King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

She paused, dipped her hand in the soapy bucket beside her though she didn’t turn to look at him. “It’s not coming out.” She sounded winded and upset. “It’s like sticking, and this water is hot and I squirted the whole bottle of dish soap into it and it shouldn’t be sticking and I”—she shook her head, her voice now tremulous—“I mean, it’s blood, right? It should just come off, nice and easy.” She exhaled and kept on. “I just . . . it’s soaked into the wood or something, and I don’t know why it won’t come off. I . . .” Her voice broke, and she continued in a whisper, “I just want it gone.”

She bent over once more, her slight shoulders hunched as she swiped furiously at the floor, then paused. “Do you know where she . . . where she is?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“No. I’m sorry.”

She waited a second, then began to scrub again, her hand circling fast.

Something unthawed inside him, a chunk of ice breaking free. It had been so long since he’d experienced any emotion other than ones tinged with darkness that he wasn’t sure what it was.

But he’d take it. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

Azaiel stripped his jacket off, threw it onto the table, and grabbed another sponge from the kitchen counter. He felt the weight of her blue eyes following him as he knelt beside her.

“You don’t have to . . . I can do this . . .” she whispered, shaking her head.

Azaiel dunked the sponge into the warm water. “I know you can,” he said gruffly, “but you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Chapter 3

Rowan woke with a start, her chest pounding and muscles tight. She flung her legs over the side of the bed and leaned over the edge, groaning, as the room spun. Oh God, she felt like she was going to throw up.

She pressed her head between her knees in an effort to stop the panic inside. The terror beat at her mercilessly, and she knew if she didn’t get it together, she’d lose it big-time. So she squeezed her eyes shut and tried with all her might to make the panic go away.

Long seconds ticked by and eventually her breathing returned to normal, her heart rate slowed. Sweat pooled along the top of her lip, and she clenched shaking fingers into a fist. It had been forever since she’d suffered an attack.

Her lips thinned. Six years would be her forever. Fucking Salem.

She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears and glanced around her old bedroom. The furniture seemed smaller than she remembered, antique white dressed in soft pastels that were heavy on the pink. Hot tears stung the corner of her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily.

A long, shuddering breath escaped as her thoughts turned to her grandmother.

Rowan’s clenched hands tightened, the nails biting through skin until she drew blood. The pain was good. She deserved it.

Her grandmother had died alone. Violently. That was on Rowan, and one day she’d grieve properly. But not now. There was no time. She had much to do.

Her overnight bag was on the floor beside the bed, her bloodstained skirt and blouse stuffed in plastic nearby. She grabbed a change of clothes, groaning as she stood. God, she ached all over. Clearly she was out of shape, no longer the lithe, demon-fighting witch of the past.

Considering she had a shitload of hunting in her immediate future, she sure as hell needed to work on that.

Rowan drew back the blinds and winced as piercing rays of sunlight rippled into her room. She glanced down, arched a brow at the sight of the large motorcycle parked beside her rental, and sighed.

It must belong to the mysterious stranger who’d shown up at her door. Azaiel.

She mouthed his name, her lips moving slowly as the syllables rolled off her tongue. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. If only Nana was here.

After offering to help her, he’d not said a single word. The entire time they’d washed the blood from the kitchen floor—nothing.

He was different from anyone she’d ever met. It wasn’t just his silence, his lack of words. It was something in his eyes—something she recognized. Pain. A soul stained with a darkness that lingered. Seemed he was just as damaged as Rowan.

She sighed and pushed away from the window. The man had an overabundance of testosterone, and the intensity she sensed beneath the surface put her on edge.

He was otherworld, but what the hell was he? Demon? Shifter? Magick? It was weird that she had no sense of his origin.

All she knew for sure was that he was a complication, and that’s something she could do without. There was no way he could stay. Not with what she had planned. She needed to be on her game one hundred percent.

She let the blinds fall back into place and headed for the bathroom. Maybe he’d be gone by the time she was showered.

A half hour later, she was dressed in boots, jeans, and T-shirt. She headed downstairs, her fingers trailing along the railing, a bittersweet smile on her lips as a kaleidoscope of memories danced in front of her. This had been her home once. She’d been happy here, back before her mother had gone crazy.