*Chiara

Chiara retreated to the far wall of the small alcove as Logan vanished in the gyrating crowds, weaving between sweaty dancers, tables, and the smoke streaked air.

What if he didn't come back? Fear ate her, through muscle and bone, and she was shaking again. Like a child. Like the weak, useless thing she was.

Daviid's voice echoed in her head—not his real words, but the ones from her nightmares. She crouched low on the rough floor, balancing on her toes and hugging her knees to her chest until cramps seized her calves.

Coward. You disgust me.

No.

Every single angel perished on that field, except you, while you hid behind them. They died, slaughtered and you watched. You deserve your pain."

"No," she moaned, clutching her head.

You deserve your pain. Coward.

The words repeated in her mind as she moaned, clutching her head as if to squeeze them out. She was a coward. A sinning, disgusting thing. And the words would not get out of her head. She should return to the Keeper's Tunnels and let Death have her.

Then a different memory—clapping hands. Zeigfel's voice crept in. You will never leave this place.

Burning hatred was a glowing white coal in her chest. She had vowed to kill Zeigfel a thousand times over for every hurt he inflicted on her.

He was in her head, not Daviid or Death.

She might not even be in this room. She might still be hanging from her chains while he tortured her with his mind games. She hugged her legs tighter, bringing her wings around her body for warmth.

No. This was real.

Zeigfel didn't break her before, he would not fucking break her now.

She stood, facing the tunnel, letting her wings spread, angled to the back and slightly apart in preparation for an attack. She didn't need a sword to defeat this enemy, she was angelic born, trained to survive and fight. She was light and life. She was made of star dust, the frost in winter, and the Fountain's water, and no demon, not even one of the original fallen who joined with Lucifer in rebellion at the beginning of time would defeat her.

Wake up. Chiara, wake up.

Chiara. Zeigfel's voice slithering into her ear.

Snarling, she spun, fist flying into his nose.

****

*Logan

Logan returned after only a few minutes, stolen goods in hand—a handful of discarded clothes, boots, even a sword—to find Chiara in a near trance, staring at the wall.

He shook her.

"Wake up," he said, shaking her shoulder again. "Chiara, wake up. Chiara!"

Then, he blinked and Chiara's fist was in his face. White light exploded in his eyes and a searing pain wracked his face, radiating from his nose through his whole skull.

Instincts had him moving instantly.

He dropped, circling an arm to catch Chiara around the waist. Eyes shut against the pain, he twisted her in the air and dropped her to the ground, but carefully, and put a knee to her chest. To hold her in place until he could figure out what was going on.

At least, that was what he intended to do.

What actually happened was, he swung his arm wide and wrapped it around her waist, turned, readying himself to drop her, when she twisted the other way and slammed her elbow in his chest.

His air whooshed from his lungs. Their feet tangled up as both spun in different directions. She shouted something and suddenly, they were both on the ground, with Chiara straddling him.

He would have enjoyed the position he was in, but, blinking against the sting in his broken nose, his vision was filled with the stolen sword at his neck.

"Logan?" she asked, dazed. "Logan, is it you?"

He heaved for air, thankful she had decided to double check before cutting off his head. She lifted the sword, slightly.

"First you stab me, and now this. I brought you a present and everything." He waved at the pile of clothes and boots on the floor next to them.

It was only then he got a good look at her thighs across his hips, their muscled lines and the creamy softness of her angel skin, and at the center, her barely covered sex, hovering right above his.

Hell has a nasty sense of humor—tempting you with what you most desire, bringing it close enough to touch, taste, take, and then snatching it from your grasp. Hell messes that way with everyone, demons included.

At the moment his cock twitched in response to her nearness, she lifted off him, leaving him biting back a groan of frustration.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize—" She edged to the side of the small room, watching him warily, as if he might attack or...no...as if he might be something horrible.

He sat up, but stayed seated, waiting while cartilage and bone knit together. His nose gave a loud crack as it straightened itself. Right. All good.

But he stayed seated. She kept her eyes fixed on him, scouring him with sharp scrutiny. He drew up his knees in a ridiculous, relaxed posture. There was no way he could threaten anyone from the floor, leaning back, knees bent like some teenage girl.

He pointed at the pile. "That's for you. Because the scraps you are wearing, although I think are perfect, aren't sufficient for you. I even found boots that might fit."

"Prove to me you're Logan."

Logan forced himself to stay relaxed, but he wanted to smash a face—Zeigfel's face. This was the result of his fucking mind games. She didn't know what was real anymore. "There is nothing I can tell you that will prove my identity. But—" He leaned forward.

She lifted the sword end at him.

"But," he continued, "I picked out the clothes especially for you. I'd like to see you try them on."

She poked the top garment, snagged it on the end of the sword and lifted it. A strappy black thing that might have been a skirt designed from black ribbons hung down.

She laughed. "This is what you chose for me to wear that was less revealing than basically nothing?"

"That's the only fashion wear you'll find down here, my sweetness." He chuckled, low and dry.

"Right. You are fucking Logan."

"But you see, I was hoping you were fucking Logan," he quipped before he could stop himself.

Chiara stalked forward, confusion and fear erased from her face. He gazed up at her, grinning.

"What is it humans say? When this," She waved her hand around. "Is frozen over? Well, not even then. Avert your eyes, demon."

"Since you insist," he said. He stood and walked to the entrance of the room, to watch outward at the flashing lights. Behind him, Chiara grunted and cursed several times.

Suddenly, she was at his side, adjusting a steel studded, leather bralette and a skintight thing that might be skirt, but was more like latex underpants with strings wrapped around it. So much skin showed.

So. Much. Skin.

Except her legs below the knees which were ensconced in fitted, black leather boots with spiked heels.

"It stinks of human body odor. This is unbearable. I can't even walk in this," she muttered. She hefted the sword, pointing it outward.

"Wait, you can't go out armed like that," he said.

"Watch me."

"Chiara—" He made the mistake of touching her arm. Instantly he was against the wall, her hand around his throat. He could break her hold. He saw an opening, a weakness, but he wasn't an idiot. "Chiara, give me the sword and I will protect you."

"Like you protected me from Death in the tunnel?" she asked.

"Exactly like that, but with a sword if necessary."

"What is it you really want? What do you hope to get from this arrangement?"

He didn't answer immediately. She took a deep breath and stopped pushing on his neck, allowing the air to flow to lungs freely again. "I get my freedom from this arrangement. No more dungeon, no more following orders, no more watching delights from afar, no more obeying no matter the cost. That's what I get. You can escort me through the midlands—the human realm safely. I can take you through hell first."

He held out his hand.

"I keep the sword." She swiveled to go, maintaining her balance with incredible grace on the spiked heels, walking as if she had trained in them.

He had no doubt she could fight if necessary, but if she did, they would be fighting all of hell.

*** So. Much. Skin. At least Logan is keeping his priorities straight! Hit the star and thank you for reading!!! ***