Cursed Angels

“Mara.” I try to push myself up, but my weak arms buckle.

“Shh,” she hushes me. “You’re frail. Just rest.”

“I killed so many,” I gulp out in distress.

She leans forward and presses her forehead to mine. Our eyes meet, and she captures my gaze with the honesty and warmth in hers.

“I know.” A tear drops from her eye and lands on my cheek. “I know.”

Chapter 21

Samara

Silence falls around us. It’s heavy with sadness, guilt, and agony from the memories that are assaulting him. When the door behind me clicks open, I don’t move. I’m still holding onto Archer when I feel Hunter’s presence behind me.

He doesn’t say a word, merely sets down a tray with water, two steaming mugs of coffee, and what looks like sandwiches. He also sets down my knife, the blade glinting in the faint light, and I know he’s telling me it’s there if I need it.

But I don’t.

I don’t need it.

What I want is Archer.

Hunter turns to leave, his footfalls heavy as he walks up the steps and leaves us in the basement alone. I know he’s hurting, seeing me with Archer, but he also understands we need this time alone.

“You need to see. You need to look at me, Archer,” I tell him, wanting to show him the result of him leaving me. Now that he’s my Archer, I want him to know.

I rise, keeping my gaze locked on the man from my past. My childhood love. The first boy I ever kissed, the first boy to ever touch me, and the first boy to steal my heart.

“Mara—”

“Just look.”

I reach for the hemline of my top, pulling it up and over my head. My breasts fall free from the material. I feel the heat of Archer’s stare. His eyes, burning me like flames licking my skin.

“You’re still perfect,” Archer murmurs from the bed as he pushes up, sitting with his back straight, as if at attention. Shoving my jeans from my hips, along with the panties, I step out of them, showing him the body that he hasn’t seen in far too long. Offering him a view of the scars left behind. The flesh that was tortured by cruel men, women — people who I was supposed to be able to trust.

“I’m far from perfect, Archer. You walked out and left me in there with those monsters. I know it wasn’t you, but . . .” I sigh, not knowing what to say anymore, how to express the pain still so fresh in my mind.

“I know I hurt you. Not physically, but emotionally. I should have fought for you, but they—”

“You’re right,” I tell him, interrupting him with my words. “You should’ve fought, but I should’ve known they’d done something to you.”

He reaches for me, his fingertips tracing the scars on my stomach, just below my belly button. The contact causes me to shiver. The pain may not be there anymore, but it’s in my mind, taunting me.

He grips my hips in his strong hold, pulling me closer, making me step between his spread thighs. He lifts his gaze to meet mine.

“I love you, Samara,” he murmurs. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to my stomach, then all along the scars I’ve lived with all my life. He worships me gently with his lips, moving off the bed, down to his knees, and I feel the heat of his breath between my legs.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, gripping his head, causing him to look up at me. Anger, desire, need swirls through my chest, tightening my lungs, and I struggle to breathe.

“You left me,” I accuse. “I loved you,” I bite out. Pressing his mouth to my core, I spread my legs for him.

His tongue dips into my pussy. His teeth graze along the seam of my entrance as he bites my lips, licking and sucking them into his mouth. My hands are on his hair, pulling him closer. Impossibly so.

My cries are loud, echoing through the room. I know Hunter can hear me, because seconds later, the door creaks. When I open my eyes, I meet those of Hunter. He’s watching us. Watching me unravel at the mouth of Archer.

A small smirk plays on Hunter’s lips as he palms his dick. The show I put on isn’t for him though. My body responds to Archer like it was made for him. I was made for him.

He watches me as my body trembles, and I come down from the high of my orgasm. I rise on wobbly legs, and pull him to me, our lips inches from each other, and I can smell my arousal on his mouth.

“I need to—”

“I know you do,” he replies. Gripping my neck, he pushes me against the wall. “But you’re mine, and I own your pussy.” His rough grunt is enough to tell me not to argue, not right now, but I don’t obey.