the less brave scrambling. From above, I dive, a shadow of retribution. Blade first, I meet Scar-Eyebrow’s last-ditch attempt to
rally—a pipe aimed at my descent. It clangs harmlessly off my blade, and I retaliate with a swift kick that sends him sprawling.
I survey the alley, my chest heaving slightly from exertion, blue eyes gleaming triumphantly. This is my dominion—not the
golden streets I left behind, but these shadowed paths where I reign as judge and executioner.
“Lesson’s over,” I announce, sheathing my blades with a satisfying click. “Class dismissed.”
As the remaining assholes scatter, helping their fallen brethren escape, I catch my breath and lean against the cool brick
wall, letting the adrenaline settle in my veins like a heady cocktail. The taste of victory’s sweet on my tongue, but there’s a
bitterness that lingers, the kind that comes from memories best left buried.
“Cast out for having an opinion,” I mutter to myself. “For wanting a bit more than harp strumming and blind obedience.”
There’s a sting in those words, the thorn of betrayal that never quite worked its way free. Heaven’s meant to be all about
forgiveness, love, and second chances. Turns out they’re a bit picky about who gets them.
A sharp clang echoes as I kick away a broken bottle, watching it skitter across the cracked asphalt. “Making a difference
here, though.” I let out a short, humourless laugh. “That’s something they never saw coming. Short-sighted with their heads up
their own assholes.”
My gaze shifts skyward, where stars are fighting a losing battle against the city’s neon glow. They don’t shine as bright as
the ones above the pearly gates—not even close—but there’s something raw and beautiful about their struggle. That’s the thing
about being down here; everything’s a fight, a scrabble for existence. But isn’t that just the purest form of living?
My black wings fold neatly against my back and disappear from human sight, only appearing to the naked eye when I want
them seen, a silent vow in every sinew and feather. At some point, I’ll carve out a place here, in this flawed, chaotic world,
and maybe find some redemption of my own.
It feels good, this righteous crusade, this fight against the tide of human cruelty. Maybe this is what redemption feels like.
Not in the halos and hallelujahs but in protecting those who have been cast aside, just like me.
“Another night, another victory for the downtrodden,” I murmur, relishing the cool bite of the night air. “Rogue, the angel of
the alleys, the saviour of the scorned.”
But there’s no time to bask in the glow of my own sarcasm. There are more battles to fight, more shadows to illuminate
with my brand of divine justice.
A distant siren howls, a testament to the ever-present chaos of the urban jungle. But here, in my reclaimed slice of darkness,
there is quiet—a fleeting peace carved out by force of will and sharpened steel.
Making my way to the supernatural nightclub, Affinity, to dance and drink my woes away, the city’s pulse thrums around
me, a low and constant hum, like the blood beat of some vast, slumbering creature. Neon lights flicker at me as I stalk past,
their sickly glow no match for the shroud of darkness that cloaks my current corner of the world. The graffiti on the walls
seems to come alive in the dim light, snarling tags and vibrant murals telling stories of lives lived loudly and defiantly.
A car alarm bleats somewhere in the distance, followed by the muffled thud of a bass line from a passing vehicle, the
night’s soundtrack never skipping a beat. Above it all, the faintest whisper of voices carried on the breeze speaks of lives
continuing, oblivious to the fray that just unfolded here.
I stretch, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension, the sensation of my muscles pulling taut, a stark reminder of my
corporeal ties now I’m banished to earth, which is both a blessing and a curse. Feeling human vices pulse through my body
with the supernatural strength of the divine is a heady combination, one that makes me horny and thirsty.
But beneath it all lies the ever-burning ember of a celestial fire—my resolve. It’s hard not to feel like an avenging angel
when you’re doling out divine justice one crook at a time. There’s a certain poetry to it, a rhythm that syncs with the heartbeat
of this concrete jungle.
There are more battles ahead, more souls crying out for a slice of salvation—or at least a break from the assholes.
“Let’s go stir up some trouble,” I whisper to the night, my voice full of challenge and promise. “For justice, for kicks, and
because I fucking can.”
 2

ROGUE

B ass thumps through my body like a second heartbeat, each pulse synching with the flicker of strobe lights that cut through
the smoky haze. I’m in the thick of it, amidst gyrating bodies and creatures of the night, all of us reduced to shadows and
silhouettes under the club’s moody glow. A vodka tonic clutched in one hand; I let go with the other, my fingers curling around
the air as if it’s tangible as if I could catch the very essence of this reckless freedom. I swish my long hair around my shoulders,
my leather-clad hips swaying fervently.
“Fuck yeah!” I holler over the music, the sound lost in the cacophony. But who cares? It’s about the feeling, the energy that
courses through the club like an electric current. This is my kind of sanctuary. A seedy supernatural dive where the drinks are
strong, the patrons stronger, and the rules are blurred just enough to make you question if there were ever any to begin with.
A werewolf shifter in a leather jacket brushes past me, his growl mingling with a witch’s laugh somewhere to my left. They
come here for the anonymity, the chance to let their freak flags fly high without the prying eyes of the ‘norms’. And then there’s
me. Neither human nor divine, dancing on the knife-edge between two worlds and not belonging to either.
I take a swig of my drink, relishing the burn in my throat as it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. The sensation reminds me of
plummeting from grace, the heat of rebellion that once scorched my ivory wings into these blackened feathers. Another sip,
another memory–banishment never tasted so sweet.
The unseen hecklers are shrouded in darkness, their eyes glinting like daggers thrown from the abyss. But that’s the thing
about this place–even your own shadow isn’t trustworthy.
I toss my head back, long hair cascading behind me like a raven’s wing unfurling. The dance floor is a battlefield, and I’m
not one to shy away from a challenge. With every twist and turn, I am defiance incarnate, a celestial warrior cast out and
revelling in her fall.
This club is a microcosm of the underworld, nestled in the heart of the city’s grimiest district. Garish signs buzz and flicker
like faulty halos above doorways, while the scent of sin is thick in the air, a mix of sweat, smoke, and the unmistakable tang of
magic. Here, danger isn’t just a possibility – it’s a promise. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As the song changes, I navigate through the throng, parting the sea of sinners with a dancer’s grace and a predator’s poise.
My gaze catches on glimpses of fangs, talons, and otherworldly beauty that would ensnare the hearts of mortals and immortals
alike. They think they know danger, but they haven’t danced with me yet.
“Another round!” I call to the bartender, a Dark Fae with more tattoos than sharp teeth. He nods and slides a glass towards
me. I catch it and raise it to the room, a silent salute to the damned and the defiant.
“Here’s to the fallen,” I toast before downing the drink in a single, fiery gulp.
A flicker of movement catches my eye—a shadow detaching itself from the darkness.
Zane.
His presence is like a drop of ink in water, dark and spreading, impossible to ignore. Dark hair falls carelessly over his
forehead, and those sparkling blue eyes lock onto mine with the intensity of a predator.
“Rogue,” he purrs, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. “Dancing with shadows now?”
I smirk, leaning back against the cold wall near the bar, feeling the vibrations of the music through the bricks. “They’re the
only ones that can keep up, vampire.”
He’s close enough that I can see the thrill of the hunt in his gaze, that ageless hunger of a vampire who’s seen centuries pass
by like falling stars. He moves with the confidence of one who has tasted both life and death and found them equally
intoxicating.
He is sexy as fuck, and it makes my clit twitch.
“That’s because you haven’t danced with me yet.” His hand finds my waist, fingers teasing the hem of my tight black top.
Zane’s idea of a dance involves less footwork and more dick action. He presses me against the wall, his body a cold flame
against mine.
“Let’s find a corner where I can screw you senseless,” he suggests with a lewd grin, the explicit offer hanging between us
like an unlit fuse.
My breath going heavy, I push him back, teasing, tormenting. “You’re all talk and no action.” My pulse races—not that I’d
ever let on. It’s our twisted little game; he pushes, I parry. We’re fire and ice, eternally at play.
“You know that’s not true,” he murmurs, pressing close again.
“Not tonight, fangboy.”
His laughter chases me as I push past him and slip away into the crowd, the heat of his gaze a tangible caress. But I’m not
running—I’m leading. And Zane? He’s all too willing to follow.
The bass pounds behind me like a second heartbeat as I weave through the gyrating bodies.
“Running only makes me hornier,” Zane’s voice is a dark caress, a whisper over the music as he keeps pace with me
through the crowd.
“Who says I’m running?”
He’s close now, his presence an electric charge in the smoky air. “I’m not giving up, Rogue.”
“No one said you had to,” I challenge, spinning around to face him, our chests nearly touching. His icy blue gaze locks onto
mine, and for a moment, we’re the only two creatures in the room. But my smile doesn’t falter as I draw him in with my gaze
alone. He is easy.
Too easy.
Just once, I’d like a bit of resistance.
But an angel who spent centuries a virgin full of pious righteousness, who now has the pleasure of sinning, will take what
she can get.
Feeling his eyes on me as I turn and make my way toward the side exit, I slip out into the cool night, which greets me like
an old friend, and the noise of the club fades away as the door slams shut behind me.
I’m halfway down the alley when I sense it—the unmistakable prickle of danger that raises every hair on my body. It’s not
Zane; this feels older, wilder. My hand goes to the hilt of my blades, slung around my hips in a holster.
“Looking for someone?” The creature steps out of the shadows, its eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Not quite demon,
not entirely beast, but dangerous all the same.
“Eww. Not you,” I growl, unsheathing my weapon. Celestial steel singing in the night, ready to bite.
“Feisty little bird, aren’t you?” it snarls, gnashing its teeth.
“I’ve heard more original than that tonight, asshole.”
Just as it lunges, a blur of motion intercepts it. Zane. With preternatural speed, he strikes, his fists connecting with a force
that sends shivers down my spine. The creature howls, reeling from the impact, and Zane turns toward me with a smirk.
“Looks like you owe me one,” he says, brushing off his hands as if he’d just swatted a fly.
“Keep dreaming, Dracula,” I retort, though there’s a flicker of appreciation in my eyes that I quickly snuff out. “I had it
handled.”
“Of course you did,” he agrees with a chuckle, stepping closer until we’re sharing the same shadow. “But admit it, you’re
glad I followed you out here.”
“Maybe,” I concede with a playful roll of my eyes. “But don’t let it go to your head.”
As the creature regains its bearings and charges again, we stand side by side. Fallen angel and vampire—a duo as unlikely
as they come, yet here we are, ready to dance with darkness.
 3

ROGUE

T he alley behind the dingy nightclub is a labyrinth of shadows and refuse, where even the rats seem to whisper secrets. Hell,
maybe they do? Rat shifters exist, after all. The light overhead the club’s exit flickers sporadically, casting a haunting glow on
the cracked pavement. Puddles from last night’s rain reflect the chaos above like portals to another, more sinister world.
The dank air of the alley clings to my skin like a second, grime-coated sheath. Shadows loom around us, thick with the
scent of rot and the underbelly of the supernatural world. I can hear the scuttle of vermin, but it’s the low, menacing growl that
tightens my muscles, coiling them like springs as we face off against the beast in front of us.
“Shit,” I mutter as more figures detach themselves from the inky blackness. They’re not human—too gnarled and twisted,
eyes glowing like toxic embers.
“Friends of yours?” Zane asks from beside me, his posture deceptively relaxed.
“Hardly.” The words slip out through a sneer. “Ready to dance?”
He throws me a sexy grin. “Always.”
They come at us—a blur of limbs and snarls. I draw my blades, the celestial metal humming softly, a stark contrast to the
cacophony of grunts and hisses. With a swift movement, wings unfurl from my back, black feathers slicing through the air, an
extension of the rage that simmers in my veins.
“Showtime,” I say, and then I’m moving, a dance of death choreographed by years of necessity. My arms work in tandem,
blades arcing through the gloom, severing limbs and spilling ichor across the concrete. There’s a beauty in the violence, a
grace in the way my body weaves between strikes and counters with lethal precision.
“Damn, angel,” Zane says, almost admiringly. I can hear the smirk in his voice even if I can’t see it. “You’re quite the
sight.”
“Keep your eyes on the fight, not the girl,” I snap back, kicking one assailant into another. They tumble like dominoes, but
there’s no time for self-congratulation. This is survival—pure and simple.
With a roar, Zane vamps out and joins the fray. He moves like something primal, all brute force and bared fangs. His hands
are weapons, crushing bones and tearing through flesh as if it’s wet paper. I can’t deny there’s something visceral about
watching him, something undeniably attractive in the raw power he wields.
Vaulting over a crumpled form to stand back-to-back with him, I feel the vibrations of his chuckle through my spine.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, angel. We’ve got business to take care of.”
“You wish,” I grumble, but he’s not wrong. Fighting arouses me, and I still haven’t dealt with the last one; not even rubbing
one out quickly in the club’s ladies’ room.
Reaching out, I decapitate another creature creeping up on us.
He grunts. “Nice save.” He acknowledges the assist without looking at me.
We’re in a rhythm now, our bodies syncing without the need for words, each covering the other’s blind spots.
I can feel the vibration of my pulse in my temples, adrenaline flooding my system, sharpening every sense. My blades croon
with each strike—they know their purpose, and they fulfil it with an almost holy zeal.
“Ever considered the circus?” Zane jests, breaking a neck with a twist of his hands. “You’d make a killer acrobat.”
“Thought about it,” I reply, ducking a swipe that would have taken my head off. “But I heard the pay’s shit.”
“Can’t be worse than this gig,” he laughs, and the sound is so at odds with the chaos around us that it almost makes me
smile.
Almost.
He’s not wrong. This gig pays nothing. I live hand to mouth, sometimes getting paid for doing shady investigating for
humans, sometimes for the police, which is no less shady, but they just want to keep their hands clean.
“Focus, Zane,” I warn, feeling the press of our enemies starting to lessen, their numbers dwindling under our onslaught.
“Let’s finish this.”
And together, we do just that—cutting down the last of the creatures until silence falls, heavy and thick, punctuated only by
our synchronised breathing. It’s done. For now.
The feeling of displacement descends like an old friend. There was a time when I belonged to the skies, when the stars
were my compass and the clouds my bed. Banished for daring to question, for wanting more than blind obedience, I often
wonder if the price for my rebellion was too steep. Heaven’s loss, Earth’s gain—they say. But do they know the weight of
wings turned to lead?
Sheathing my blades and flexing my wings, feeling the sting of cuts and the pull of exertion. But it’s a good pain—the kind
that reminds you you’re alive. And tonight, alive feels like a victory.
“Something is going down,” I murmur. “This was excessive, even for this dump.”
“No shit,” Zane replies, looking around. “Theories?”
“Not yet.” I lean against the rough brick wall of the alley, catching my breath, my wings folding tight against my back before
they disappear from sight.
“Well, it’s given me quite the workout,” Zane drawls, stepping over a gnarled creature that won’t be troubling anyone
again.
“Beats hitting the gym,” I retort, watching him with an amused tilt of my head. “Though I doubt you need it, Mr Immortal of
the Year.”
“Century,” he says, mock insulted. “Let’s get it right here.”
“Sorry, forgot you were ancient.”
“Not as ancient as you, you old crone.”
“Do I look like an old crone? Does my pussy taste crone-ish to you?”
“Touché.” His fanged grin gleams in the gloomy light. “But you, angel, have some serious moves. It makes me fucking
horny.”
Tell me about it.
Zane laughs, a raspy sound that seems too warm for his cold nature. He leans against the opposite wall, blue eyes gleaming
as they appraise me. “You’re not like any angel I’ve met before. You know that, right?”
“Because I don’t play nice or because I can kick your ass?” I ask, arching a brow.
“Both,” he concedes with a nod. “Speaking of playing nice...” Zane’s gaze shifts, suddenly serious. “Wanna hear my
theory?”
“You have one? Colour me surprised.”
“Quit it, Rogue. I’m serious. There are things happening in this city. Movements in the shadows. A secret society is pulling
the strings of the human world.”
“Sounds like a bad fantasy novel,” I murmur, but curiosity pricks at me. “What kind of society? And how secret are we
talking?”
“More than you can imagine. They’ve been around for centuries, controlling the balance,” he explains, his tone edged with
a warning. “They don’t take kindly to rebels or loose cannons. Like us.”
“Us?” I echo, scepticism lacing my voice. “Last I checked, I didn’t sign up for any vampire club.”
“Maybe not,” he says, pushing off from the wall with a grace that belies his lethal nature. “But you’ve caught their attention.
We both have.”
“Great,” I mutter, feeling a cold thread of unease weave through me. “Just what I needed.”
“Trust me, Rogue, this isn’t something to scoff at.”
“Never took you for the paranoid type, Zane.” Despite my words, his revelation gnaws at me. Heaven banished me for my
ideas, for wanting change. If there’s a force out there puppeteering humankind, I need to know so I can stop it.
“Paranoid? Maybe.” His eyes flash with intensity. “But when it comes to survival, I prefer the term ‘realist.’”
“Realist, huh?” I push away from the wall, blades ready in hand. “Well, then, let’s see if reality includes getting some
answers.”
Zane’s hand finds my hip, his touch firm and unyielding. It’s possessive, a silent claim that sends a jolt of awareness
through me.
“Zane,” I warn, but my body betrays my intent, leaning into him as if drawn by some primal magnetism. His other hand
moves down my back, tracing the curve of my ass until goosebumps rise on my flesh.
“Rogue,” he murmurs, his lips trailing a path along my jaw, searing despite—or because of—their coolness. “We make one
hell of a team.”
“Teamwork implies trust,” I mutter, my resistance wavering under the onslaught of sensation. “And neither of us is big on
trust.”
“Maybe not,” he admits, his breath ghosting over my collarbone. “But we do share one very important thing.”
“Enlighten me,” I challenge.
“Survival,” he whispers, claiming my mouth with an urgency that borders on desperation. It’s a kiss laced with centuries of
hunger, and it devours any lingering hesitation, igniting a fire in my blood that’s as fierce as my angelic heritage.
“Fuck survival,” I breathe against his lips, tangling my fingers in his hair. “I’m more interested in living.”
“Then let’s live, Rogue,” he growls, hands greedy as they map my body. “Let’s live like we’ve got nothing left to lose.”
A ragged laugh escapes me, all sharp edges and wild abandon. “Nothing left to lose? You really don’t know me at all.”
“Then show me,” he challenges, his eyes alight with wicked promise.
“Not here,” I murmur, not one to tease, but this society thing is troubling me. I need to know more.
“Ready for some uproar, angel?” Zane teases with a smirk that could damn saints or charm serpents.
“Always,” I reply, feeling the weight of Heaven’s scorn and Earth’s peril in every step. “Let’s dive into the deep end.”
 4

ROGUE

T his moment is raw, primal—a ballet of flesh and shadow in the dim light of my sparse apartment. I’m on top of Zane, riding
him hard, feeling every inch of his taut vampire body beneath me. His hands grip my hips, a silent plea for more.
“Fuck, Rogue,” he rasps as I grind down onto his impressive cock, taking him deeper. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
I laugh, a breathless sound, and lean forward to rake my nails across his pale chest, leaving welts in their wake that heal
instantly. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
His cock pulses inside my pussy, and I clench around him, eliciting a groan that vibrates against the walls. With each thrust,
I’m lost in the sensation, the slick heat of our bodies melding together. I’m in control, and I love it—the way his eyes glaze
over with lust, the way his fangs elongate slightly in his open-mouthed pleasure.
“Rogue,” he pants, his voice laced with something dangerously close to reverence.
“Shh,” I silence him with a kiss, fierce and possessive. Even though it’s casual, all of this, the way he looks at me
sometimes—like I’m the sun, moon, and stars—it’s too much. I won’t be anyone’s everything. Not after falling so far from
grace.
Reaching between us, I circle my clit with practised ease, chasing my own release with an urgency that has my wings
fluttering against my back. Zane watches, entranced as I bring myself closer to the edge.
“Fuck, yes, beautiful,” he urges, and the endearment almost spoils the moment. I’m not here for sweet nothings. “Come for
me while you ride my cock.”
“Eyes on me,” I command, and moments later, I shatter, crying out as waves of ecstasy crash through me. I ride him through
it until I feel his own climax, hot and deep inside me.
Gasping for air, I dismount and stand, legs still trembling from the intensity. The need to wash away the death and sweat
and sex is overwhelming. Without a word, I stride toward the bathroom.
“Mind if I join?” Zane calls from the bed, already on his feet.
“Like you ever do.” My tone is as dry as the desert, but I don’t mind. This thing between us is nothing if not consistent.
He’s behind me before I can turn on the shower, his cool fingers tracing the outline of my wing joints. I shiver despite
myself and put them away.
“Careful,” I warn. “Wouldn’t want to start round two and miss your beauty sleep.”
“Vampires don’t sleep, beautiful,” he retorts, stepping into the cascading water beside me. “And I’ve never been able to
resist a challenge.”
“Is that what I am?” I arch an eyebrow, accepting the soap he hands me. “A challenge?”
“Amongst other things.” His smirk is infuriatingly sexy.
His gaze is on me, heavy with unsaid words. As we finish, I reach for a towel and after drying off, he breaks the quiet.
“Rogue, I⁠—“
“Don’t,” I cut him off, slipping into my black jeans and tank top. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. We’re good like this.
Let’s not complicate things.”
“Who says I was going to complicate anything?” There’s a playful edge to his voice, but I can hear the undercurrent of
sincerity.
“Your doe eyes say plenty, Zane,” I murmur, shouldering past him to grab my boots. “Let’s keep it simple. Lust, fights, and
taking down the bad guys. That’s our rhythm.”
“Fine,” he concedes, though I catch the hint of disappointment he tries to mask. “But just know, I’m here for the long haul—
complications or not.”
“Charming,” I mutter, lacing up my boots with quick, deft movements. “Just remember, I don’t do feelings or forever.”
“Never said you did.” He grins, all sharp teeth and dark promise. “But if you ever change your mind...”
“Fat chance, bloodsucker,” I reply, but there’s a warmth in my chest that wasn’t there before. Damn him for getting under
my skin.
 The damp air filtering out of the tiny bathroom into my one-room apartment clings to my skin as I slip into my leather
jacket, the cool material a stark contrast to the lingering warmth from Zane’s body.
“So,” I say as he leans against the doorframe with that predator’s grace unique to his kind, “this secret society—what’s
their endgame?”
“Control.”
“Control,” I reply with a snort, running my fingers through my damp hair. “Isn’t it always?”
His cobalt eyes glint with admiration and concern. “You know, taking them on alone is suicide, even for a fallen angel.”
“Who says I’m alone?” I ask, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “I have an irritatingly persistent vampire watching my back,
don’t I?”
“Persistent is my middle name,” he chuckles, pushing off the frame and sauntering closer. “But seriously, Rogue. Let me in
on this with you. I can help.”
A part of me knows his involvement is inevitable, and seeing as he seems to know what’s been creating mayhem the last
few nights, maybe he can help.
“Fine. Just don’t expect any thank-you kisses or heartfelt hugs. We do this my way. Quick, clean, and with no bullshit
sentiment.”
“Good. Because these assholes are bigger than both of us. They’ve got plans. Plans that involve more than just amassing
power. Armageddon-type shit.”
“Armageddon isn’t really my scene,” I reply. “Sounds like we need to cut the head off this beast before it grows another.”
“Exactly. And that starts with information. We need to hit up some of the shadier haunts, see what whispers we can catch.”
“Shady is my speciality.”
Stepping into the murky light outside of my apartment, the city sprawls beyond the dirty building, a jungle of shadows and
secrets—ripe for the hunting.
“Tonight, we hunt truths, not thrills.”
“Lead the way, then,” he bows theatrically, gesturing toward the city. “To the underbelly of the beast. But let’s make this
quick. Dawn is coming.”
“And therein lies a problem, vamp. The baddies don’t always wait for night time.”
“No, but most do, so let’s get to it.” His brusqueness is expected as I hit the nerve I was going for.
“Stay sharp,” I warn, moving into the night’s embrace, where the city holds its breath, and the real monsters play. It’s time
to dance with devils—and we’re about to crash the ball.
 5

ROGUE

T he witching hour.
That’s what I’ve heard this time of the night called. It’s not even 1 AM, and yet it feels like we’ve been out for days.
The darkness seeps under your skin and whispers secrets, and I’m already itching beneath my leather jacket, feeling the
weight of the earlier revelations and Zane’s steady presence at my side.
“The first step is intel.” My voice is a conspiratorial hush in the stillness of the city that never seems to rest. “We need eyes
and ears everywhere—every shady nook and cranny where these society creeps might slither.”
“Sounds like my kind of reconnaissance.” Zane’s lips turn up in amusement. “I have a few debts to collect, people who
owe me more than blood.”
“Perfect.” The word slices through the chill air, decisive. “Turn those debts into assets. But remember, we’re ghosts—they
can’t know we’re coming for them. Not yet.”
“Stealth and secrecy, got it.” He flashes a predatory grin, all fangs and dark intent.
“Here’s hoping you don’t enjoy it too much.” I eye him, wary of the thrill-seeker within.
“Life’s no fun without a little risk,” he shoots back, the challenge in his gaze sparking against my resolve.
We reach the edge of the district, where the garish lights bleed into the murk, a siren call to every creature of the night
looking for trouble.
The first bar on our list squats between two decaying buildings, its sign faded and falling down—a beacon of sleaze just
begging to be explored.
“Remember, we’re not here to start a fight,” I say, pushing open the door. The stench of stale beer and unwashed bodies hits
me like a slap. “Just gather what we need and get out.”
“Subtlety is my middle name.”
Zane follows me into the den of iniquity as I roll my eyes at him over my shoulder.
Inside, the patrons are a smorgasbord of the supernatural—wraiths, ghouls, and creatures whose names I’ve yet to learn, all
stewing in their own filth and vice. They look up briefly as we enter, then dismiss us. Two more lost souls in a sea of
corruption aren’t worth their attention.
“Let’s split up,” I suggest, surveying the room with a practised eye. “Cover more ground.”
“Meet back here in fifteen?” Zane proposes, already moving towards a cluster of dubious individuals with an ease that
suggests he’s no stranger to this game.
“Make it ten.” I don’t give him the chance to argue, already weaving through the crowd with my head down and senses
alert. I sidle up to the bar, signalling the bartender—a gnarled imp with eyes like oil slicks.
“Vodka, neat,” I say, tossing a crumpled bill onto the counter. As he pours, I lean in closer. “Long time, Sticky. Got any
info?”
“Nice to see you too, Rogue. Forget your manners in this lovely place?”
Sneering as I glance around, I pick up the glass he sets in front of me. “Yeah, it’s a real winner. Well?”
Sticky chortles, a sound like gravel being churned in a blender. “Honey, I hear everything. The question is, what’s it worth
to you?”
“Your life?” My hand inches towards the blade concealed at my hip, a silent threat that speaks volumes. “Spill.”
He rattles off a couple of snippets of conversations overheard in the darkest hours of the night that mean nothing and ring no
bells.
To me, anyway.
It’s not much, but it’s a start—a thread to pull in the unravelling tapestry of the secret society’s web.
“Time’s up.” Zane reappears at my side, his expression unreadable. “You get anything useful?”
“Bits and pieces,” I admit, sliding off the stool. “Not enough to chase. You?”
“Yeah.”
 Good enough for me. “Then let’s get hunting.”
His smirk is all the answer I need as we slip back into the shadows, the puzzle of the society waiting to be solved, piece by
bloody piece.
The air crackles with a charge that sends a ripple across my unseen wings. We’re knee-deep in the squalidness of the city,
where secrets skulk in shadowed doorways, and every stranger could be an enemy—or worse, an enforcer.
“Shit,” I mutter, as four hulking figures detach themselves from the darkness of an alleyway ahead. They’re dressed like
undertakers on a bender, all black suits and sinister smiles.
“They look like fun,” Zane mutters, his voice a low rumble beside me. He’s casual about it, but I catch the subtle shift in his
stance, ready for trouble.
The largest one steps forward, his eyes like chips of ice. The fight is on.
“Angel feathers won’t save you,” Ice Eyes sneers just before Zane’s fist connects with his jaw in a satisfying crunch.
“Who needs feathers when you’ve got steel?” Ducking a wild swing from another goon, my blade whistles through the air,
slicing a bright line across his chest. Black blood oozes out, grossing me out.
“Eww.”
“Nice of them to come in pairs,” Zane says, driving a solid kick into the gut of his second opponent. “Makes for better
symmetry.”
“Always the artist.” There’s no time for more banter, though. The enforcers are trained killers, even if they aren’t prepared
for a vampire and a disgraced angel with a chip on her shoulder.
I feel the rush of combat and lose myself. One comes at me, baton raised high, but he’s slow, so damn slow. My blade
meets his throat, and he gurgles, a sound lost beneath the din of the city’s nightlife.
“Rogue! Six o’clock!” Zane’s warning is timely—I pivot, catching the last enforcer’s arm before it can bring down some
sort of cursed dagger. It sizzles against my skin, hungry for celestial blood.
“Bad move,” I grunt, twisting his arm until I hear the snap. He howls, the sound curdling blood, but I’m beyond mercy. This
is what it means to be fallen; I don’t have to play nice anymore.
“Looks like we’re clear,” Zane pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The corner of his lip is split, bleeding a
rivulet of crimson that he licks away.
“Clear or not, we need to keep moving. They know we’re onto them, and they’ll send more. We need to regroup.” I scan the
street, hyper-aware that more enforcers could be lurking in the shadows, watching with unseen eyes. “Every minute we stand
here is another minute they’re zeroing in on us.”
“Never a dull moment with you, Rogue,” he says, almost admiringly.
“Stick with me, kid. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
The chill air seeps into my bones as we zigzag through the night. Flying past dumpsters and leaping over chain-link fences
with an urgency that would give parkour enthusiasts a run for their money, Zane is a blur beside me, his vampiric speed a
godsend at times like these when he needs to keep up.
“Left here,” he hisses, pulling me down a nondescript lane where the stench of rotting trash battles the city’s exhaust fumes.
“We’re close.”
“Smells like someone died,” I mutter, though it’s hard to be sure over the adrenaline and the tang of iron in my mouth from
where I bit my tongue.
“Someone probably did.” He’s not wrong; this part of town has seen more than its fair share of final breaths, and I’ve been
responsible for many of them.
We skid to a halt before a rusted door, looking decidedly out of place in the brick wall. Zane doesn’t hesitate, placing his
palm against the cold metal. The door swings open silently, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
“Home sweet home,” he says, but there’s no warmth in his voice. It’s just another battleground.
“Cosy.” I size up our refuge. The walls are lined with ancient stone, cool and unwelcoming. It strikes me then—the
enormity of what we’re doing. Fighting a secret society that’s been around longer than either of us has had our feet on Earth’s
soil. Yet, here we stand, two rebels without a cause, except maybe survival.
“Here.” Zane tosses me a ragged towel, which I catch with a grunt. “Clean yourself up. You’ve got blood⁠—“
“—everywhere, I know.”
“We both know charm isn’t going to cut it this time, so what have we got?”
“Charm, blades, whatever works.” I drop the towel and survey the lair. There’s a table laden with various weapons that
would make any armoury jealous. “So, this is where you’ve been hoarding the good stuff.”
“Only the best for defeating ancient evil organisations,” he says, following my gaze.
“Right.” I exhale slowly, letting the reality settle over me like a shroud. “We need information. Plans. Allies, possibly.”
“Or just a good set of fangs and some divine retribution,” Zane offers, trying to lighten the mood.
“Divine retribution got me kicked out of Heaven.” I let myself smirk. It’s easier than admitting the pain. “Not sure how
much more of that they’ll tolerate.”
 “Fuck ‘em,” he shoots back with a grin. “You’ve got me now. And I’m a hell of a lot more fun than those winged prudes.”
“Debatable,” I retort, but my heart’s not in it. Zane’s bravado is a lifeline; even if I’d never admit it, I cling to it.
“Rest up,” he continues, softer now. “We’ve got a long night ahead. And Rogue? We’re going to rip them apart.”
“Promise?” I ask, half-joking, half-desperate for the certainty in his voice.
“Cross my dead heart.”
“Good.” I nod, resolute, the weight of our shared purpose solidifying between us. We might have started this dance as
nothing more than bed partners, but fate—or something equally twisted—has made us allies in a war bigger than our combined
lifetimes. And by the looks of it, it’s only just begun.
 6

ZANE

“E nforcers don’t just sniff around without good reason,” I mutter, my voice a low growl. “We’ve rattled some cages,
haven’t we?”
“Looks like it,” Rogue agrees, her blue eyes scanning the table full of every weapon known to kill a supernatural, her
included. An angel I might have trouble with, but one whose celestial divinity has been compromised, yeah. I’ve got it covered.
She’s not the only fallen to walk these grimy streets, and not all of them are as morally off white as she is. Always alert, she’s
coiled tension and grace, a dangerous beauty with wings that whisper of mysteries I’m itching to unravel.
She won’t ever let me touch them, but I want to run my hands over the black silk while I fuck her from behind before I bite
her and drink her blood...
Stifling my groan as my cock goes hard, I rally. This night started off so great, and now it’s become something dark and
crazed. I’m not even sure what the fuck our next move is.
“Time to hit the streets, then. We need names, places—anything linked to this society,” I suggest, rolling my shoulders in
anticipation.
“Agreed. Let’s carve some answers out of this city,” she responds, her twin blades glinting in the light as she casually flips
one in her hand.
I watch her, captivated by the deadly choreography of her fingers. “You know,” I start, leaning against the wall, “for all the
time we spend together, you’re still an enigma, Rogue.”
“Isn’t that part of my charm?” she retorts with a half smile.
“Your fall from Heaven... What was it about? Your purpose here?” I prod, trying to pierce the veil she wraps so tightly
around herself, knowing the timing is epically bad, but sometimes the curiosity gets too much for me to keep my trap shut. Not
that I’m an open book. She knows nothing about my turning or exactly how long I’ve been walking the earth as the undead. But
this is a two-way street. She spills, and so will I.
“Curiosity killed the cat, Zane.” She sidesteps my question with practised ease, her smirk widening as I fully expected.
“But for the record, I’m not your typical fallen angel narrative. I had ideas. Ambitions. They didn’t like that upstairs.”
“Care to share these grand ambitions with a mere vampire?” I push, feeling a pull towards her that goes beyond our casual
entanglement.
“Maybe another time,” she deflects again, her tone suggesting that ‘another time’ might as well be never.
“Playing hard to get?” I want more from her, more than fucking and fighting. Is that too much to ask?
“Something like that,” she says with a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. She turns away, heading back out into the night, and
I follow, a moth drawn to her incendiary flame.
“Let’s focus on the hunt,” she calls over her shoulder. “Keep up, vamp-a-licious.”
“Always do, angel delight,” I say with a snicker, but the thrill of her ‘endearment’ leaves me panting after her like a fucking
idiot. She is the proverbial riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma—and damn if I don’t want to solve every piece of
her.
The city at night is a mess of sin and secrets, and yet it feels too silent tonight, like the calm before a storm. I scan the faces
around us—humans oblivious to the darkness that lurks, supernaturals doing the lurking.
“So, your intel? What did you get?”
“Heard about a guy. Not a nice guy, but there’s been rumblings.”
“What kind of nice guy? Human or other?”
“Other.” I leave it at that. She might get skittish if I tell her, or she might go in all guns blazing. I don’t know, and that pisses
me off. I want to know her. But she just won’t let me in far enough.
“Let’s find him; see if he can be persuaded to talk.” She darts across the street, dodging a late-night cab like it’s second
nature.
“Careful,” I mutter, although I know she doesn’t need my concern, but taking a look at her fine ass while I’m at it.
 I follow, keeping pace with her determined stride. We weave through the labyrinthine streets, past dumpsters oozing with
the stench of decay, beneath balconies dripping with rusted promises.
The city’s pulse beats with a rhythm of danger, the kind that makes your fangs tingle at the edge of eruption. We’re slinking
down an alleyway less inviting than a grave, where shadows cling like cobwebs, and every brick seems soaked in secrets.
“Christ, it’s like walking through somebody’s nightmare,” I mutter, my boots sticking to the grime-slicked cobbles beneath
us.
“Your kind of place then?” Rogue shoots back without missing a step.
“Ha ha,” I scoff, but there’s admiration simmering in me.
Even here, in this cesspit of human neglect, she’s untouchable—a fallen angel haunting the earthbound damned.
A rat scuttles across our path, squealing as it disappears into a maze of refuse. The air reeks of urine and something
metallic—not blood, just the tang of rust eroding from the fire escape above us.
Rogue nods toward an unlit doorway, her voice lacking any of the levity we shared moments ago. “I can feel them. The
society is close.”
“Feel them?” I echo, scanning the darkened threshold, my own abilities searching for the telltale signs of supernatural
surveillance.
“An angel always knows when she’s being watched,” she says, and there’s a chill to her words that cuts deeper than the
night air.
Nodding, I flex my fingers in anticipation. “Let’s try not to cause waves then. We’ve had a hell of a night so far, yeah?”
Her hand never strays far from the lethal grace of her angelic blades. “Subtle. I like it. However, subtlety isn’t going to
expose the society.”
I know she’s right. But damn if her straightforwardness doesn’t stoke the embers of attraction burning low in my gut.
She pauses, just a fraction of a second, and I sense her bracing for what might come.
“Ready?” she whispers, not a question but a battle cry muffled by the whisper of the wind.
“Always,” I reply because when it comes to Rogue, I’m ready for anything—even the dive into the darkness that beckons us
forward.
Spotting the bar where I’m told the informant holes up, I push open the door, and it resists with a groan, as if warning us
against what lies within. The hinge squeals—a feral cat protesting the night’s invasion. Rogue is at my side, her presence
electric, eyes scanning the room in a way that would make the most hardened criminals shiver.
“Faaantastic,” she murmurs, as we step into a den of shadows and secrets.
“Like a nest of vipers,” I retort, “except less welcoming.”
The creatures here are not your average night crawlers. They’re off—too still, too silent, eyes too sharp. It’s like walking
into a trap where every spring is quietly, patiently waiting for a misstep.
“Stay sharp,” she whispers, though I know it’s unnecessary. My senses are already ablaze with the stench of sulphur and
sin. A vampire’s instincts never dull, especially not one as old as I am and more so in the company of an angel who’s fallen
from grace without losing any of her celestial lustre, who I have an insane need to protect at all costs even though she can kick
the ass off anyone.
“Planning on it,” I respond, my voice low.
Across the room, Ethan lounges with the entitlement of a king among pawns. Dark hair falls into his face, framing glowing
green eyes that cut through the murk. He watches us, a smirk playing on his lips—the grin of a demon who knows more than he
should and delights in the chaos of ignorance. Sighing inwardly, I know this is going to end up a shitshow.
“Looks like the devil himself decided to crash,” Rogue mutters, noting how Ethan’s attention locks onto her, his gaze sharp
enough to draw blood.
“Should’ve worn my Sunday best,” I murmur.
“Your Sunday worst is probably more his style,” she says, eyeing Ethan’s dark ensemble.
Everything about him screams danger, from the casual lean of his tall frame against the bar to the cruel glint in his eyes.
“Let’s hope he prefers chit-chat over a brawl,” she adds, but there’s a steel in her tone that tells me she’s prepared for
either.
“Or both,” I suggest, knowing our kind often find diplomacy at the edge of a knife.
We move forward, a pair of predators dressed in human skin, ready to dance with demons this time.
This night blows.
 7

ZANE

E than leans forward, elbows on the bar, his grin all sharp teeth and no friendliness. The stench of brimstone lingers in the
air, a signature scent for the likes of his kind.
“Ah, if it isn’t Heaven’s most insubordinate,” he drawls, locking eyes with Rogue. His voice is like gravel, rough and
grating.
“Nice. Thought you’d have thrown a party.” Her eyes darken with the insult she takes badly, which just intrigues me further.
“Sweetheart, the day you fell was the day Hell declared a holiday,” Ethan fires back, that wicked smile never wavering.
I scowl at their exchange. The way he looks at her sets my blood boiling—a concoction of jealousy and an urge to protect.
“Careful, demon,” I growl, stepping closer to Rogue. “She’s not the kind to toy with.”
Ethan raises an eyebrow, mockingly assessing my protective stance. “Is that so? And here I thought she could handle
herself.”
“Better than anyone at this bar,” Rogue snaps, getting pissed with me for trying to protect her. Typical Rogue. But also, one
reason why I’m hovering on the brink of falling in love with her.
“Let’s cut the crap, Ethan,” I snap, getting impatient already. This guy winds me the fuck up just by existing. “I’ve been told
by a rat you know some shit about what’s going down.”
“Always to the point, vampire.” Ethan straightens up, his previous amusement replaced by an edge of danger that we would
be fools to ignore. “Who is this rat?”
“Not happening. You got info or do we have to start beating it out of you?”
“Geez,” he mutters. “Do vamps usually get this aggressive so close to dawn?”
The reminder of my limitation sets my fangs on edge.
“Dawn is hours off,” Rogue interrupts. “He’s actually toning it down for you, demon, so I suggest you get to yapping, and
we can all move on with our lives.”
Resisting the urge to beam at her for bigging me up in front of everyone, I try my hardest to appear as menacing as possible
by letting my fangs drop and hissing a little bit. Truth be told, I love violence, blood and mayhem as much as the next vamp, but
I’m old, five centuries type old and bored with the constant façade of being wild. Some days, I just wanna chill out and drink
my blood warmed up in the microwave from a cup that says, ‘world’s best vamp’, and binge-watch Netflix.
Ethan’s gaze flicks between the two of us. His eyes narrowed, his lips pursed, he sighs. “Keep your fucking voices down,
would you?”
“No one is listening,” I point to the other patrons, two of whom are so drunk, they’re already sliding down their booth
seats, eyes closed, and the rest of them chattering away over the thump of the jukebox in the corner.
“Seems we’ve piqued his interest,” Rogue murmurs, leaning in close enough for only me to hear. Her breath on my neck
sends a shiver down my spine.
Ethan grabs Rogue around her waist, pulling her close. I step forward, ready to pound him into the ground, but he leans in
close to her ear, knowing I’ll hear him.
“Graveyard in an hour,” he whispers. “You, me and the vamp.”
“Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” Rogue replies. “A demon, a vampire, and a fallen angel walk into a
graveyard...”
“Only there’s no punchline,” I add, feeling the weight of the coming darkness as I stare into Ethan’s eyes. He is not messing
about.
“Be there,” Ethan says, his presence casting a shadow over us as he moves away, disappearing into the crowd of
supernatural creatures.
“Or be square,” I mutter.
“Guess we have a date with the dead,” Rogue says as we turn to leave.
“As long as it stays them and not us, I’m down.”
 Rogue and I move swiftly, our steps silent but purposeful against the cracked pavement.
“Rogue. I dunno about this. It feels off.”
“Since when do you get cold feet?” Rogue’s voice is steady, but I see the tension in the set of her shoulders.
“Since demons started requesting midnight rendezvous in graveyards when we know the big bad is in town.” I scan the
murky corners we pass, every sense on high alert.
“Keep your fangs sharp,” she advises with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “We need whatever this Ethan shit
knows. And by the way...” She turns to me with an irritated glare. “You didn’t think to give me a heads up? You know demons
give me the ick.”
“Yeah, that’s why I kept quiet. I figure if he leads us into a trap, you can kill him then. That okay with you?”
“It’ll be one hell of a show,” Rogue says.
“Yeah, a real shitshow.”
We both snicker, glad of the tension reliever, but I’m still not happy about this. Although part of me gets why Ethan wanted
to head out of town for this discussion. If he knows stuff that can help us take down this society, then he isn’t going to want
them to know that.
We are about an hour away from dawn. I can feel the pull on my veins as we approach the graveyard’s wrought-iron gates,
which groan in protest as we slip through. The moon hangs low, casting an eerie glow over the tombstones that jut from the
earth like broken teeth. A chill skitters down my spine, and it’s not from the night air.
Spotting Ethan lurking in the shadows, I nod at Rogue. “Watch your—“ My warning cuts short as a figure lunges from the
shadows, a blur of malevolence aimed straight for Ethan’s back.
“Fuck’s sake!” I curse, but Rogue is already in motion.
With preternatural speed, she intercepts the assassin—a spindly creature with too many joints and eyes that gleam with
malice. Her blades sing their deadly tune, twin arcs of blackened silver that flash in the moonlight. The sound of metal piercing
flesh echoes, a gruesome countermelody to the hushed whispers of the wind.
“Nice try,” Rogue taunts, her movements lethal as she ducks and weaves. The creature hisses, a sound torn from a
nightmare, but Rogue is relentless. With a swift, brutal thrust, she ends the threat, her angelic weapon buried deep in the
assassin’s chest.
“Damn, Rogue,” I mutter, admiration and concern thrumming through me. She stands over the felled foe, her breathing even,
blue eyes reflecting the chaos of battle.
Sometimes, I swear she lives for the kill.
Cleaning her blade on the monster’s garb before sheathing it with a click, she grins. It’s tinged with a deep lust that I knew
would hit her again before the night was out. I just hope I’m around when she needs that itch scratched.
We advance into the heart of the graveyard, where the dead keep their silence and the living play a dangerous game.
Ethan’s mouth hangs open, a rare moment of speechlessness for the demon. A low whistle slips from him as he nods at
Rogue, his glowing eyes wide with something like respect—or maybe it’s just the fact he’s still breathing.
“Wasn’t expecting an angel to have my back,” Ethan grumbles, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Especially not one who got
booted out of the VIP lounge upstairs.”
“Please,” Rogue snorts, flicking a speck of otherworldly ichor from her jacket. “You think I’d let you get off that easy? You
owe us answers, and I’m not collecting from your corpse.”
“Your concern is touching,” he says with a wicked grin that I do not like aimed at Rogue one bit.
“Save it, Green Eyes. Just because I didn’t let you become worm food doesn’t mean we’re pals.” She steps over the
remains of the would-be assassin, her gaze never leaving him. “Now talk. The society—what’s their endgame?”
Ethan scratches his head, feigning deep thought. “Aren’t you more interested in why they want me silenced?”
“Are you always this infuriating?” I cut in, feeling the sting of irritation at his evasiveness. It’s like watching two chess
masters strategizing, each move laced with double meanings.
“Only on days ending with ‘y’,” Ethan replies.
Rogue growls.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But this information puts us all in the crosshairs. You ready for that Tweedle Dum and Tweedle
Dee?”
“Newsflash, we’re already there,” Rogue retorts, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, a silent threat.
“Noted,” Ethan says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You know, on second thoughts. Fuck this shit.” He snaps his
fingers, and before Rogue or I can reach him, he’s dissipated in a wisp of smoke, leaving us empty-handed and fuming.
“Dickhead!” Rogue snaps, kicking out at nothing. “Now what?”
“Now, we head back and pretty much fuck this shit, like he said.”
“No,” Rogue snarls. “We aren’t giving up that easily. There has to be someone else who will talk.”
“Then we look later. I’ve gotta get inside, and to be honest, I’m done with chasing our tails tonight.”
Rogue casts her gaze to the growing dawn. “Point taken. While you’re lurking under the streets, I’ll hit them. Daytime
assholes know stuff too.”
“They do. But I’d try later on. Hit the lunchtime crowd.”
She laughs. “Yeah. Hate this time of day. Night pricks are heading to bed; Day fuckers are just getting up. Need me some
more all day peeps.”
“Then you’re going to have to keep the company of your own kind.”
“Yeah, now it’s my turn. Fuck that shit.”
We share a smile, and she sighs. “Good night, Zane. I’ll come round for you at dusk.”
Nodding, I watch her flit off into the night and head back to my lair, hoping that dusk comes soon so I can see her again.
 8

ROGUE

T he clock mocks me with its relentless ticking, a reminder that at 8 AM, the world of mortals is waking up while creatures
like me haunt the shadows. My unfurled wings itch with restlessness as I roam my sparsely furnished apartment, the low
sunlight casting golden lines across the dark hardwood floor.
A soft knock fractures the silence, and I reach for my blades before I remember I’m not in Heaven anymore—here,
sometimes a knock is just a knock. I open the door to find Ethan, the asshole demon, on my doorstep, his pretty green eyes
glinting like emeralds in the darkened hallway. His expression is one I can’t quite decipher.
“Rogue,” he begins hesitantly. “We need to talk. Just us.”
“By all means, then,” I say, stepping aside with a flourish, “enter my humble abode.” I don’t bother asking how he knew
where I lived. Supes know stuff. It’s just the way it is.
Ethan crosses the threshold apprehensively, almost as if he expected to go up in flames, his tall frame dwarfed by the span
of my black-feathered wings, which I keep out for his benefit. He brushes past me, and I catch the scent of brimstone and sin,
which I recoil from.
“Sit,” I command, pointing to the only chair in the room as I perch on the edge of my makeshift table. “Spill it. What brings
a demon to my doorstep at this hour? If you were expecting coffee, I’m all out.”
“Tea then?” he asks, sitting back, that smirk I want to punch off his face making its appearance.
“I got holy water. Take it or leave it.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, making me wince. “You don’t mess around, do you?”
“Try and find out. Why are you here?”
Running a hand through his dark hair, he says, “Your quest against the society. It’s suicide, but...” His words trail off as he
avoids my gaze.
“Ah, so you’ve come to join the fun after all? What changed your mind?”
“Let’s just say self-preservation,” Ethan replies, looking at me with something akin to fear. “They’re tightening the noose.
Even for us demons.”
“I thought they were dealing with humans?”
“They are, but all these enforcers you have killed or maimed tonight are not human. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I drawl. “So they’re using supes to do the dirty work while they concentrate on getting the humans to bow
down. Real pieces of work, your mates, aren’t they?”
“Hardly my mates.” He snorts. “But it’s now a case of either help you or become expendable to them.”
“So, you were what? Waiting for someone to swoop in and have the stones to fight them?”
“Something like that,” he says cautiously.
Every instinct is screaming at me to throw him out, but there’s that niggling problem of the society fucking with humans, and
that’s putting a major crimp in my plans to rid the world of evil. “So, what do you know?”
Ethan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “The society isn’t just a club of human elites playing around. They have a
hierarchy. No one knows who is at the top, but the underlings... they have one mission. To get Earth under their control.”
“Of course, the puppet master would want the strings,” I muse aloud.
“Exactly. And they’ve got ways of keeping the humans in check. But the supes they’re using to do their dirty work, they
have enslavement spells, collars for the weres, blood bindings for vampires. For demons, they have relics. Artefacts from Hell
itself that can compel obedience—or worse.”
“Charming,” I say dryly. “And their grand plan?”
“Domination,” Ethan states flatly. “They seek to rule the mortal world, unchallenged. They want you, Rogue. You’ve been
on their radar for a while now.”
“That’s how you know me?” I did wonder if my rep preceded me, but I’m guessing it runs way deeper than that now.
He nods slowly.
 “Well, this will happen over my dead body,” I retort, standing abruptly, my wings flapping with a snap. “I won’t stand by
and let these bastards play god. It’s a real fucking issue of mine.”
“I noticed,” he drawls, sitting back, secure in his attitude now that I’m on his side. “So, you in?”
“I’m in.” I slam my fist into my other palm.
“Then we have an understanding,” Ethan says, rising to meet my glare. “I’ll help you, Rogue. But don’t mistake this for
loyalty.”
“Loyalty,” I sneer. “And what the fuck is that?”
“Something I’ve heard about. I’ll have to double-check and get back to you.”
“You’re a fucking funny asshole, aren’t you?”
“Just trying to keep up with the halo-head.”
“You see a fucking halo?”
He inspects the air above my head, moving closer until he is almost in my personal space. “Nothing but sin, angel.”
Grabbing one of my blades, I hold it up to his throat. The metal vibrates with righteous fury, eager for the battle to come.
“Step back, demon, or I will slice your ears off and shove them up your ass.”
“Oh, now you’re just turning me on, feathers. My cock has gone hard. Want to feel?”
“Ugh, I would rather fuck a troll.”
“Ouch. But that word coming from your mouth is pure heaven.” His eyes have gone darker, more dangerous.
“What? Troll?” I enunciate it for his benefit.
He snickers. “Keep pushing me, feathers, and I’ll hand you to the society myself. I would love to see that sass tamed while
you’re fucked in every hole you’ve got and then some until those pretty blue eyes weep and you scream for mercy.”
My heart thuds at the threat, and I swallow. “No one can tame me. It’s why I’m here in the first place, you fucking prick.”
“Mmm. You ever fucked a demon, Rogue?”
“No, and nor will I. Your kind makes me sick.”
“I’d say the same, but those black feathers are doing it for me.”
“Shut up about fucking and get your seemingly one-track mind back on the society.” I press the blade to his skin and have
the satisfaction of seeing the celestial steel sizzle his flesh.
The air in my apartment feels thick, charged with a tension that could spark and ignite at the slightest provocation. Ethan
leans into the blade, closing his eyes in what appears to be bliss as I burn him.
Suddenly, he’s on the other side of the room, eyes open.
I didn’t even see him move.
“Let’s not kid ourselves,” Ethan begins, breaking the silence with his gravelly tone. “If they catch us, it’s game over. They
don’t do slap-on-the-wrist punishments; we’re talking eternal torment, Rogue.”
“Torment’s my middle name,” I murmur, only half-joking, though the icy claw of fear grips my insides briefly. “But you’re
right. This isn’t some petty feud. We mess up, we don’t just die—we suffer. Forever.”
He nods, a grim acceptance painting his features. “They’ll flay you from those pretty wings to your toes. And me—they
have ways of making a demon wish for oblivion.”
“Cheerful thoughts,” I say, although I’m glad we are back to business instead of sizing up each other’s metaphorical dicks.
“Not exactly pep talk material, but point taken.”
Ethan watches me move, his arms folded. “This isn’t about trust, Rogue. It’s necessity. I need you as much as you need
me⁠—“
“Need is a strong word,” I interrupt. “Let’s say mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Fine,” he says, his voice tight. “We use each other. But if either of us screws this up⁠—“
“Then we’re both screwed. Got it.” I stop pacing and face him squarely. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Ethan. But if
we want to take down this society, we’ve got to work with what we’ve got.”
“Which includes a demon and a fallen angel,” he adds dryly.
“An epic story or a tragedy waiting to happen. Depends on the ending, doesn’t it?”
“Suppose it does,” he concedes, and there’s a flash of something that might be respect in his gaze.
“All right, then. Training starts at dusk. Zane will join us,” I inform him, a plan forming in my mind.
“Zane,” Ethan repeats, his lip curling ever so slightly. “Thrill-seeking bloodsucker. How delightful.”
“Try to play nice,” I say, though I’m well aware of the animosity between them. It was obvious back in the bar. “We can’t
afford to be at each other’s throats when there are real enemies waiting to tear us apart.”
“Enemies, allies—it’s all becoming a blur,” Ethan mutters, but he nods in agreement. “I’ll be there. But remember, Rogue,
I’m not your friend.”
Tucking a stray wisp of raven hair behind my ear, I give him a sinister smile. “Friends are easy to lose. Enemies keep
things interesting.”
With a last look that could either be a threat or a promise, Ethan vanishes into the ether, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The city outside my window is a jungle hiding predators more dangerous than any wild beast. And I’m about to dive headfirst
into the darkness.
Not for the first time, I wonder how things would be so different if I’d just kept my mouth shut. But it’s too little, too late.
 9

ROGUE

T onight’s embrace is as cold and unforgiving as the steel of my blades, the city’s distant lights flicker in the icy rain like the
last breaths of stars long dead. I’m perched on the edge of a decision that could very well unravel the fabric of this darkened
world, and I’m about to make it with someone who’d love to see me fall.
Tracking Ethan is easy. In another life, it was my job to keep tabs on demons. They have a unique signature that lights up the
sky like a fucking beacon to me. Most of the time, I ignore it. I have no interest in playing with the devil’s spawn, but right now,
this serves a purpose. It leads me to Ethan, and it tells him I can always find him.
The warehouse where I expect to find the demon looms ahead, a skeletal husk among industrial decay. Graffiti screams
silent battles across its walls, and shattered windows stare out like hollow eyes. It’s the perfect place for creatures of the night
to hone their lethal crafts.
I slip inside silently. The space is vast, darkness clinging to every corner like a second skin. I unsheathe my blades, their
edges gleaming with a light that seems sacrilegious here. My movements are fluid, a deadly ballet set to the silence of
abandonment.
A raven caws above me, making my insides jolt. It swoops down and then back up, rustling my hair before it disappears out
into the night through a cracked window when I twirl one of my blades through my fingers in its direction.
“Show-off,” Zane’s voice echoes from the shadows as he steps into view. He moves with an elegance that belies his
viciousness, the thrill of the hunt alive in his gaze.
“Me or the bird?” I ask, feinting left before lunging forward, blades slicing through the air where his throat would have
been had he not danced away, laughing.
“Both.”
“Jealous?”
“Of what?” The caution in his tone has me curious.
“Being able to fly.”
“Who says I can’t?”
“Oh, you turn into a bat? Is that how that works?”
“Maybe.” His coy grin does nothing to convince me either way. I guess if I asked without jest, he would tell me, but then
he’d want something in return, and I’m not willing to give up the goods.
“How about we focus on not getting killed?” Ethan’s voice booms from the entrance, shattering the playful tension.
Shadows cling to him, emphasising the hard lines of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes—the air shifts, charged with the
power that rolls off him in waves.
It’s intriguing.
“Killjoy,” I mutter.
“I knew you’d find me,” he says, striding towards us with confidence that comes from knowing you’re the deadliest thing in
the room. His gaze locks onto mine with way more meaning than I’d like. It sends a ripple of unease over my skin, and I turn
from him.
“Let’s get this over with,” Ethan says, ignoring Zane, his focus solely on me. “You need to be faster, more unpredictable.
They won’t go easy on you because you’ve got pretty wings.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say dryly. “Hadn’t noticed.”
“Enough chit-chat,” Zane interrupts, clearly eager to move. “Time to work.”
And so, we do.
I dive into a routine of strikes and evasions, Zane joining me, our movements a symphony of controlled violence. Ethan
watches, his presence a silent challenge, pushing me to sharpen my instincts to become the weapon I need to be. To see the fight
through his eyes, which I won’t lie, scares the shit out of me. I may not be Heaven’s darling anymore, but I sure as shit am not
Hell’s bitch either. Once again, I marvel at the fine line I walk every day and wonder what the fuck I’m doing.
 The stale air of the abandoned warehouse hangs heavy, laced with the scent of rust and disuse. A single shaft of moonlight
pierces through the broken window where the raven has returned to watch this with an inquisitive tilt of its head. I’m wary of
its presence, but I don’t sense good or evil, so I leave it alone. For now.
My wings tuck close to my back as I circle Ethan, each of us sizing the other up. His green eyes glint like shards of bottle
glass—sharp, dangerous.
“Pathways of power run deep,” he continues, pacing now, the predator in him unable to stay still. “They manipulate from
the shadows, control the flow of information, of resources.”
“Control freaks. Great.”
“Exactly. And they’re planning something big—something that’ll tighten their grip even further.” He stops, facing me
directly, the warehouse darkening around us.
“Which is why I’m here,” I remind him.
“Their weaknesses—their reliance on secrecy, their overconfidence. We can exploit that.”
“Assuming we don’t slit each other’s throats first,” I point out, meeting his gaze head-on.
“An ever-tempting option,” he concedes with a dark chuckle.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Secrecy. Overconfidence. His words are hooks, and I’m caught, reeling in the possibilities.
The clatter of my blades echoes off the stark walls of the warehouse, a metallic symphony to my bubbling rage. “They think
they’re gods, playing with lives like they’re pawns on a chessboard!” The thrust and parry of my weapons punctuate each
word.
“Yet gods can be overthrown,” Ethan interjects, his voice a low thrum that stirs the air.
“Overthrown, maybe. But first, they must be exposed.” My wings bristle, the black feathers slick against the chill that seeps
into my bones. “Humanity doesn’t know the extent of their manipulation, the depths of their cruelty.”
“Patience, Rogue,” Ethan says, stepping into a sliver of moonlight that cuts through the grimy windows. “Anger is a weapon
if you hone it just right.”
“Patience?” I snort, spinning around to face him. “How many will suffer while we wait? How long before their grip
tightens, and we’re left gasping for air?”
“Fine line between recklessness and courage, isn’t it?” His smirk is infuriating, but beneath it, I catch a glimpse of
something else, a shared revulsion at the society’s deeds.
“Sometimes lines are meant to be crossed,” I growl, slashing the air with renewed vigour. The shadows cling to me,
whispering secrets of the night as if they, too, despise the hidden tyranny we face.
“Clarity will come with time,” he says cryptically, and I have to resist the urge to lunge at him. I need answers, not riddles.
“Time isn’t a luxury we have,” I retort, my gaze fixed on his unsettlingly calm demeanour.
“Nor is blind fury,” he counters.
“Enough talk,” I declare, sheathing my knives with a swift, fluid motion. “Let’s—“ A sudden shiver runs down my spine,
cutting me off. Something’s wrong.
I whirl around, scanning the darkness. There’s a shift in the air, a disturbance that prickles the back of my neck. “Did you
feel that?”
Ethan’s eyes narrow, his stance coiled and ready. “Someone’s here.”
“Friend or foe?”
“Does it matter?” Ethan replies, a hint of challenge in his tone.
My glare of disbelief at his demonic callousness hits a blank mask.
A shape emerges from the gloom, one that I recognise instantly.
“Rogue,” the newcomer breathes, their voice familiar yet laden with an urgency that sends a cold dread spiralling through
me.
“Who the hell are you?” Zane demands, stepping to my side.
“Friend,” he rumbles, and I stand down, throwing him a grin.
 10

ROGUE

L iam Baker strides further into the warehouse, and the air seems to shift around his six-five frame, like reality itself is
making room for him. He’s got that walk—firm, unshakable, the kind of stride that screams ‘cop’, even out of uniform. His
blonde hair is tousled as if he’s run his hands through it one too many times in frustration, and those green eyes scan the room
with a vigilance that tells you he’s seen more than his share of darkness.
“Detective,” I murmur. “What brings you here this evening?”
“Rogue, always a pleasure. What fresh hell have you got yourself into this time?” His voice cuts through the cavernous
space, all gravel and no-nonsense.
“Oh, the usual. Doom, gloom, and some secret society dicks.”
Ethan, lurking like a shadow by the door, chooses this moment to slink away – silent, but I catch the tail end of his smirk.
Figures. Demons love their dramatic exits.
“Looks like your fan club’s downsizing,” Liam comments dryly, gaze following Ethan’s departure before shooting back to
mine like a laser. “Want to spill the tea? I’ve got more than my fair share to offer back.”
“Really? You’ve been keeping secrets, Liam. Naughty, naughty.”
“Pot and kettle, Rogue,” he growls. “Cut the bull. I know you’re involved in this up to your eyeballs. I’ve had reports about
some vigilante chick causing fights all over town.”
“Causing?” I baulk and glare at him. “I was defending myself from those creeps.”
He sneers. “Figured as much. But this is a pet project of mine, under the radar, if you will. If you’ve got information, I want
it.”
Nodding, I take that in. Maybe he can help. He has access to resources that we don’t, pet project or not. I’ve worked with
Liam more than a few times on shady PI gigs in the past. He is a straight shooter and knows about supes. I trust him as much as
I trust anyone, but betrayal doesn’t seem to be his forte. “Think of them as the puppeteers. They’re pulling strings from every
dark corner of this city, corrupt to the core. And trust me, they’ve got fingers in pies you didn’t even know existed.”
Liam’s jaw clenches—a subtle sign of anger brewing. “Want to bet? Bastards have been leading me around by the nose,” he
grumbles. “But I’ve been digging. I found some evidence at a crime scene that doesn’t add up. Paper trails leading nowhere,
whispers of rituals and power plays...”
“Spoken like a true detective,” I muse, leaning against an old packing crate. “How deep does this rabbit hole go?”
“Deeper than I thought. There are police officers—ones I used to grab beers with—who are knee-deep in this filth. I can’t
trust anyone.” He looks up, his gaze burning with loathing. “But I can’t turn a blind eye, either.”
“Ah, the lone wolf cop narrative. Noble. But you do know wolves hunt in packs, right?”
“Then consider me in need of a pack,” he states, closing the distance between us. “I need someone who knows the ins and
outs. You up for it?”
“Do I get to be the alpha?” I ask with a smirk.
He snorts. “Always, Rogue. You are one badass female.”
“Aww, such a compliment.”
To my left, I hear Zane growling at this flirtatious banter, but ignore him.
“Okay, Liam, I’m in.”
“If we’re going to take these bastards down, I need to know everything. No secrets, no half-truths.”
“Full disclosure?” I narrow my eyes at him playfully. “You sure you can handle it?”
“Try me.”
“All right, then. Buckle up, blondie. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. You know about vampires?”
Liam’s eyes narrow and shift to Zane cautiously. “I know a few. They like to skulk in the shadows.”
“Rude,” Zane says, visibly annoyed. “Skulking implies secrecy. I’m simply observing.”
“Observing or plotting?” Liam’s hand inches toward the holster at his hip, a small but telling action. His distrust of Zane is
as clear as day, the tension between human and vampire thick enough to slice with one of my knives.
“Easy, now. Let’s not get the tape measure out, just yet, hmm?” I step forward to ease the standoff. “Zane is on our side.”
“You mean your side,” Liam shoots back, not taking his eyes off the vampire.
“Same difference.”
“I’m betting that doesn’t extend to me.”
Zane leans against a rusted pillar with casual arrogance. “I’d take that bet.”
“God, you two are giving me a headache,” I grumble, rubbing my temples. “Can we focus on why we’re really here?”
“Fine,” Liam concedes, though the wariness doesn’t leave his posture. He turns his green-eyed gaze back to me. “I’ve seen
what this secret society can do, Rogue. They’re not just dabbling in petty crime—they’re orchestrating it. They exploit the
vulnerable and sacrifice the innocent for their own gain. I became a police officer to protect people, not watch as they’re
devoured by the corruption in this city. If exposing the society means putting myself in the crosshairs, then so be it. I can’t let
them continue unchallenged, not now that they’re upping the ante. I need help.”
“And I’m it?”
“Such noble intentions,” Zane drawls, though I detect a hint of respect in his tone.
“Shut up, Zane. He’s right. This goes beyond turf wars and power plays. We’re talking about lives being chewed up and
spat out by these assholes.”
“Exactly,” Liam agrees. “If we can pull this off—if we can shine a light on the rot festering beneath the surface—we might
save some lives. And maybe we’ll start a change.”
“Sounds like a hell of a mission statement,” I reply, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. “You’ve got guts,
Liam. From what I’ve heard, these guys are bad news.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
We make an unlikely rag-tag group standing against the tide of darkness. But hell, if we’re going down, we’re going down
fighting.
The air in the warehouse is thick with tension, a storm brewing in the stillness. Liam’s words hang between us, an
invitation to dance on the edge of danger.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay. Let’s hear it then. What’s your plan?”
His emerald eyes flicker with a spark that belies his human frailty. “Firstly, we need to understand their movements—the
society’s reach extends far beyond what the public eye sees.”
“Good thing I’ve got eyes that see more than most.” The thrill of the hunt already ignites a fire in my soul.
Liam nods, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Unfortunately, my vision doesn’t come with supernatural perks. But what I
lack in angelic abilities, I make up for in good old-fashioned detective work.”
My gaze involuntarily traces the contours of his solid form. Human, he may be, but there is nothing delicate about him. He
is built like a tree and one I’d climb to scratch my itch any day of the week. But he’s off-limits. I don’t cavort with humans.
Their emotions disturb what I’m trying to forget. “Old-fashioned can be charming—in moderation. What drives you to throw
yourself into the viper’s nest without a second thought?”
“Someone has to,” he says simply. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of—the manipulation, the devastation. If I can stop them
and save even one innocent life, then it’s worth the risk.”
“I do like to know what I’m diving into, so if you’ve got the goods, Liam, I need it all.”
“Corruption, Rogue. Deeper than the city’s foundations. They’ve got their claws in everything—politics, crime, business.
Unravelling this is going to be messy, at best.”
“Sounds like my kind of party,” I reply, the metallic taste of anticipation on my tongue.
His gaze locks onto mine. “Careful. This isn’t your typical brawl. These people, they play for keeps.”
“Good thing I don’t play by anyone’s rules but my own,” I say, the edge of my blade catching the dim light. “And I keep my
own score.”
“Still,” Liam continues, undeterred, “we’ll need more than bravado. They’re ten steps ahead, and we are just catching up.”
“Let them come.” My wings unfurl slightly, casting dark shadows across the concrete floor.
“Underestimating them would be a mistake,” he cautions. “They’re not just powerful—they’re cunning. And they’ll do
whatever it takes to maintain that power.”
“Then we’ll have to be cunning, too,” I concede, meeting his stare with a challenge of my own. “And lucky for you, I’m full
of surprises.”
“Guess we’ll make quite the team then,” Liam says, a hint of admiration in his tone.
“Guess we will,” I agree, “But you can’t cut out the vampire or the demon. We are all on the same team.”
“Demon,” he murmurs, looking back over his shoulder. “What skin has he got in the game?”
“His own.”
Liam blanches slightly but nods stoically and continues. “Improvisation is what gets people killed. We’re dealing with an
organisation that has its tentacles in everything. We do this my way—carefully, systematically.”
 “Sounds boring,” I say, but there’s a grudging respect in my gaze. I can’t deny the appeal of a man who knows how to
handle himself amid chaos. “But you’ve got my attention.”
“Good,” he replies, pulling out a battered notebook from his jacket pocket. The pages bristle with notes and photographs.
“I’ve been tracking their movements, collecting evidence. It’s all here.”
“Old school,” Zane mutters. “I like it.”
“Keep your friends close, and your enemies clueless,” Liam remarks, flipping open the notebook to a page marked with a
red tab. “This,” he points to a grainy photo of a building shrouded in fog, “is where they meet. Twice a month, no exceptions.”
“Party central, huh?” My wings twitch with excitement. “So, when’s the next shindig?”
“Three nights from now,” Liam answers, looking between me and Zane. “I need both of you and the other one. Your
abilities give us an edge.”
“Speaking of which,” I say, arching an eyebrow, “what exactly do you bring to the table besides your charming personality
and that book of secrets?”
“Access. My position grants me certain liberties. I can get us past security into places you two wouldn’t be able to without
raising hell.”
“Which we’re trying to avoid... for now,” Zane says, his blue eyes gleaming.
“Exactly,” Liam affirms. “Stealth over strength. We gather intel and expose them from the inside out.”
“Fine. But if things go south, I’m reverting to ‘raising hell’ mode.”
“Understood,” he says with a wry smile. “Just try to hold off until we’ve got what we need.”
“Deal.” I extend my hand, and after a brief hesitation, he shakes it, his grip firm and unyielding.
“So what’s the plan?” I tilt my head, allowing curiosity to lace my voice as I watch Liam pull out a hand-drawn map and
place it on an old wooden crate.
“Shouldn’t we have Ethan here for this?” I ask as I remember the demon. He’s such an ass disappearing like that just when
things are moving forward in the direction we need.
“Ethan?” Liam scrunches up his nose.
“The demon,” Zane drawls.
“Oh.” Liam looks around and shrugs. “Well, he’s not here, and this can’t wait. You have to go in tonight unless you want to
party with the entire society.”
“You are rude,” Ethan states, stepping back into the warehouse.
“Where the hell were you?” I snap. “Lurking?”
“Something like that. You trust this guy?”
“More than I trust you.”
“Ouch. Well, I guess we have no choice.”
Liam lets out a soft growl.
“Relax, detective.” I playfully punch his shoulder. “You’ve got an angel on your side. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Plenty,” he replies, but there’s no fear in his voice—only purpose. “But I’m not backing down.”
“Neither am I.” I spread my wings, feeling their power thrum through me. “This city doesn’t know what’s coming for it.”
As the night deepens around us, I sense the beginning of an alliance forged in the fires of our shared cause.
“Time to turn the tables,” I whisper, relishing the anticipation of the hunt.
 11

ROGUE

I never thought I’d miss the pearly gates, but they didn’t reek of mothballs and mildew like this place. My wings are itching to
come out as we stand in the damp alley, staring at the brick facade of our mission impossible.
Turning to Zane, I tilt my head at the wall. “You’re sure about the entry point?”
His grin could curdle milk. “Least used entry point means less stench of humanity or other living creatures. The nose
doesn’t lie.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” Ethan growls, impatient. “I’m tired of skulking around.”
“No one asked you to be here.”
“Actually, you did,” he replies with a shit-eating grin.
“You did,” Zane agrees, his stupid-ass grin even more infuriating. “You said we should wait for Ethan.”
“Oh, fuck off, assholes. Back to the script. We go in, we find what we need, and we get out before these bastards realise
their game is up.”
The headquarters stands before us, an old Victorian mill building swallowed by shadows. The windows are dark and
grimy; it looks abandoned, but we know better. A shiver runs down my spine – not from the cold, but from the sense of
wrongness emanating from behind those walls.
“Looks are deceiving,” Zane whispers as if reading my mind. He’s right; the place hums with a quiet malevolence.
“About right for a nefarious secret society.” The air feels dense, like walking through cobwebs that stick to your skin.
“Can you feel it?” Ethan asks quietly. “The wards are strong here. Old magic.”
“Great, add sorcerers to the list,” I mutter. “Just what we needed.”
We move closer, the silence oppressive, heavy enough to drown out the distant city sounds.
“Remember, keep your eyes open for any signs or symbols. This place will be laced with traps, both mundane and less so,”
I remind them, my hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of one of my blades concealed beneath my jacket.
“Less so?” Ethan smirks. “That’s cute. You mean demonic hexes that’ll roast your pretty little feathers.”
“Shut up and focus,” Zane cuts in, his eyes scanning the building. “We’re not here to exchange insults. Though I must say,
Rogue, your banter is always a delight.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide the grin that creeps onto my face. Playing with fire - and Zane’s charm - has always been a
dangerous game I can’t resist.
“Stay sharp,” Ethan reminds us, the humour gone from his voice. “This isn’t a social call.”
“Could have fooled me,” I whisper. But deep down, the weight of our task anchors me to the moment. This isn’t just about
breaking some seals or throwing a wrench in the society’s plans. It’s about exposing the rot, tearing it out from the roots before
they choke the life out of this world. It’s about cutting the head off the damned snake, but we have to figure out who, or what,
that is first.
“Ready?” Zane asks, his hand on the doorknob, which looks like it hasn’t turned in decades.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I affirm, meeting Ethan’s gaze. An unlikely trio, but here we are.
“Then let’s see what secrets this crypt is hiding,” he says, and pushes the door open. It creaks ominously as if warning us of
the darkness beyond. We step inside, into the maw of the beast, waiting for whatever twisted horrors are lurking, ready to jump
out at us.
The door groans shut behind us as darkness wraps its cold fingers around my senses. The air smells like dust and secrets,
the latter being what we’re here to unearth.
“Damn, it’s dark,” Ethan murmurs.
“Vampire, remember?” Zane’s whisper is right next to my ear, and I shiver at his close proximity. His night vision is our
first ace in the hole. “I’ve got this.”
“Show-off,” I joke, feeling the darkness ripple as Zane steps ahead, his form barely visible. With a sigh, I unfurl my wings
slightly, black feathers brushing against the walls, sensing vibrations, mapping out the room beyond.
 Zane stops suddenly. “There’s a guard up ahead.”
“Time for me to play,” Ethan whispers, and there’s a soft sound of movement - cloth over skin as he pulls his hood lower
over his face. Demon magic is all about deception and misdirection. He slips past us, a darker patch against the gloom, and I
hold my breath.
There’s a thud, muffled, which I assume is the guard dropping like a sack of potatoes, no doubt wondering what hit him in
his last moment of consciousness.
Nodding my approval, Zane gestures me forward.
“Keep moving,” he orders, and we do, through a maze of corridors lined with old stone, so cold it feels like it’s leeching
into my bones.
“Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” I mutter, though it’s rhetorical. Of course, they feel it. We’re infiltrating a
secret society’s lair; unseen eyes are a given.
“Every second since we stepped in here,” Zane confirms with a grunt, leading us deeper. “Now I get why you’re always on
edge if this is a regular occurrence for you.”
Pursing my lips, I don’t bother to respond. He—no one—has any idea what it’s like to be me.
The further we go, the more I learn how well these guys work together despite their natures. Zane’s vision, Ethan’s stealth,
my... whatever it is I do. It’s like a dance choreographed by fate, each step measured and precise.
“Dead end,” Zane hisses suddenly, stopping so abruptly I nearly collide with his back.
“Allow me,” I say, stepping forward. My hands find the cool surface of the wall, and I close my eyes, focusing. The stone
tells stories, whispers of hidden mechanisms, and I press in just the right spot.
With a click that echoes through the silence, a section of the wall swings open, revealing a narrow passage. “Voilà,” I
announce triumphantly.
“A magician now? You’re full of surprises,” Ethan mutters.
“Nope, just got the power, baby.” He doesn’t need to know that unlocking locked things is one of my powers. How the hell
else are angels supposed to get through the Gates? They aren’t kept open for anyone to just wander through.
“Let’s just hope this isn’t a one-way trip to a trap,” Zane comments, eyeing the passage warily.
“Only one way to find out.” I step through the opening, choosing to lead the way now, my blades drawn, the smooth metal
comforting in my grip. “After me, assholes.”
“Such a lady,” Ethan grunts, following Zane into the gap behind me.
“Watch your step,” I caution as the passage narrows, forcing us into a single file, with me leading the way. My wings tuck
in tight against my back, the feathers brushing the cool walls. It’s almost too quiet, the sort of silence that screams ‘ambush.’
But we press on, because turning back isn’t an option—not when we’re this close.
“Smells like trouble,” Ethan murmurs from behind.
“Trouble smells suspiciously like mildew and despair,” Zane adds dryly.
“Shh,” I hiss as we approach an ornate door, its surface carved with symbols that make my skin crawl. “Symbols,” I
whisper, pointing at the intricate carvings. They’re ancient, dark—enough to make my angelic heritage rear up in protest. The
figures are twisted, human forms bent unnaturally, shackled to the will of something much more sinister. “Humans, forced into
servitude by supernatural means. They’re not just playing with fire; they’re tossing napalm into the damn bonfire.”
“Those bastards,” Zane breathes out, his usual stoicism cracking under the weight of our discovery.
None of us are human, far from it, but once upon a time, Zane was. This must be hitting him a bit harder than Ethan and me,
and I’m pretty sick over it myself.
“If I had any doubts about carrying on, they just fucking vanished,” I growl, pushing the door open, my blades ready for
whatever hell lies beyond.
We slip into a shadowy chamber, the air ripe with the scent of old paper and dust. Along the walls, shelves brim with
artefacts: jars filled with swirling shadows, chains that wriggle with a life of their own, masks that seem to leer at us with
hollow eyes.
“Lovely,” Ethan murmurs, but it’s clear he is as disturbed by this as I am.
“Everything here is tainted,” I say, glaring at a chain. It writhes under my beady eye, seething with malevolent energy.
“These aren’t just relics; they’re tools. Tools they’re using to bend humans to their will.”
“Then we’re shutting this operation down,” Zane declares.
“Damn straight, we are. No one enslaves on my watch. Not while I’ve still got fight left in me.”
“Good,” Ethan says. “Because I have a feeling we’re just scratching the surface of what these assholes are up to and let me
tell you when I say we need to be seriously cautious right now, you’d better fucking believe me.”
A snarky remark is primed and ready to go, but I stop. Gulping it back, I take in the gravity of his tone and the hardened set
of his jaw. He isn’t fucking about, and he has just discovered something that I haven’t, but there is no part of me that hasn’t
curled up and screamed at me to run. This is bigger than we anticipated, but we are right in the eye of the storm. There is no
way out now that won’t be a maelstrom of chaos.
So, we keep going.
 12

ROGUE

S hadows seem to claw at my skin as we move deeper into the heart of darkness. It’s like walking through a tangible
nightmare, each step taking us further from the light and closer to... I shudder to think. Around us, the walls are lined with eerie
murals depicting scenes of servitude, humans bowing before monstrous figures that seem to mock us with their omnipotence.
“Fuck,” Ethan mutters in my ear. “This place is a mausoleum of souls.”
His words skitter over my skin like rats, filthy from the sewer. “Focus,” I snap, more to myself than to them. I’m on edge
more than ever before.
Zane’s hand brushes against mine, a silent promise of solidarity. His touch sends a jolt through me, reminding me of the
stakes. We’re not just here for shits and giggles. This is war—a war for the very essence of humanity. His simple touch grounds
me, but I shake it off, not wanting to think what that means.
“Did you see this?” Zane points to a fresco hidden in the gloom, its surface a tapestry of sinister symbols that make my
stomach churn.
“Symbols of control,” I say, tracing one of the sigils. It’s cold under my fingertips, colder than death itself. “They’ve been
playing god, deciding fates.”
“Playing god has a price,” Ethan whispers. “And these bastards’ tab is way overdue.”
“Agreed,” I reply. The grit within me hardens like a diamond. They have no idea who they’re dealing with, and I’m going
to enjoy teaching them.
We move on, the silence around us more oppressive than any crypt. Every shadow could be an enemy; every whisper of
sound is the prelude to an ambush.
“Jackpot.” Ethan gestures toward a cluster of objects that look innocuous until you notice the fine threads of darkness
weaving around them, connecting them like a spiderweb of malice.
“Fuck.” I can feel the vile energy emanating from them, calling to something primal and full of fury.
“These aren’t just artefacts. They’re anchors, chains to bind wills and spirits,” Ethan explains.
“Then let’s break them,” Zane says, and though his voice is calm, there’s a fire in his eyes that matches mine.
“Breaking them would alert the whole society we’re here,” I reason out loud. “Subtlety, remember?”
“Since when do you do subtle?” Ethan grunts.
“Since we decided to play ninja in the evilest den this side of Hades,” I retort, my gaze sweeping over the cursed
collection. “We gather intel first, then we bring the thunder.”
“Sounds like a plan, angel-face,” Ethan says, but I catch the concern flickering across his features. He knows the danger as
well as I do. “But we need to get a move on. All this lingering and chatting is getting us nowhere.”
Zane’s hand finds mine, squeezing briefly. It’s a silent message that sends strength ricocheting through my body that I
desperately need. Snatching my hand away, I glare at him before moving on, irritated when he grabs it again. Grudgingly, I let
him, feeling he needs it more than me right now.
We continue our clandestine exploration, uncovering more and more evidence of the society’s dark designs. With every
revelation, the knot in my gut grows tighter, my determination fiercer. They’ve been playing puppeteer with human lives for too
long. It’s time to cut the strings.
“Whatever it takes,” I vow beneath my breath, the words echoing in the hollow of my chest. “I’ll burn this place to the
ground if I have to.”
“Let’s hope we’re not in it if it comes to that,” Zane murmurs, echoing my thoughts. But we both know it might. And if it
does, I’ll be ready—with blades drawn and wings out, ready to strike.
The hallway ahead is a black maw, but I don’t flinch. Not when the darkness is just another playground for creatures like
us. Zane’s hand leaves mine, and I know it’s game time.
“Does anyone else feel like this is too easy?” Ethan mutters.
“Yep,” Zane replies.
 “Next up, the gauntlet or the pit of eternal damnation?” I muse aloud, half-expecting anything in this twisted labyrinth.
“Let’s keep moving.” The deeper we go, the thicker the plot seems to weave around us, tangling us further in its web. But
we’re not caught yet—not by a long shot.
“Rogue, check this out.” Ethan motions us over to a heavy, ominous door, its surface alive with more dark symbols. He’s
poised, every inch of him a deadly adversary. “They’re not even trying to hide it. This is big.”
“Or a trap,” Zane suggests, but there’s an edge to his nonchalance now. He can sense it, too—the abyss staring back at us,
hungry for our defiance. “I don’t like this. It’s like a funnel.”
“Only one way to find out,” I say, pushing the door open with a strength that belies my human guise. It creaks ominously,
revealing a vast chamber shrouded in gloom. In the centre, a massive stone altar dominates, surrounded by chains and
ceremonial knives that glint coldly in the dim light.
“Looks like we found the heart of the beast,” Ethan mutters, and though his voice is steady, I catch the flicker of revulsion in
his eyes. He’s seen enough of hell to recognise when it’s been invited topside.
“Or the beast’s playground,” I add, my blades drawn as I step cautiously inside. “Keep your eyes peeled.” I can feel the
weight of aeons pressing down on us, the very essence of the room tainted with malice and old blood.
“I hope you don’t mean that literally,” Zane mutters. His gaze is locked on a series of parchments scattered across a nearby
table. He skims them rapidly, his face growing grimmer with each passing second. “This isn’t just about humans. They’re
targeting supernaturals too. A purge.”
“And he’s caught on,” Ethan says, but with a hint of amusement now, as my worst fears have been confirmed.
This isn’t just about the domination of Earth but everywhere. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, The NetherRealms, The Wastelands,
you name it, they want it.
“Then let’s snuff it out before the worlds burn,” I declare.
“Wait,” Zane interrupts, his attention caught by something else. Reaching out with a slow and steady hand, almost as if he is
being compelled to, he picks up a small, blackened orb, its surface swirling with what looks like captured storm clouds.
“This...this is no ordinary artefact. It’s pulsing with power.”
“Zane! Drop it!”
“I can’t,” he says, panic in his eyes. “It’s got a hold of me.”
“Shit!” Reaching for it so I can forcibly remove it from his grip, I halt abruptly as the orb emits a pulse of energy so raw it
feels like a punch to the gut. “Holy fuck.”
“Unholy, more like,” Ethan corrects grimly. “I’ve felt this before. It’s a conduit, a channelling device. This could amplify
their rituals tenfold.”
“Which means we’re standing in ground zero for an apocalypse party,” I conclude as we stand there, the gravity of our
discovery settling upon us like a shroud.
“Guess we just RSVP’d,” Zane adds. “Told you it was a fucking funnel. And a trap. And an ambush!”
“Okay, vamp. Keep your fucking pants on. I get it.” My eyes scan the room for any more clues. But as I turn towards the
exit, a soft click echoes behind us, followed by the unmistakable sound of the door sealing shut.
“Guys...” Ethan starts, but I’m already at the door, pushing with all my might. It doesn’t budge, the symbols now glowing
ominously.
“Seems we’ve overstayed our welcome,” I snarl, spinning around to face whatever comes next, my blades ready to sing
their deadly song.
“Or we’ve just been invited to the main event,” Zane says, his fangs descending in anticipation.
“Either way,” Ethan adds, his hands igniting with eldritch flames, “they’ll regret locking us in here.”
“Let’s show them why,” I say, the thrill of the impending battle surging through me. But the question lingers, unspoken
between us: What exactly has the society unleashed, and can we stop it before it consumes everything in its wake? And the
bigger question for right now... how the fuck do we get out of here?
And then, in the oppressive quiet, a low hum begins to fill the chamber, emanating from the orb glued to Zane’s hand—a
prelude to chaos.
 13

ETHAN

T he air is heavy, charged with a tension so thick you could slice it with the proverbial knife. Or, in our current predicament,
with one of Rogue’s badass angelic blades that I want to get my hands on so badly, my palms are aching. Too bad she never lets
them out of her sight, not even for a second. I stand back to back with her and Zane, my breath misting in the cold, stagnant air
of our runic prison. We’re not just trapped; we’re caged animals on display for the horde of guards and their leashed
supernatural beasts that encircle us.
“Great,” Rogue mutters, her voice laced with that signature sardonic bite. “Of all the godforsaken creatures to end up
meeting my end with.”
“Hey,” Zane growls, but his aggression is more likely born out of fear of the object currently stuck to his hand.
“You, too, are godforsaken, my dear. Or had you forgotten that part?”
“Fuck off,” she snarls, baring her teeth and flashing one of those blackened blades in my direction.
Turning to stand next to her, our eyes fixate on the orb in Zane’s hand, its pulsating energy disgustingly powerful. It’s
claustrophobic, this space. A coffin for the living, designed to suffocate hope and amplify despair.
“Stay calm,” I murmur. “It’s feeding on the fear and making it worse.”
“Easy for you to say,” Zane grunts.
“Can you crush it with your supernatural strength?” Rogue asks. “It’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got, vamp-a-licious.”
He grins at her nickname, and I applaud her. She is giving him what he needs to forget about the fear and concentrate on
getting her the fuck out of here. I’m not complaining about his completely doe-eyed gaze. Whatever works.
“Zane, any time to try now would be fantastic,” I say, my tone just short of a snarl.
He nods.
The vampire’s pale fingers tighten around the orb, his face set in grim determination. He knows as well as I do that if we
don’t get out of here soon, we’re as good as dead—or worse.
“Patience, demon,” Rogue chides from beside me, her wings flexing with barely contained power.
“Enchanted orb or not, that thing has to have an off switch.”
“Or maybe it’s got a taste for blood.” Zane’s grin is all fang and has no friendliness. “Yours in particular, Ethan.”
Grimacing at him, I’m glad his sarccy attitude is back in place. This room, this building, has no room for fear. We need to
keep our heads out of our asses and focused on the game.
Not much gets under my skin, but the thought of being taken down by the very society that is trying to control me is one hell
of a bitter pill.
“The guards are here,” I mutter. “Hurry the fuck up.”
“You can hear them?” Rogue muses.
“Not a lot I don’t hear.”
“Good to know.”
“Focus, Zane,” I snap, trying not to think about the odds stacked against us. “That damned orb is the key.”
“Obviously,” Rogue says, her glorious blue eyes narrowing as she steps closer to examine the object. Her proximity sends
an unbidden shiver down my spine. Damn angelic aura.
“Any bright ideas, feathers?” I ask, though part of me already knows she’s three steps ahead.
“Working on it,” she replies curtly.
“Time’s not exactly on our side,” Zane points out, glancing at the door where our eager audience waits for the show to start.
“I’m out. This thing is not allowing me to do anything except speak and breathe.”
“You breathe?” My disbelief gets his back up.
“Fucking myth, you asshole.”
“So your heart doesn’t beat, but your lungs inflate and deflate? How the fuck does that work?”
“Who gives a fuck?” Rogue says. “We are sitting ducks here, and I, for one, don’t want to end up a l’orange’d.”
 “None of us do, dearie. But you know, the second we break that thing, we are literally in the fight of our lives.”
“Good,” she spits. “Take out a chunk of these assholes and send a fucking message.”
“Then let’s not keep them waiting,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “One way or another, we’re getting out of this trap.”
A moment of silence hangs between us, anticipation crackling through the air. Then, without warning, the orb’s light flickers
—a brief hiccup in its otherwise steady rhythm. It’s now or never.
“Maybe...” I begin, trailing off. I’ve got nothing. Each idea seems more futile than the last.
“Maybe?” she prompts, stepping closer. This time, there’s a hint of genuine curiosity mingled with her sarcasm.
“Maybe we need a new approach,” I concede, meeting her gaze again. There’s a begrudging respect between us, forged in
the heat of battle but buried beneath layers of animosity. “Vamp-a-licious here is useless. You, however, are not.”
“Meaning?”
“You try and bust it.”
“How? It’s stuck to him, and it is repelling me.”
“Rogue,” Zane says, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Take it.” He extends his arm, offering her the orb.
“Use your strength and take it. Ethan is right. I’m not strong enough, but you are.”
To my surprise, for once, she doesn’t argue. She just gets down to it and accepts that this might be our only way out. I know
I can’t touch it. It might be repelling her, but she is still standing and trading insults. I’m lucky to still be on my feet, and it’s
only through sheer stubbornness that I am.
Her hands are steady as she reaches for it, grunting when she pushes past the resistance. It glows frantically as her fingers
touch it, and it releases its hold on Zane to go to her, as if it was made to be held by her.
She cradles the orb, turning it over. It’s like watching someone handle a live grenade with the pin pulled.
“Show us some of that heavenly might,” I say, unable to resist jabbing at her ego. It’ll push her to get this shit done.
“Watch and learn, demon boy,” Rogue retorts. Her eyes close, and the air around us grows thick, charged with an energy
that sends shivers down my spine. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something about her – about this moment – that feels
significant.
Her fingers trace the surface of the orb, and the glow intensifies at her touch. The room fades away – the guards, the
creatures, even Zane – until there’s nothing but her, the orb, and the soft hum of power building in the cramped space.
“Come on, Rogue...” I whisper under my breath, more to myself than to her. My pulse races not with fear but with
anticipation. If she pulls this off...
The walls seem to pulse in time with the orb, and I can see the concentration etched on Rogue’s face. Sweat beads on her
forehead, her raven hair clinging to her skin. She’s a fallen angel, but at this moment, she’s more than that – she’s our saviour,
our last chance to get out of here alive.
“Disrupt it, damn it,” I mutter, feeling useless in the face of her ability. It’s maddening, relying on someone else’s powers
when I’m so used to being the one in control. But right now, I’d trade all my demonic strength for a fraction of her divine spark.
“Patience,” Rogue murmurs over the rising whine of the orb. “It’s not like flipping a switch, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I reply dryly, though I’m impressed by her focus and the way she seems to pull power from within
herself. There’s a connection between her and the celestial realm, however tenuous, that she’s tapping into.
“Almost... there...” she grunts through clenched teeth. The pulsing energy reaches a crescendo, and for a split second, I
think she’s done it. I think we’re free.
But just as quickly, the light winks out. The orb remains unchanged, and yet, something has shifted in the air, in Rogue.
She’s given everything she has, leaving her drained and vulnerable.
“Damn,” Zane curses softly. “That was close.”
“Close doesn’t cut it,” I snap, feeling the weight of our predicament crashing down on us again. But as I look at Rogue,
something twists inside me – not quite admiration, something darker. She risks everything and throws herself into the fray
without hesitation, and I can’t help but want that recklessness for myself – to possess it, to possess her.
“Give it a second,” Rogue says, her voice hoarse. “It might still work.”
“Or we might be screwed,” I counter. But deep down, I cling to the sliver of hope she’s ignited. Maybe she’s cracked the
orb enough for us to break free. And if we do, I know one thing for sure: my obsession with this infuriating, brave, impossible
angel has just begun.
Suddenly, the orb quivers in Rogue’s trembling grip, the energy inside it flickering like a faulty neon sign. It illuminates her
face in spasms of light and dark, casting strange shadows across her features.
“Did you see that?” she blurts out, the words laced with exhaustion and exhilaration. “It’s losing its shit!”
“Then lose yours,” I urge her, my own adrenaline kicking into overdrive. “Time to blow this popsicle stand.”
As if on cue, the orb dims, and I’m already moving, driven by the primal instinct to seize the moment before it slips through
our fingers. “Move!” I bark, pushing past Zane, who nods sharply, his vampire senses kicking up a notch.
“Wait!”
Rogue’s sharp voice stills both of us, and then she grins. “Now, you can go.”
 “You’re such a drama queen,” I grouse, but I’m suitably impressed that she broke the spell. It gives me an indication of just
how powerful she really is.
And it’s not only frightening, it’s arousing as fuck.
With a swift kick to the door, I flatten it, making some of the guards skitter back in surprise. None of them expected us to get
out of here. My focus narrows to the guards swarming around us, supernatural creatures snarling and ready to pounce.
“See you on the other side,” I grunt as we collide with the first wave of guards, and the room erupts into chaos. The sounds
of metal clashing against metal, growls, and grunts fill the confined space. I let loose a low, guttural roar, my demonic nature
clawing at the edges of my control, eager to unleash hell.
“Behind you, Ethan!” Zane calls out, and I pivot just in time to send a guard sprawling with a well-placed kick. He crashes
into the wall with a satisfying thud. I despatch another assailant with ruthless efficiency as I throw him a nod of thanks.
“Anytime,” he replies, his fangs bared in a deadly grin as he leaps into the fray.
Rogue is a whirlwind of deadly grace beside me, her blades zinging through the air. She moves with an elegance that belies
their lethal dance, each slice and thrust an extension of her will.
“Having fun yet?” I ask her, half-joking, half-admiring.
“Ask me after we’re not being mauled by monsters,” she pants, ducking under a swipe from a creature that looks like it
crawled out of my worst nightmares, and coming from me, that means a lot.
The orb rolls after Rogue, following her every move. It floats up next to her head and hovers over her shoulder like a
fucking enchanted parrot. She glances at it in annoyance, but this is very enlightening. Too bad, I don’t have time to reflect on it
as it pulses again, regaining strength, and the building shudders ominously. The damn thing is like a ticking time bomb.
Zane’s movements are a blur as he tears through the opposition with vampiric ferocity.
Rogue darts forward, slicing through bonds of magic and flesh alike, her wings unfurling defensively as debris falls from
the ceiling. Her courage and unyielding spirit draws me in, sharper than the edge of her blade.
“Watch it!” she snaps, her wings shielding me from a falling beam. In that moment, my world narrows down to her – this
fallen angel who fights with the fury of heaven itself.
“Fuck,” she grunts as she takes the hit, stumbling only slightly.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, surprised by the assist, which does nothing to quell my burning desire for her all of a sudden. It
only throws fuel on the fire.
“Don’t mention it,” she responds, her gaze fixed ahead. “Now, let’s get the hell out of this place!”
 14

ETHAN

T his building is an inferno of violence, a symphony of chaos where every note is a scream or the clash of steel. I’m caught in
its deadly rhythm, my body moving with unholy precision as I dispatch anything that dares to stand between us and freedom.
I feel Rogue’s eyes on me as she watches me tear into another assailant. She’s sizing me up. She knows nothing of my true
powers, and I’d hoped to keep it that way for a little while longer. But my self-preservation instinct is higher than my secrecy
one, and right now, I have my priorities realigned.
My hands glow red hot, incinerating flesh from bones in a sickening sizzle she doesn’t recoil from.
An explosion rocks the ground beneath our feet, sending shards of metal spraying like lethal confetti. She swears, dancing
back on nimble feet, but I can see the shock hasn’t dimmed the fire in her eyes.
She dodges a blow from a guard whose eyes glow with dark intent, but her gaze never seems to leave me. I can tell she’s
reassessing, recalculating what she thought she knew about demons, about me.
Launching myself into the air, my fiery demonic wings unfurl with a whoosh, scattering enemies like leaves in a tempest.
“Christ alive!” Zane exclaims as he stops mid-punch to stare at me.
“Wrong side, asshole,” I grunt and then snicker when Zane gets his face smashed in for losing focus.
“Show-off,” Rogue mutters under her breath, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. I know
exactly what she’s thinking because I’m thinking the same thing—a dance amongst the stars, just the two of us.
Frowning as this thought settles uneasily on my shoulders, my hands forge paths of destruction, searing through armour and
enchantments alike as I land like a cat. The floor trembles beneath us, groaning with the strain of battle.
“Rogue, on your left!” I call out, not because she needs the warning, but because it gives me an excuse to watch her move.
She’s poetry in motion, a blur of blades and feathers, each strike a testament to her defiance.
Spinning around and dispatching her foe with a swift, fluid motion that speaks of years honed in combat far above the
clouds.
Something twists inside me, something that goes beyond the heat of battle. It’s darker, deeper, a hunger that has nothing to
do with bloodlust.
“Let’s wrap this up!” Zane interjects, a reminder that we’re running out of time, that the orb is still a threat ticking away
near Rogue’s head.
She is ignoring it like a champ, but if that thing were so close to my head, I’d be freaking the fuck out. I like my face
attached to my skull, not on the floor.
“Agreed,” I grunt, pushing forward.
We’re a whirlwind of power and fury, tearing through our adversaries with a single-minded purpose—to survive, to
escape, to keep fighting another day, and all that bull. But deep down, I know it’s not just survival driving me. It’s something
about the angel with black feathered wings and eyes bluer than the sky she fell from. Something about Rogue that makes me
want to defy even the most bottomless pits of Hell itself.
“Door’s ahead!” Zane shouts, his keen vampire senses cutting through the mayhem.
“Move!” I bark, and we surge forward, Rogue slicing through a wave of brambles whose sole purpose is to slow us down.
She moves with a motivation that’s intoxicating.
“Cover me!” Rogue yells, charging ahead to clear a path with her blades. I’m right behind her, my demonic essence
thrumming through my veins, ready to obliterate anything—or anyone—that stands in our way.
“Got your back, angel face,” I reply, the words tasting like irony on my tongue. An explosion rocks the room, sending metal
shards spraying like deadly rain. I shield Rogue with my body, feeling the sting of shrapnel biting into my flesh. It’s nothing;
pain is an old friend.
“Thanks, fire wings,” she retorts, her tone lighter than our predicament deserves. “But let’s save the cuddling for later.”
Together, we’re unstoppable—an unholy trinity bound by necessity, if not by choice.
“Almost there!” Rogue pants, sweat mingling with the blood on her brow. Yet her eyes, those piercing blues, are alight with
fierceness and fury. She’s a creature of both heaven and hell, and in this moment, I see her as the dangerous enigma she truly is.
Ahead lies the exit, a sliver of hope in the encroaching darkness. We race towards it, the promise of freedom spurring us on
as the building groans around us, desperate to bury us in its dying throes.
“Through that door, and we’re clear.”
But even as we near escape, I feel the pull of something darker than the shadows we leave behind—the allure of the
enigmatic Rogue, whose light shines all the brighter in my infernal gaze.
The orb near Rogue’s head pulses like the heartbeat of some ancient, vengeful god. Its light grows erratic, its hum
intensifies, and the walls of our prison shudder. Dust cascades down from the ceiling, a harbinger of the hell about to break
loose.
“Son of a—“ Rogue’s curse is cut short as the ground beneath us trembles.
“Stay alert,” I warn, my voice steady despite the rising tide of chaos. Our exit teeters mere feet away, yet it might as well
be miles, given the resurgence of the orb’s power.
“Fabulous. Now it’s throwing a tantrum,” Rogue snaps, her blades at the ready as she glances between the quaking walls
and the glowing menace on her shoulder.
“Damn it,” Zane grunts. “What the fuck is it doing?”
A slab of the ceiling plummets towards us, and time seems to stutter. In a flash of raven feathers and sapphire eyes, Rogue
positions herself, her wings arching protectively above us. The debris crashes against her divine barrier, crumbling harmlessly
away.
“Nice catch,” I say, half-mocking, half in awe. There’s an inexplicable pull I feel towards her—a gravity that tugs at the
darker corners of my soul.
“Keep moving!” she urges, her voice trembling over the din of battle.
That had to hurt like fuck, yet she is still on her feet, moving forward. She is a queen, and I don’t make that statement
lightly.
I watch, entranced, as she whirls and sways through the fray, her blades extensions of her will. She is an avenging angel
amidst the ruin, and the sight kindles something primitive inside me. Something possessive, obsessive—a desire to see that
ferocity turned towards me alone.
“Rogue! Left side!” Zane yells, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Got it!” She pivots, her blades slicing through the assault with deadly precision.
“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but nice teamwork,” I admit grudgingly, as we cut through the opposition, our combined
might pushing us closer to freedom.
“Admit it, you’d be lost without me,” she shoots back, her smirk making my cock hard.
“Keep dreaming.”
I spit blood from my mouth from a punch that nearly knocked my block off and focus on the enemies before me. Yet, her
image keeps invading my thoughts—her selflessness, her courage, how starkly it contrasts with everything I’ve ever known.
The world tilts as we lunge forward, the building groaning its swan song. Zane stumbles, but I yank him back to his feet
with a grunt. “Move your ass, vampire.”
We surge towards the exit, a triumvirate of power and desperation. Zane throws his weight against the door. It yields with a
final, protesting screech. Cold air rushes in, greedy for the warmth of our battered bodies.
“Freedom,” Zane breathes, a rare note of relief in his voice.
“Doesn’t mean we’re safe,” Rogue warns, scanning the streets with eyes that have seen centuries.
“Since when do we need safe?” I scoff, stepping over the threshold, the night’s embrace tight around us.
“Good point.” She stretches out her wings once more before tucking them away, masking her divinity with the leather jacket
that clings to her like a second skin.
“Come on,” Zane nods toward the city lights. “Let’s get back to your place and plan our next move.”
“Ah, my apartment, where all bad decisions start,” Rogue muses with a smirk.
“Or end,” I add darkly, unable to shake off the image of her wrapped in black feathers, the embodiment of every sin I’ve
ever craved.
“Always the optimist, Ethan,” she laughs, the sound mingling with the sirens in the distance. We’ve caused enough of a stir
to alert every law enforcement agency known to man. “I hope your guy on the inside is going to cover for us,” I grouse. “You
know, seeing as he sent us in there in the first damn place.”
“He didn’t send us, we chose to go,” Rogue argues. “But his info was accurate, and we got what we were looking for.”
“A fight?”
“Their endgame.”
Her gaze locks onto mine, serious, all signs of sarcasm and sass gone. We are up shit creek so far without a paddle or even
a fucking boat.
“We’ve got a long night ahead. And something tells me it’s only going to get rougher from here.”
 Her words echo in my mind as we disappear into the shadowed streets, the orb’s threat a mere whisper now we are in the
open. But it’s not the danger that consumes my thoughts—it’s Rogue. My obsession deepens with each step we take, the line
between ally and desire blurring in the dark.
 15

ROGUE

L eaning against the cool brick of an alleyway, the moon is a silver sickle in the sky as I watch Liam make his stand. He’s
outnumbered five to one, each thug with a glint of otherworldly malice in their eyes. Zane stands beside me, a hungry smirk
playing on his lips as he observes the human who’s fool enough—or brave enough—to confront supernaturals.
“I’m calling it a night,” Ethan mutters beside me. “This has been a total pain in my ass that I wasn’t expecting.”
“You say that like it’s not one in ours.”
“Yeah, well. Demon, out.” He snaps his fingers for the flare, I’m sure and disappears.
Don’t blame him. I wish I could just leave. He has proven himself, though. There is no way he would have risked life and
limb earlier if he hadn’t wanted to take these guys down. Not once did I feel like he was double-crossing us. Trust is a long
way off, if ever, but a hesitant acceptance that he wants to take down the society as much as we do will have to suffice.
“Think lover boy can handle himself?” Zane asks, his voice a dark melody that matches the night.
“Watch and learn.” My gaze is fixed on Liam. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his broad shoulders and the
set of his jaw. The man has guts—I’ll give him that, and as much as it chafes to admit it, my bruised wings are a testament to the
fact that we’re not playing tag with these society goons; they hit back hard. My healing factor might be tapped out, but my pride
sure isn’t.
Liam’s stance shifts, and suddenly, he’s not just some cop—he’s a force, commanding the space around him with an
authority that belies his humanity.
“You think you own this city?” His words slice through the distance to us, fierce and defiant. “You think you can terrorise
people, pull strings like we’re puppets?”
“Doesn’t sound like he got the memo about the society wanting to put everyone—humans and our kind—on leashes,” I
comment dryly, knowing full well the magnitude of what we’re witnessing.
“Guess he skipped that newsletter,” Zane says, but even he can’t hide the edge of concern in his voice.
“Looks like we have a bigger problem than we thought,” I say, more to myself than to Zane. Liam’s voice echoes in the
hollow of the night, every word a reminder that the secret society’s reach goes far beyond mortals.
“Seems your boy has a death wish.”
“Or maybe he just has something worth fighting for,” I murmur, pushing away from the wall. A ripple of pain reminds me of
the earlier brawl.
Liam’s fist connects with a supernatural jaw, the crack shattering the silence, and my heart thrums with a warrior’s hunger.
It’s clear now, as clear as the stark moonlight illuminating the scene before us—this isn’t just a street fight. It’s a declaration.
“Ready to play hero, angel delight?” Zane nudges me, his fangs glinting with anticipation.
I don’t look at him as I step forward, the shadows clinging to my wings like cobwebs. “No. Leave him to it. He’s got this
covered, and as much as I hate to be like Ethan, fallen angel out. I’m done in.”
“Thank fuck,” he groans in relief. “I’m aching everywhere.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Everywhere?”
He grins and shakes his head. “Everywhere but there.”
The chaos of the fight fades into the background as Zane and I slip through the shadows, his hand firmly grasping mine. The
electric buzz in my veins has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the man I leave behind—Liam.
Seeing him out there fighting the good fight has left me feeling something fuzzy in my heart. It’s disturbing and annoying.
“You okay?” Zane’s voice cuts through the thick night air, a thread of concern weaving through his usually cocky tone.
I shake my head, forcing back the image of Liam standing tall against the darkness. “Just thinking about our next move.”
“Always plotting,” he chuckles, pulling me closer. His breath is cold against my neck, sending shivers down my spine that
don’t entirely stem from his vampiric chill.
“Someone has to.” My mind remains wrapped around Liam’s determined stare, the way his muscles flexed under the strain
of combat. There’s an intensity to him that draws me in—a flame threatening to singe my carefully constructed apathy. I’m not
worried about him. He will kick their asses and then some. It’s just who he is.
As we reach my apartment, Zane’s hands roam over my body with familiar greed, igniting a fire that should burn away any
other thoughts. But even as he kisses me, fiercely claiming every part of my being, I feel like I’m betraying more than just the
casual nature of our liaison. It’s not Zane’s name that threatens to escape my lips—it’s Liam’s, and it drives me forward with a
passion that I’ve yet to unleash on this vampire in my life.
“God, you’re insatiable,” Zane murmurs against my skin as I devour his mouth, biting his lips, knowing it will drive him
wild.
Beneath it all, there’s a whisper of something else—something that shouldn’t be there. A longing for a connection that goes
beyond the physical, beyond the thrill of danger and the rush of battle.
I lose myself in the tempest of sensation and desire, allowing the storm to swallow me whole. Zane rips the clothes from
my body, his mouth latching onto my nipple, sucking it hard, grazing his teeth over it. I arch my back, demanding more as his
hand drops between my legs to my clit.
He strokes me, his fingers finding a rhythm that sends electricity through my body. I cry out, my voice lost in the swirl of
pleasure that steals my breath away.
Zane’s hand speeds up, his grip firm as he moves me closer to the edge. My body trembles with anticipation, and I know
that I’m about to lose myself in the heat of the moment.
“Fuck, I need you,” Zane growls.
His erection is hard and ready against my thigh. I reach down, pressing my hand against his cock through his pants. He
grabs my hand and forces me to squeeze him hard, groaning as I increase the pressure. With a burst of vampire speed, he
shoves me against the wall and moves in close, undoing his pants quickly. Grabbing him, I lift my leg and wrap it around his
waist before I guide him inside my aching pussy. He groans as he thrusts into me, slow and deep.
“Fuck,” I moan when he picks me up, and I wrap my other leg around him.
His cock is gorgeous, and it’s slacking the thirst of desire I’ve been chasing. He fills me, the sensation overwhelming me.
Tightening my grip on him, I pull him closer, and he responds by thrusting deeper. Our bodies move together, a fierceness of
desire and lust.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he mutters.
I moan, my hands gripping his shoulders tightly, my nails sinking into his cool flesh.
The room is alive with the sound of our bodies slamming together, the sweat and lust making our skin glisten in the
moonlight.
“Yes, harder,” I breathe, my body craving more.
Zane obliges, his thrusts growing even more intense as his fangs glisten in the moonlight. I can feel the building orgasm, the
electric energy coursing through my veins.
“Yes,” I groan, my pussy walls clenching around his solid cock as I start to climax.
Zane growls, his own release imminent. He grips my hands tightly, pressing them up above my head as he pins me to the
wall with his body. His cock withdraws and then slams back into me, shaking the foundations as I scream his name.
“Zane!”
“Fuck, Rogue,” he rasps. “Fuck, yes.”
With one final thrust deep into my pussy, he lets go, his cum filling me up as I milk him for what seems like forever.
But when the storm passes, and Zane leans his head against mine, his cock still buried deep inside me, sated and oblivious
to the turmoil I’m experiencing, I’m left wondering why Liam’s face is the one I seek among the shadows. Why does his
courage speak to my own restless soul in ways that Zane’s wild abandon struggles to reach?
When Zane steps back and takes my hand, leading me to the bed so we can start all over again, I shove him down and
straddle him. I want the control now. I want the thrill of seeing him lose it underneath me. His vampire nature is a godsend;
hard and ready for me again so soon, I waste no time and slide down his cock, my hands resting on his chest as I lock gazes
with him.
He loses himself as I ride him, working my hips slowly, rotating them as his cock stiffens even more inside me.
As our bodies move together in a rhythm of lust and passion, sweat and desire, I think about Liam.
Zane’s muscles ripple under my palms as I lean down to kiss him, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, tasting him. His
groans vibrate against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. His hips buck up, meeting each downward stroke of mine. Our
bodies slap together, creating a beat that echoes through the empty room.
The smell of sex drives me wild. Each groan escaping Zane’s throat is like a shot of adrenaline straight to my core as we
pick up speed, lost in the heat of our frantic fucking. Our fingers lace together tightly, nails digging into skin as we seek our
release.
“Angel,” Zane pants, his hands gripping my hips possessively as he watches me ride him. He can’t get enough of watching
me move on him, his eyes dark with desire as I take him deeper and deeper inside me. “That’s it,” he groans, encouraging me to
set a faster pace.
 I bite my lip hard in an effort not to cry out as his dick fills me up completely, hitting every sensitive spot I have. My body
trembles with need, and I lean forward to meet his lips again, our tongues duelling hungrily. The taste of our mouths mingle
together; salty sweat, warm skin, and undeniable lust.
I reach down between us and pinch my aching clit, twisting it until I feel the familiar sparks of pleasure building up again.
“Fuck,” I whisper against his mouth. “I’m close.”
Zane’s hips jerk upward violently, meeting mine in a frenzied rhythm. With a final thrust deep inside me, his cock twitches
and throbs. I cry out his name as the orgasm rips through me. My pussy clutches him possessively, violently, bordering on
savagely.
“More,” he pants. “Fuck, more, Rogue.”
I give him everything I’ve got until his cock detonates inside my pussy, flooding my body with his cum until it pours back
out in a noteworthy creampie.
“Fuck, vamp-a-licious,” I gasp. “Eat it.”
His groan of unadulterated lust is muffled as I scoot up to queen him. His mouth attaches to my pussy, and he laps up our
cum like it’s nectar from the gods, his fingers digging painfully into my ass.
He drags his tongue over my clit. Screaming his name, I tremble as the climax slams into me, my thighs tensing with the
severity of the orgasm.
“Rogue. Fuck, Rogue.”
Throwing my head back, I release my wings, letting them flap up a tornado of desire and sexual pleasure as my pussy
clenches around his tongue.
 16

ROGUE

D awn is a reluctant participant, offering only the faintest light as I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb Zane’s rhythmic
breathing. He’s out cold, dead to the world in a way only the undead can be. He jokes about not needing to sleep, but after last
night, he needs to heal. We all did. I think that’s why Ethan chose to head out suddenly. That was a fucking bitch fight, and my
wings are still a bit achy. The rest of me is raring to go, though. I need air—space to think—so I dress quietly and leave my
apartment with the ghosts of last night’s revelations trailing behind me.
Outside, the city’s waking hum feels distant, like an echo from another life. I wander aimlessly until I find myself at the
edge of an abandoned lot, where concrete gives way to weeds fighting for dominion. And there he is, standing amidst the ruins
like a beacon of righteousness in a sea of decay—Liam.
Now how the fuck did my wayward wandering lead me straight to the man I’m trying not to think about.
“Didn’t peg you for an early riser,” he calls out.
“Insomnia’s a bitch.” I shrug, stepping closer. The chill of morning clings to him, forming an aura that seems to whisper
secrets of vulnerability.
“Rogue...” His voice trails, and it’s as if he’s reaching for something unsaid.
“Spit it out, copper.”
“Are you okay?” There’s genuine concern there, cutting through the usual banter.
“Me? Peachy.” But even as I say it, I know the jig is up. He sees right through me, which I find extremely unnerving. Damn
those earnest eyes.
“You left quite a mess in your wake.”
“Always do.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Hell, yeah. You know this runs a whole shitload deeper than first expected.”
He nods slowly. “The demon filled me in.”
“Ethan?” Well, colour me surprised. “How co-operative of him.”
“He didn’t have a choice.”
Nodding, I laugh softly. “I see.”
“You fight like someone with nothing to lose.”
The suddenness of his remark catches me off guard momentarily. “Maybe I don’t,” I reply, my gaze dropping to the ground.
It’s easier than admitting the truth—that fighting is what I have left, all I’m good for.
“Everyone has something to lose, Rogue.” Liam steps closer, and I can feel the gentle pull of his presence.
“Ah, but you see, Officer, I’ve already lost it.” I look up, meeting his gaze squarely. “I fell, Liam. From grace, from
Heaven, because I wanted to change things. And now, here I am, grounded with mortals and monsters.”
“Change things?” His voice is soft, coaxing the story from my lips.
“Even angels get tired of playing by the rules. I wanted freedom. Choice. Maybe even a little chaos.” My laugh is hollow,
echoing off the silent buildings around us.
“Sounds like you were fighting for something important.”
“Was I?” My wings itch beneath the leather jacket, a reminder of what I used to be. “All I got for my troubles was a one-
way ticket down here and a knack for pissing off the wrong people.”
“Sometimes the wrong people need to be pissed off,” Liam counters, his tone light, but his eyes serious.
“Easy for you to say. You haven’t lived with the consequences of rebellion stamped on your back.” I turn away, but he
gently grabs my arm, stopping me.
“Rogue, everyone has scars. Yours just happen to be more literal.”
“Scars, sins, semantics. You ever wish you could just start over?”
“Every damn day,” he admits, and it’s like a confession, a shared secret between two souls caught in the twilight of what-
could-be and what-is.
“Good thing we’re not cats, then. One life’s trouble enough.”
“Depends on how you live it,” Liam says, and there’s a challenge in his voice that makes something within me stir—a
reckless hope that maybe not all is lost.
“Look at you, getting all philosophical before breakfast.” I attempt to steer us back to safer waters, but the current of
honesty between us is strong, unyielding.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he says, a smile lighting up his eyes briefly.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Only if you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I admit, and it’s not entirely about food. There’s a hunger in my soul for connection, for a fresh start, even if I’m
too stubborn to fully acknowledge it.
“Let’s find you something to eat then,” Liam says, offering his arm in a gesture so old-fashioned it’s almost charming.
I take his arm, allowing myself this one small comfort. For now, the past can wait. We walk together, shoulder to shoulder,
into the uncertain light of a new day.
“Dammit, Liam,” I mutter, fighting the urge to turn back, to lean into the promise of comfort in his presence. “Why did you
have to be such a good guy?”
“Guess we don’t always get to choose who we are,” he says softly. “Or who we care about.”
“Then maybe we should learn,” I snap, conflict raging and confusing me. I want to let go, to give into the connection that
thrums between us, but the fear of history repeating itself, of falling too hard and being left shattered, holds me back.
“Maybe,” he agrees, and there’s a finality in his tone that tells me he’s stepping back, giving me the space I’m demanding,
even if it’s the last thing I actually want. “Rain check on breakfast, okay?”
“Sure.” The word is hollow as I watch him walk away, leaving me alone amidst the shadows and the ghosts of what might
have been.
 17

ROGUE

T he city breathes a nocturnal sigh as I perch on the edge of my building’s rooftop, legs dangling over the side. Below, the
streets are veins of light, pulsing with life and danger in equal measure. The chill air soothes the chaos in my mind, a welcome
numbness against the turmoil within.
Who knows how long I’ve been sitting here? Some time, I know that. Long enough for the sun to go to sleep and the moon to
wake up.
“Zane.”
“You okay?”
“We’re good together, aren’t we?”
“Fuck, Rogue. We’re bloody fantastic.” He laughs, sitting next to me. “Why so glum?”
I let out a dry chuckle, leaning into him. It’s familiar, easy. No strings, no entanglements—just raw, untamed pleasure. But
even as he rests his head on top of mine, I feel like I’m clinging to a lifeline fraying at the edges.
With Zane, it’s always been about the thrill, the chase, the escape from the heavy burden of a past that clings to me like a
wet cloak.
He lifts my chin up to face him. His kiss is demanding, all-consuming, a temporary oblivion that drowns out the doubts and
what-ifs.
But there’s a crack in the facade. My thoughts betray me, flitting to Liam’s earnest eyes, the way his voice holds a note of
something genuine, something more. A dangerous territory for a fallen angel who’s tasted betrayal sharper than the edge of her
own blades.
Pulling back slightly, I sigh. “Do you ever think about more?”
“More?” He raises an eyebrow, his hands still tracing patterns of desire down my bare arms. “What’s more than this? This
freedom, this power, this endless night?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, forcing conviction into my tone, even as doubt creeps through the cracks. Isn’t this enough? The
adrenaline, the passion, the uncomplicated simplicity of flesh and fangs?
Pulling me closer again, he seals the conversation with another fiery kiss, but it lacks his usual vigour. He is thinking about
what I’ve said, and it’s bothering him. I hate that I know this. I hate that I know him well enough to determine his moods. Is it
the same with him? Have we fallen into a relationship without even knowing it?
The emptiness in my chest widens. I remember Heaven’s light, the purity of purpose, the sharp sting of exile. And now, here
in this tangled web of darkness and desire, I grapple with the shards of a trust long shattered by lies and loss.
Never again.
Zane’s touch becomes a distraction rather than a pleasure, a means to silence the whispers of a heart too scarred to risk the
fall.
“Zane,” I murmur, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside. “This is all I need.”
“Knew you were a smart girl,” he replies with a grin that is beyond forced and it makes tears prick my eyes for the first
time in... I shudder when I think back to the last time I cried. Expelled from Heaven, crashing from grace as my wings scorch
from the humiliation and disgust, tears coursed down my face, the tears of an angel never fallen before.
Or again.
Until now.
Turning my face away from Zane, I watch the stars blink one by one. They’re distant, detached, safe in their solitude.
Maybe they’ve got the right idea.
It has to be enough.
“Dawn is coming,” I murmur.
“It’s a while off, yet, but come inside with me?”
“I’m not ready.”
Another random document with
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—Según y conforme. En el presente caso, se trata de una mujer
joven, hermosa, nacida, como quien dice, en el llamado gran
mundo, unida á un pobre segundón de la Montaña, abogado sin
porvenir...
—No hoy, ¡vive Dios! que lo que más te sobra es la buena fama.
—Gracias al apoyo que me prestó aquel hombre generoso...
—Poco á poco, y vamos á ajustar bien esa cuenta. El padre de
Isabel, parte de cuya reputación, en sus últimos años, se la dió la
inteligencia, el talento... sí, señor, el talento de su joven pasante,
tuvo al morir el deseo, más que el deseo, el empeño de que Isabel,
su hija y única heredera de su inmensa fortuna, se casara contigo.
—Por lo mismo—dijo Carlos, con menos entereza de la que
aparentaba,—Isabel es para mí una prenda sagrada, un santo
recuerdo de tan noble protector. Además, entre Isabel y yo no
existía una pasión, ni mucho menos: yo acepté su mano con más
reconocimiento que amor, y ella la mía sin repugnancia, hasta de
buena gana; pero nada más.
—¿Y qué quieres decirme con eso?—repuso con vehemencia
Ramón;—¿que no tienes derecho alguno sobre tu propia mujer?
¿Que no es su honra la tuya?
—Líbreme Dios de pensarlo—respondió Carlos visiblemente
contrariado con el rumbo que tomaba el interrogatorio.—Pero Isabel
es buena, es honrada, me profesa hoy un cariño arraigadísimo;
tengo, en fin, completa confianza en su virtud, y no puedo, no debo
separarla de ese elemento en que se ha educado, y por lo cual no la
daña.
—¿Y si la dañara?
—¡Ramón!
—Antes me has dicho que quieres vivir prevenido.
—Es cierto; pero hay asuntos de tal delicadeza...
—Corriente: respetemos esos asuntos frágiles; pero dime en
conciencia, ¿no es verdad que viviendo ambos en perfecto acuerdo,
con respecto á gustos y á costumbres, seríais mucho más felices?
—¡Quién lo duda?
—Pues tratad de vivir así.
—Es peligroso el intentarlo, porque para ajustarse al gusto del uno,
tiene que violentarse el otro... Además de que, como te he dicho,
cabe también la felicidad en nuestro actual sistema de vida.
—Lo creo; pero no lo comprendo.
—Porque para juzgar ciertas cosas hay que mirarlas desde la altura
conveniente. Desengáñate, Ramón: la vida que tú haces en el
pueblo no es la más á propósito para comprender la de este otro
mundo.
—Podrá ser—replicó Ramón con fingida sinceridad,—que ciertas
cosas de por acá no sean en el fondo lo que nos parecen á los
rústicos de por allá, y entonces tú estás en lo cierto; pero yo creía
que las razones de sentido común tenían la misma fuerza en todas
partes.
Evidentemente molestaba mucho á Carlos esta conversación, en la
cual cerraba siempre el paso á sus evasivas el buen sentido de su
hermano. Así, pues, resuelto á cortarla á todo trance, púsose de pie,
y, fingiendo echar á broma el asunto, dijo á Ramón alegremente:
—Ayer viniste á Madrid por primera vez en tu vida, y aún te
encuentras desorientado. Deja que lleves algún tiempo más á mi
lado, y entonces, con las necesarias luces, aclararemos éste y otros
puntos análogos que tan obscuros te parecen hoy. Entre tanto,
vamos á dar una vuelta antes de almorzar.
—¡Cómo una vuelta!—dijo Ramón, á quien le dolían las piernas de
recorrer las calles.
—Salgo todos los días á estas horas un rato. Tú estás cumplido
conmigo, y puedes quedarte en casa si no quieres acompañarme.
—¡Pues no faltaba más! ¿He venido yo á Madrid para eso?
—Entonces aguárdame un instante mientras me visto.
Y con tal objeto, Carlos entró en su habitación.
No le quedaba á Ramón la menor duda, por el interrogatorio á que
acababa de someter á su hermano, de que éste y su mujer eran
diametralmente opuestos en gustos é inclinaciones; es decir, que se
hallaban, según su criterio, de patitas en el sendero por el cual
llegan más pronto los matrimonios á tirarse los trastos á la cabeza.
Ramón amaba hasta con delirio á su hermano, y se comprende.
Eran, los dos, únicos hijos de un honrado mayorazgo montañés que
había muerto con la pena de no dejar una fortuna á cada uno.
Ramón, el mayor de los huérfanos, era el más fuerte y más apegado
á las cosas del país. Carlos tenía otras inclinaciones y otro tipo: era
más idealista y más fino. Como la escasa herencia no bastaba para
sostener á los dos hermanos en una posición enteramente
desahogada, haciendo el mayor, muy gustoso, un sacrificio, pasó
Carlos á Madrid á estudiar una carrera, eligiendo la de abogado, por
prestarse mejor á las tendencias de su carácter. Los triunfos
obtenidos durante sus estudios recompensaron cumplidamente las
privaciones á que Ramón se sometía gustoso en su aldea con
objeto de que Carlos viviese con algún desahogo en Madrid.
Concluida su carrera, y merced á la brillante fama que dejaba en la
universidad, tuvo la fortuna de que le llevara á su lado una
celebridad forense que contaba en su avanzada edad casi tantos
millones como triunfos ruidosos. Lo demás lo sabe el lector. Cuando
Ramón tuvo noticia del proyectado enlace de su hermano, poco
después de morir su protector, creyó volverse loco de alegría. Sin
embargo, no tuvo valor para acceder á las reiteradas instancias de
aquél asistiendo á sus bodas. El ruido que barruntaba en ellas no se
avenía bien con la patriarcal sencillez de sus costumbres. Prefirió
visitar á Carlos más adelante, y así lo hizo, pero tardando año y
medio en cumplir su palabra. Llegó á Madrid á las altas horas de la
noche, y encontró á su hermano muy atareado en su despacho.
Isabel se hallaba en un baile, y cuando vino á casa la acompañaba
un joven, extraño á la familia, muy elegante, muy afectuoso con ella,
y muy ceremonioso con su marido, que no parecía ni fijarse siquiera
en semejante circunstancia. Á él le escoció tanto, que le hizo soñar
después algunos desatinos; y soñó despierto mucho más, cuando
hubo sondeado el espíritu de su hermano en la forma que
conocemos. La impasibilidad del rostro de Carlos al recibir á su
mujer la noche anterior, ¿era hija de una confianza absoluta, ó de
una resignación estoica? Lo primero le parecía muy expuesto; lo
segundo muy indigno, y ambas hipótesis inadmisibles en un hombre
de buen sentido. De todas maneras, lo que estaba presenciando en
casa de su hermano no era ni lo que éste merecía, ni lo que él se
había imaginado. Por todo lo cual, y después de meditar un rato.
—Se me antoja—pensó,—que mi viaje á Madrid me ha de dar algo
que hacer.
En esto Carlos, en traje de calle, apareció á la puerta de su
habitación, precisamente al mismo tiempo que entraba Isabel en la
sala por la puerta de enfrente.
Todo el adorno de su persona consistía en un blanco sencillo
peinador que la envolvía el talle, y el cabello prendido con el más
natural abandono. Sin embargo, estaba hermosa en la acepción
más legítima de la palabra. La hermosura de Isabel era
verdaderamente clásica, hasta el punto de que, por la severidad y
corrección de sus formas y proporciones, parecía un mármol griego.
Era ligeramente rubia, con ojos que no eran enteramente negros;
ojos que, por la firmeza y tranquilidad con que miraban, jamás
revelaban el verdadero temple del alma que á ellos se asomaba.
Tras una fisonomía como aquélla, lo mismo podía albergarse el
fuego de todas las pasiones, que el hielo de todas las indiferencias:
todo parecía caber en aquel busto majestuoso, menos la pueril
veleidad de femenil coquetería. Y así era, en efecto, Isabel, que
había nacido para no ser una mujer vulgar, era por naturaleza
refractaria á esas mil frivolidades que forman el encanto de los
salones para la inmensa mayoría del bello sexo. Educada en el
«gran mundo» casi desde niña, le amaba porque no conocía otra
cosa mejor, y tomaba de él lo que más se adaptaba á su carácter: la
ostentación, pero sencilla y sin el menor alarde. Con ese recurso, á
faltas de un título nobiliario, y sin más ejecutoria que su belleza y su
elegancia, había conquistado el primer puesto en cuantos salones
frecuentaba, que eran cabalmente los más aristocráticos de Madrid.
Que tuvo aduladores y apasionados, aun después de casada, no
hay para qué decirlo. Mas como ninguno de ellos logró siquiera
hacerla meditar un solo instante, no se cuidó de observar el efecto
que en ellos causaban sus desdenes. Tomaba del mundo lo bueno
con lo malo; y lo malo era, en su concepto, entre otras plagas, la de
esos hombres tenazmente conquistadores. Juzgábalos, en fin, como
una molestia necesaria, pero no temible; deshacíase de ellos como
de las moscas en verano, y nada más.—Bueno es que consten
estos ligeros apuntes en honra y gloria de Isabel.—Pero ésta era
mujer al cabo, y como tal, ó mejor dicho, como de la falsa madera
humana, no podía menos de ser débil por alguna veta; y la veta de
Isabel era la ostentación, que ya hemos dicho que constituía el
único ó el mayor atractivo que parecía ofrecerle el gran mundo: por
lo tanto, esta mujer, que no se curaba jamás de los admiradores que
pudieran quemar incienso en los altares de otras bellezas; que veía
impasible y desdeñosa pasar á su lado intrigas amorosas, rencillas
de etiqueta y otras menudencias análogas, no podía prescindir de
echar una mirada de curiosidad al talle, al cabello ó al vestido de la
más apuesta dama que se permitiera la osadía de aspirar á
igualarse con ella en lujo ó en novedad siquiera, ya que no en
elegancia. Yo les aseguro á ustedes que, aunque ella jamás
provocaba la lucha, una derrota en este terreno, si no la
desesperaba ni la desconcertaba, porque al cabo tenía talento,
cuando menos la hacía meditar mucho. Es preciso que conste bien
esta otra circunstancia, porque no se juzgue como impropio de su
carácter algo que más tarde pueda ocurrir á nuestra heroína. Por de
pronto, es segurísimo que, sin una preocupación por el estilo, no
hubiera madrugado tanto como madrugó en la ocasión en que
acabamos de verla aparecer á la puerta de su gabinete; madrugada
que llenó de asombro á su marido, porque no acostumbraba á verla
levantada hasta la hora de almorzar.
—Os he sentido hablar aquí—dijo Isabel respondiendo al saludo de
Ramón y á la exclamación de sorpresa de Carlos,—y he salido á
saludaros.—Y usted—añadió dirigiéndose á Ramón con deliciosa
afabilidad,—¿no ha extrañado la cama?
—¡Extrañar!...—respondió Ramón, verdaderamente encantado ante
los atractivos de su cuñada.—Con salud, conciencia tranquila y
larga jornada, duermo yo sobre un pedernal, cuanto más sobre
mullidos colchones.
—Y tú, Carlos, ¿cómo estás?
—¿Yo?... perfectísimamente,—respondió éste esforzándose por
sonreir.
—Protesto,—interrumpió Ramón, dispuesto á aprovechar aquella
coyuntura que se le ofrecía para entrar en materia.
—¿Cómo es eso?—dijo Isabel sorprendida.
—Ha de saber usted, Isabel,—continuó su cuñado...
—Poco á poco—interrumpió Carlos á su vez, con notoria intención
de cambiar de asunto,—ese usted no pasa delante de mí. ¿No sois
hermanos? Pues tú por tú, como Dios nos manda.
—Aceptado desde luego,—dijo Isabel alegremente.
—¿Sí?—añadió Ramón, haciendo una pirueta;—pues á llano no me
echa nadie la pata. Y en prueba de ello prosigo diciendo que te
decía, Isabel, que Carlos...
—Que no decías nada, ó que no sabías lo que decías—interrumpió
precipitadamente Carlos,—porque nos vamos en seguida. Repara
que Isabel aún no se ha vestido, que es ya muy tarde y que, si
hemos de almorzar hoy después de pasear, no tenemos tiempo que
perder.
—Te veo,—pensó Ramón.
—¿Ibais á salir, quizá?—preguntó Isabel.
—Estábamos ya en marcha, como quien dice,—respondió Carlos,
empujando á Ramón hacia la puerta.
—Pues, andad, que luego hablaremos... digo, si no es tan grave el
asunto que no admita dilación,—repuso Isabel, mirando con sonrisa
burlona á su cuñado.
—¡Bah! gravísimo,—dijo Carlos.
—¿Crees que no?—le contestó Ramón muy serio.
Carlos soltó una carcajada.
—Corriente, hombre—dijo Ramón encogiéndose de hombros y
apretando el nudo de su bufanda.—Pues en el cuerpo no se me ha
de pudrir,—añadió por lo bajo. Y continuó en alta voz:—Conque, en
marcha; pero quedamos Isabel y yo, en que...

II
Dos nuevos personajes que van á entrar en escena, exigen de mi
escrupulosidad algunas palabras que los den á conocer
previamente. Son personas de calidad, y à tout seigneur, tout
honneur.
Refiérome al marqués y á la marquesa del Azulejo, que habitaban el
cuarto segundo de la casa en que nos hallamos con el cuento.
El marqués, que lo era por derecho propio, rayaba en los cincuenta
eneros, pues me consta que no eran abriles, y era todo lo orondo,
cepillado, bruñido, risueño y perfumado que puede ser un aristócrata
que vive de sus rentas, no escasas, y que no tiene nada que hacer...
Digo mal: este marqués tenía una obligación de pura vanidad,
merced á lo que daba por bien empleada la sujeción á que le
condenaba de vez en cuando su cumplimiento.
Era en Palacio yo no sé qué cosa muy honorífica, á manera de
saca-bancos: ello es que le valía el derecho de gastar su poco de
tricornio y aun sus remedos de espadín, amén de la indispensable
bordada casaca, los días de gran ceremonia en la corte. La
marquesa, que, antes de serlo por su casamiento, no pasaba de ser
una infanzona tronada con amagos de hambrienta, no era mucho
más joven que su marido, y como él se conservaba, aunque con el
auxilio de ciertas mistificaciones, rechoncha y bien parecida. Los
gacetilleros de la prensa elegante, la llamaban «deliciosa» y
«confortable»; pero la verdad es que no pasaba esta señora de ser
una jamona bien conservada, hablando en vulgo neto. Eran, en
suma, el marqués y la marquesa, tal para cual, por lo que hace á
figura. Con respecto á genio, ya variaba el asunto. El marqués era
dúctil, bonachón, incapaz de enfadarse... todo «un nazareno»; la
marquesa era impresionable, hasta vidriosa, tornadiza y exigente.
Por eso, siempre que estaban juntos más de media hora, reñían; es
decir, reñía la marquesa. El marqués atribuía estas incongruencias
de carácter á la falta de un vástago que hubiera dado un poco de
atractivo constante al hogar doméstico, pues es de saber que el tal
matrimonio, á este respecto, había sido tenazmente infecundo.
Debo hacer una salvedad, sin embargo. De recién casada la
marquesa, dió á luz un heredero; pero se puso tan nerviosa con el
lance, y llegaron á serle tan insoportables los jipidos de la criatura,
que hubo necesidad de echar á ésta de casa y encomendarla á los
cuidados de una aldeana.
Á los dos meses de hallarse el niño en el campo, fué un día á
Madrid la nodriza con las ropas del ángel de Dios, diciendo que éste
se había largado al otro mundo de un hartazgo... y que allí estaba
aquello. La marquesa soltó un grito de sorpresa y un par de onzas
de propina para la nodriza; recogió el hatillo como un recuerdo, y no
tuvo el lance más consecuencias... ni el marqués más herederos.
Firme éste en sus propósitos de no fomentar con sus indiscutibles
derechos domésticas desavenencias, había ido cediéndolos de tal
manera, que hasta su propia personalidad había quedado absorbida
en la de su mujer, para los efectos ordinarios del trato social.
Llamábanle en el mundo el de la Azulejo, y este mote afrentoso le
califica mejor que cuanto yo pudiera decir, sabiendo, como ya se
sabe, que el título nobiliario era suyo y no de su mujer.
Pero todas estas abdicaciones importaban un rábano al santo varón,
porque al precio de ellas le era lícito entregarse de lleno á la
satisfacción de todos sus caprichos y pasiones.
¡Y qué pasiones las del señor marqués!
¡Y qué calaveradas!
Algo más graves eran las que se contaban de la marquesa, pero yo
nunca las creí. Tenían un encanto especial para ella los hombres de
moda, y le gustaba atraerlos á su lado, por pura vanidad solamente.
En cuanto al afán con que seguía sus pasos cuando de ella se
separaban para quemar incienso en otros altares, nada más
inocente en un carácter como el de la marquesa, cuyo flaco era la
curiosidad llevada á la exageración.
Y precisa era la más refinada mala fe para juzgarla de otro modo,
cuando era notorio que, á los pocos años de casada, su verdadera
pasión fué la mística. Frecuentaba los templos; pedía á las puertas
de ellos para todas las comunidades y asociaciones religiosas
habidas y por haber; protegía las casas de Beneficencia; paseaba
con las Hermanas de la Caridad, y enseñaba la doctrina á los niños
de la Inclusa. Todo, por supuesto, sin perjuicio de sus obligaciones
mundanas, pues no estaba reñido, como ella decía, el trato de Dios
con el trato del mundo.
Más acá sufrió un cambio bastante notable su modo de ver esas
cosas. Quizá para la esfera en que habitaba no fuera del mejor
gusto su exagerado misticismo: yo no lo sé; pero es lo cierto que de
repente, dejando algunos de sus rezos públicos y sin romper por
completo con la caridad de Dios, entregóse de lleno á la filantropía.
Ingresó en varias asociaciones de este jaez, y, por último, fué
miembra de una consagrada exclusivamente á la regeneración
social de la doncella menesterosa, cargo en el cual la encontramos
nosotros, alcanzando señaladas victorias y dedicándole lo mejor de
su tiempo.
Congratulábase el marqués de ver á su mujer tan bien entretenida, y
sólo le pedía á Dios que apartase de ella el demonio de la
curiosidad, que era el que le obligaba á él muchas veces á andar
hecho un zarandillo averiguando vidas ajenas para satisfacer un
antojo que, después de todo, para nada servía á su mujer, puesto
que se trataba de tal cual calavera que sólo á Dios debía las
cuentas de su conciencia. Lamentábase también de este defecto,
porque á menudo le acarreaba inesperados trastornos en su vida
íntima, en la cual se dejaba sentir el consejo caprichoso del último
extraño, antes que el suyo propio.
Curiosa la marquesa por carácter, y ya en segunda fila por edad, es
excusado decir que las mujeres que más brillaban en los salones
que ella frecuentaba eran el objeto preferente de su curiosidad. Y
como Isabel brillaba sobre todas, Isabel fué la que más le llamó la
atención. Por eso se hizo su amiga, y después su vecina, y, por
último, su sombra. Con ella iba á todas partes; con ella volvía, y en
su casa entraba treinta veces al día, si treinta veces pasaba por
delante de sus puertas, bajando ó subiendo la escalera. Por
supuesto que no se le ocultaba á Isabel la causa verdadera de
aquella adhesión sin ejemplo; pero se reía de ella, la utilizaba en
cuanto le era conveniente, y se resignaba gustosa á lo demás. La
verdad es que la marquesa, en medio de tantos cuidados, no estaba
á gusto en ninguna parte, ni dormía tranquila una sola noche.
La en que llegó Ramón á Madrid fué de las más borrascosas,
alcanzándole al marqués no pequeña parte de la borrasca,
empujado por la cual fué á dar el apreciable matrimonio al primer
piso la mañana siguiente, en el momento mismo en que se
disponían á salir Carlos y Ramón, y sin dejar á éste concluir la
comenzada frase la estrepitosa locuacidad de la marquesa, que
tomó el salón como terreno conquistado.
Hago gracia al lector de aquella granizada de palabras y de otras
muchas que fueron su consecuencia; de la cara de vinagre que
puso la marquesa cuando supo que un hombre tan ganso como
Ramón podía ser cuñado de Isabel, y del pasmo que se apoderó de
Ramón al presenciar aquella invasión inesperada.
—¿Y á qué debemos el gusto de ver á ustedes tan temprano
honrando esta casa?—preguntó Carlos socarronamente cuando
más tarde le fué posible hacerse oir.
—Acontecimiento, ¿eh?—respondió el marqués entre burlón y
quemado.—¡Les digo á ustedes que ni lo de Waterloo!...
—Tan oportuno como siempre—observó la marquesa mirando á su
marido con gesto del más soberano desdén.—Para este hombre—
continuó,—no hay más asuntos importantes que los suyos.
—Egoísmo de sexo,—dijo Isabel.
—Ó falta de seso,—murmuró Ramón hacia su hermano.
—Pero, en fin, ¿de qué se trata?—volvió á preguntar Carlos,—
porque la verdad es que ya se halla vivamente excitada mi
curiosidad.
—Señores—respondió la marquesa, tomando cierta actitud
parlamentaria.—Se trata de un asunto que, á ser exclusivamente
mío, puedo asegurar á ustedes que no me hubiera sacado de casa
un minuto antes de lo acostumbrado; pero como entraña intereses
de la asociación...
—¡Oiga!—exclamó Ramón muy serio.
—¿Conque de la asociación nada menos?—dijo Carlos.
—De la asociación,—le repitió el marqués en tono campanudo,
atreviéndose á hinchar los carrillos como si tratara de comerse una
carcajada.
—De la asociación, sí, señor—recalcó la marquesa mirando á su
marido con ojos de basilisco.—Y ahora, juzguen ustedes—añadió
dulcificando la voz y la mirada,—y vean cómo, si bien la patria no
peligra por la importancia del suceso, vale éste lo necesario para
justificar mi presencia aquí á estas horas.
Dióse la marquesa unos golpecitos sobre los labios con su leve
pañuelo de batista, y continuó así:
—So pretexto de hallarse enferma y de ser huérfana, una joven de
veinte años solicitó nuestro amparo. Tocóme por riguroso turno el
despacho de la solicitud; pasé á casa de la solicitante; aprecié sus
necesidades; propuse á la Junta los socorros que juzgué
necesarios; se aceptó la proposición, y la huérfana los percibió
puntualmente por espacio de tres meses. Hace quince días se nos
manifestó, por persona competente, que la socorrida compartía la
pensión con un amante, de la peor especie. Llamósela; negó los
hechos; se instruyó la sumaria en toda regla; resultaron muchos
indicios vehementes y no pocas circunstancias agravantes; informó
al tenor de ello la fiscala, y la presidenta decretó para hoy la vista
del proceso en la sala de audiencias, con toda la solemnidad de
reglamento. Ahora bien: yo defiendo á la acusada, y al efecto tengo
señalada la palabra para esta tarde á la una; mas como la
tramitación ha caminado tan de prisa y no he podido estudiar el
asunto á mi placer, voy ahora mismo á la secretaría á dar un repaso
al expediente. Conque ¿se van ustedes enterando?
Ramón quedó, no sólo enterado, sino atónito; los demás personajes
de la escena, que ya tenían bien conocida á la relatora, la dedicaron
un «bravo» de los más estrepitosos.
—Ahora—añadió ésta,—díganme ustedes si el asunto vale bien la
pena. Se trata de una denuncia que puede privar á una desvalida de
un socorro necesario, ó ser causa de que se aplique á otra persona
más digna de él; no veo, pues, por qué no se han de depurar los
hechos hasta que resulte clara y palpable la verdad.
—La prueba plena,—dijo Carlos.
—Justamente. Y de todas maneras, por trivial que sea mi ocupación
de hoy, nunca lo sería tanto como la de mi marido. ¿Saben ustedes
qué es lo que le saca de casa tan temprano y no le ha dejado
conciliar el sueño en toda la noche? Pues la colosal empresa de
probar un tronco.
—Poco á poco—dijo el marqués con mucha formalidad.—No negaré
que un asunto semejante, en absoluto, no es para desvelar á nadie;
pero conviene saber que cuando este nadie soy yo y el tronco es
para mis carruajes, el asunto tiene más de tres bemoles. ¿Hoy es
viernes? Pues bueno: desde el último lunes llevo probados,
comprados, vendidos ó cambiados, tres pares de caballos.
—Y ¿por qué esos caprichos?—preguntó Carlos.
—Que se lo diga á usted mi mujer.
—No le hagan ustedes caso—se apresuró á replicar la marquesa.—
La verdad es que si él tuviera mejor gusto para comprar...
—Si hubiera más fijeza en los tuyos...—repuso el marqués un poco
sulfurado.—Pero en saliendo á la Castellana dos veces con un
mismo tronco, ya te aburres de él... digo, te obligan á que te
aburras; y esto es lo que á mí me carga.
—¡Cómo es eso!—exclamó Isabel fingiéndose admirada.
—Muy sencillamente—respondió el marqués.—El amiguito de casa,
el consabido títere á la moda, el indispensable vizconde del Cierzo,
que helado le sople á él; este mequetrefe, digo, que, como ustedes
saben, sale con nosotros muy á menudo, tiene la peregrina
costumbre de desacreditar mis caballos. Si son alazanes, porque no
son negros; si negros, porque no son alazanes; si andaluces,
porque no son ingleses; si ingleses, porque no son andaluces... y
así hasta el infinito. Pues bien: mi mujer, que en materia de gustos
es tornadiza como una veleta, apenas oye al vizconde la emprende
conmigo... y adivinen ustedes el resto.
—¡Qué exagerador!—exclamó la marquesa con voz ronca y como
tratando de romper el pañuelo entre sus dedos crispados, fingiendo
una indignación que estaba muy lejos de sentir.
—Por lo cual—continuó su marido sin hacerla caso,—he resuelto
comprar enteramente al gusto del señor vizconde; y por eso,
después de haberme comprometido ayer tarde á cambiar dos
caballos que compré anteayer, le he citado á mi casa para hoy á fin
de que vayamos juntos á la prueba esta misma mañana; pero como
de costumbre, ha faltado á la cita. Mi mujer tenía prisa; el chalán
está avisado para dentro de un cuarto de hora, y temiendo que otro
me lleve la pareja si no acudo á comprometerla á la hora convenida,
dejé en casa recado al vizconde para que vaya á reunirse conmigo...
y aquí me tienen ustedes en marcha. Conque, con franqueza, ¿es
empresa de tres al cuarto la que voy á acometer? ¿Está bien
justificada mi desazón de anoche?
La marquesa continuaba exagerando su indignación al oir á su
marido; Carlos é Isabel se miraban, y Ramón, no pudiendo soportar
la calidad de aquellos dos, para él extraños caracteres, excitaba por
lo bajo á su hermano á salir cuanto antes á dar el proyectado paseo.
Complacióle Carlos, y despidiéronse ambos sin grandes
cumplimientos, acompañándolos el marqués y quedándose la
marquesa todavía al lado de Isabel «unos instantes» que robaba de
buena gana á su defendida, para dedicarlos «al amor entrañable
que consagraba á su amiga».
Solas las dos, exclamó la marquesa con grandes aspavientos:
—¿Pero has visto qué marido, Isabel?
—¿El tuyo?
—Me da fatiga su estupidez.
—No sé por qué.
—¿No le oíste?
—¿Lo del vizconde?
—¿Y te parece poco?
—Ríete de ello.
—Sí, cuando pasa entre nosotros; pero ese majadero lo mismo lo
cuenta en la Puerta del Sol, ó en pleno Casino.
—¿Y qué?
—La maledicencia cunde.
—Teniendo la conciencia tranquila como tú la tienes...
—¡Oh, lo que es eso!... Pero ocurre casualmente que ese hombre
ha dado en asediarme con la más pegajosa galantería, y hasta
parece que hace ostentación de ello...
—No importa: la virtud siempre triunfa.
—Vamos, Isabel, que si á ti te sucediera... Y á propósito—añadió
con el tono de la mayor inocencia,—también á ti te distingue con no
escasas atenciones.
—Distinciones bien poco placenteras, por cierto,—repuso Isabel
ingenuamente.
—¿De veras?—dijo su interlocutora sonriendo maliciosamente.
—¿Y puedes tú creer otra cosa?—respondió Isabel de un modo que
impuso á la marquesa.
—Pues anoche no lo creería nadie al veros,—se atrevió ésta á
insistir.
—Mucho nos mirabas.
—Soy curiosa, ya lo sabes.
—Ó aprensiva.
—¡Isabel!...
—Repara, amiga mía, que no te llamé celosa; y mal pudiera
llamártelo, cuando, según tu propia confesión, las atenciones del
vizconde, lejos de agradarte, te molestan.
—Y te lo repito.
—Pues entonces...
—No es una razón el que á mí me desagraden sus obsequios, para
que á ti...
—Muchas gracias, marquesa.
—¿Por qué me las das?
—Por el favor que me dispensas haciéndome capaz de aceptar lo
que á ti te repugna.
—Cuestión de gustos, Isabel, que no afrenta á nadie.
—¿Me permites que te llame inocente?
—No me atrevo yo á llamarte otro tanto.
—Pues haces mal; y me lo llamarías con mucho derecho si supieras
qué me preocupaba anoche cuando tú creías que me estaba
absorbiendo el seso la galante travesura del vizconde.
—¿De veras?
—Palabra de honor...
—Si no temiera ser indiscreta...
—Si tú me prometieras no reirte de mí...
—Te prometo estar más seria que un doctor en estrados.
—Pues bien: me preocupaba la de Rocaverde.
—¡Ésa te preocupaba?
—Precisamente ella, no.
—¿Sus públicos alardes con el banquero?
—Tampoco.
—¿Con el general?...
—¡Eh! hija, todo lo conviertes en substancia. Nada de eso.
—Pues entonces no atino...
—El vestido que llevaba.
—No era una cosa del otro jueves, á no ser la novedad de su dibujo.
—Pero le había traído la modista para mí.
—Pues la culpa fué entonces de la modista.
—Á quien ella engañó con indignos embustes.
—¿Y eso es todo?
—Lo de anoche sí; pero antes me había ocurrido otro tanto con un
aderezo, y antes con un carruaje, y antes con una porción de cosas
más que no necesito decirte.
—Como tú estás de moda y ella es muy vana... Porque de otra
manera no comprendo esa pugna, de que debes reirte.
—Me reí la primera vez, y la segunda... y aun la tercera; pero en
fuerza de hallarme á esa mujer atravesada delante de mis deseos, y
de verme contrariada á cada instante por tan ridícula manía, ha
llegado á causarme el efecto irritante de una mosca impertinente.
—Pues tienes contra ella un remedio eficacísimo.
—¿Cuál?
—Sus escasas rentas. No tardará en rendirse por hambre.
—Sí; pero entre tanto, me martiriza... y me martiriza, porque yo soy
la primera en conocer todo lo pequeño y pueril del asunto... ¡No
sabes cuánto daría por tener noticia de un deseo suyo para
contrariársele, especialmente antes de su reunión de esta noche!
—¿Estás invitada á ella?
—«La primera», según me afirmó.
—Te vendré á buscar entonces.
—¿Luego vas tú también?
—Yo soy la segunda invitada, puesto que tú eres la primera. Á mí no
me disputa los vestidos, porque no estoy de moda como tú; pero en
cambio cree que me lastiman mucho sus intimidades con el
vizconde, y procura que las presencie con la frecuencia posible.
—De manera que el tal vizconde es universal...
—Está de moda también... Pero ¡Dios mío!—exclamó de repente la
marquesa cambiando de tono y poniéndose de pie.—Mi pobre
defendida está perjudicándose con mi conversación.
Y tendió sus manos y presentó ambas mejillas á Isabel.
—Quedo haciendo votos por el mejor éxito de tu noble empresa,—
dijo ésta dándola un beso en cada carrillo y recibiendo otros dos
simultáneos.
Y con esto y los apretones de manos y los adioses de ordenanza,
salió la marquesa de la sala y quedóse en ella Isabel un poco
pensativa.
Habíale enconado mucho sus resentimientos con la de Rocaverde el
recuerdo de ésta evocado con su amiga, y se daba á cavilar con
más empeño sobre un plan de venganza tan pronta como ejemplar.
Esto por una parte. Por otra, la sospecha de sus intimidades con el
vizconde, manifestada por la condesa, no dejaba de escocerla un
poco el ánimo. Verdad era que su conciencia estaba tranquila;
verdad también que á la marquesa la hacía hablar un despecho de
mal género, y verdad, por último, que la tal marquesa no tenía un
adarme de sentido común; pero ¿no podía haber nacido aquella
misma aprensión en otras personas más discretas? ¿Y á qué fin
había de sospechar nadie de ella, que era honrada y leal á sus
deberes?
La verdad es que Isabel permaneció largo rato sumida, aunque no
muy profundamente, en esas meditaciones, y que sólo salió de ellas
cuando un fámulo llegó anunciándole la visita del vizconde del
Cierzo.
—¡Que no estoy visible!—exclamó con ira, encaminándose rápida á
su gabinete.
Pero no tuvo tiempo de llegar á él. Acababa de entrar y se hallaba
delante de ella, planchado, perfumado, pulido, rizado, intachable de
elegancia y apostura, el anunciado personaje.

III
Antes de pasar más adelante, van á saber ustedes quién es ese
dichoso vizconde tan traído y tan llevado.
Tenía apenas veinticinco años cuando murió su padre, dejándole
una renta de cincuenta mil duros. Era hermoso, cuanto puede serlo
el maniquí de un sastre parisiense, y había recibido la más acabada
educación en los mejores picaderos, garitos y otros puntos
culminantes de Madrid: en todas partes, menos en la universidad.
Así, pues, conocía en literatura el género flamenco, y en historia el
reinado de don Juan Segundo, el famoso picador de caballos.
Por ende, tuteaba á Cúchares, se hombreaba con Leotard, y
conocía á los artistas del hipódromo con todos sus pelos y señales.
Aunque de la pata del Cid, don Francisco Pérez de Vargas,
Guzmán, Machuca, Moncada, etc., etc., y por contera vizconde del
Cierzo, en la necesidad de elevarse á la región social que sus
instintos apetecían, desprendióse de buen grado, como de otros
tantos estorbos, de sus apellidos linajudos, y quedóse Francisco
Pérez á secas. Pero, en su afán de popularidad, parecióle esto
todavía poco gráfico. Faltábale al nombre cierto aderezo
indispensable á un personaje de su posición y de sus aficiones.
Felizmente, un banderillero resolvió la dificultad, llamándole una
noche, en el Suizo, Frasco Pérez. Desde aquel instante quedó
aceptado el nombre como mote de guerra, y comenzó á volar su
fama por todos los rincones de Madrid y un poco más afuera.
Su prurito era la originalidad, y ésta la ostentaba en calles y paseos,
en sus trajes, en sus trenes, y hasta en el dije más insignificante que
llevara sobre su persona. Los sastres se le disputaban para vestirle,
los zapateros para calzarle y las fábricas de coches para
construírselos ajustados á su fantasía. Impuesto de este modo su
gusto á los artistas, quienes de éstos se valían, por necesidad, no
tuvieron más remedio que pagar algún tributo á las originalidades de
Frasco Pérez.
Alardeaba de rumboso, y lo era; y para correr la fama de sus
proezas de este género, contaba con un estado mayor de
admiradores que, por afecto á su persona, y no por lo que se les
pegaba, comían con él, asistían á su palco en los teatros, montaban
sus caballos, paseaban en sus carruajes, y hasta se ponían sus
abrigos.
Contábanse de él mil originalidades. Ya, que daba la puntilla á los
caballos, ó que pegaba fuego á los carruajes que había regalado á
sus queridas desechadas; ya, que hacía forrar de terciopelo y oro
las paredes de la cuadra de su jaca favorita; ya, que regalaba una
fortuna en pedrería á una bailarina en la noche de su beneficio; ya,
que enviaba á planchar las camisolas á París, después de haberlas
lavado en Andalucía... En fin, todo se contaba de él menos que
hubiese dado jamás unos calzones viejos á un pobre. Eran, pues,
sus gastos reproductivos, si no en dinero, en fama, que era lo que él
buscaba; ambición tan legítima como cualquiera otra.
Pero esta fama no paraba en Madrid. Cándidos forasteros seguían
de lejos la marcha triunfal de Frasco Pérez, y al tornar á sus
hogares se creían muy honrados si llevaban una levita que se diera
un aire á las que gastaba el famoso madrileño. Y de él le hablaban á
usted en todas partes, y referían sus hazañas más ruidosas, y,
aumentando el entusiasmo con la distancia, casi le ponían en la
categoría de los grandes hombres de la época. De este modo,
Frasco Pérez era tan popular en las capitales de provincia como en
la de España; hasta el punto de que, provincianos que llegaban
primerizos á Madrid, preguntaban dónde podrían conocer á Frasco
Pérez, antes que por posada en que albergarse.
Cuando ya nada le quedó que ambicionar en punto á gloria, y
cuando su caudal había sufrido no pequeña merma, acordóse de
que existía otro campo en que espigar, en el cual podrían darle fácil
entrada la fama de sus prodigalidades y su olvidado título nobiliario.
Así fué que, sin largas meditaciones, dejó la elegancia cursi con que
tanto había brillado, los gabanes á media nalga, los tacones
hiperbólicos, las corbatas de fantasía, los carruajes vaporosos, los
lacayos macarenos, etc., etc., y se dió al boato serio: al saco de
anchos vuelos, al severo frac, á la nívea corbata, al cochero
asturiano de maciza pantorrilla, y á la grave carretela; olvidó las
bailarinas por las marquesas, y se introdujo resueltamente en los
salones del gran mundo, que se creyeron muy honrados al dar
albergue á aquella oveja descarriada hasta entonces entre las
escabrosidades y malezas de la vida airada.
Comenzaba á favorecerle también la fortuna en sus nuevas
empresas, cuando se encontró con Isabel, y no tardó en conocer la
diferencia que había entre este carácter y los que hasta entonces
había tratado en la «buena sociedad». Parecióle su conquista, ya
que no imposible, muy difícil, y trató de acometerla con los recursos
de la estrategia más acreditada. Al efecto, estudió el terreno y
estableció su principal batería en el de la marquesa del Azulejo, de
facilísimo acceso, desde donde podía hostilizar á su gusto el objeto
de sus afanes. Así se explica su familiaridad con Isabel, familiaridad
que tanto había chocado á Ramón. Era el íntimo amigo y
acompañante de la marquesa, y ésta no se separaba jamás de
Isabel. Conocía perfectamente las horas á que estaban en casa y
fuera de ella los distintos individuos de ambas familias, y sabía
sacar gran partido de esta circunstancia.
Dígalo si no su falta de asistencia á la cita que le dió el marqués,
según acabamos de oir á éste. Lejos de acudir á ella, observó desde
sitio conveniente la salida de las personas que hemos visto
despedirse de Isabel; subió á casa de la marquesa cuando estaba
seguro de no hallarla en ella; bajó á la de su amiga, donde se coló
como hemos dicho, y fingiendo sorprenderse mucho al encontrarla
sola.
—Mil perdones—dijo:—me acaban de asegurar arriba que hallaría
aquí al marqués, y me he permitido...