Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(63)
Author: J.R. Ward

Him with Devina. Used and abused by her and her minions in her Well of Souls.

He had no idea why he’d dwell on the shit. That hadn’t been about sex; it had been torture, plain and simple, and God knew he’d been trained for that.

Still, the images stayed with him, lingering in the background like a stink.

Made no sense. He’d had bones broken before—on purpose, by an enemy. He’d been cut in the past, too—strung up by his feet and beaten like a punching bag…oh, yeah, and that time in Budapest when he’d been packed into that car, driven out to the country, and left for dead after getting worked over with a claw hammer—

Abruptly, the waitress moaned the way women did when they weren’t faking it: this was not a contrived, pretty little sound engineered to make a guy think he was a sex god. This was the real kind, when the female was coming so hard she wasn’t even aware of the animal grunts she was throwing out.

As she thrashed, Adrian supported her up off the floor with barely any effort—then again, the chick was synched up hard, locked on him tighter than a coat of paint. And, shit, their movements were so universal, him pumping in an ever-increasing rhythm, her getting tossed around as those penetrations were received, absorbed, enjoyed. Watching it all, Jim probably should have been aroused. Should have wanted in.

At the very least, he should have stayed pissed off.

Instead, panic tingled on the fringes of his mind, memories of his arms pinned down and his own legs spread putting a fine sheen of sweat above his upper lip.

He turned away, not because he was so angry he was going to kill Adrian, and not because he was disgusted or too modest for the show.

His stomach churned.

The hands that took out his cigarettes shook ever so slightly, and the sounds as Adrian orgasmed made him shut his eyes for a second.

Naturally, the horny bastard went for a twofer with no recovery time.

And Jim couldn’t actually start smoking until the woman was gone.

Great.

When the pneumatics were finally over, Jim glanced across his shoulder. Adrian had slid the girl down to the ground and was letting her rest her head against his pecs. As he stroked her hair, he seemed utterly detached from her, to the point where he might as well have been in another zip code. Matter of fact, except for the instants when he’d shot his load, he appeared to have been on some kind of erotic autopilot the entire time.

Why the hell did he bother?

The waitress checked her watch, pulled herself together, and kissed Ad on the lips. Just before she left, she took a pen out and grabbed for Ad’s hand. With big strokes, she inked a number into his palm, and then curled his fingers up like she’d given him some sort of gift. Then on a twirl of her hair, she was off, all but skipping down the corridor in the direction that would take her to the restaurant’s kitchen.

Adrian did up the front of his pants with efficiency. “Before you get on your high horse, I put a protection spell all over the room. They’re fine.”

Jim lit up and exhaled hard, the smoke shooting out of his mouth. “What the f**k would Eddie think about this?”

Those already icy eyes narrowed into slits. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.”

Adrian jabbed a finger. “You do not play that card. Ever—”

“What would he think about you down here, f**king some chick on the job.” Jim turned his coffin nail around and looked at the bright, glowing tip. “And you didn’t even seem to enjoy it—so it’s not like you’re off post for a good reason.”

Waves of rage distorted the air between them, the other angel’s anger so palpable it was practically a light source.

“I’m going to tell you this once,” the guy said. “And only once—”

“Eddie wouldn’t have been impressed by this—”

The attack was so fast, so vicious, Jim didn’t have time to ditch his cigarette. As Ad locked on Jim’s throat with both hands, that lit tip went up…and came down right in the collar of his shirt.

But the burn was the least of his problems.

Jacking his hands between them, he split that hold wide-open and snapped a head butt out, catching the other angel right in the soft cartilage of the schnoz. Except, apparently, Adrian didn’t have any feeling there either—he just threw out a curving right-hander that slammed into the side of Jim’s ear like an SUV.

Listing off to the side, he caught himself on a stand of chairs and one-eightied his momentum, pitching himself back at the guy—who happened to have found his fighting stance and was clearly ready to turn this into a UFC free-for-all.

There was a huge part of Jim that also wanted a good, bloody hand-to-hand fight with the guy. But it was hard to pull the soapbox, superior thing about Eddie when he was prepared to go a hundred and fifty rounds with the dumb man-whore down in this corridor.

One gut shot put a stop to the whole thing.

Jim faked out like he was coming in high, and Ad was so pissed off and juiced, the guy fell for it. As he left his navel undefended, Jim went in low and fast—so fast there was no chance to block, and so low that the c**k and balls were involved.

Motherfucker was going to sing the high notes like Justin-cocksucking-Timberlake for a while.

Adrian caved in around his groin, his hands formed a protective cup that was about three seconds too late to protect his nads.

Jim shook the now-crushed cig out of his shirt. His skin had been burned on his shoulder, but compared to the ringing in his ears, it was nothing.

Wonder if he had a concussion.

More dementia was not what they needed in this round.

Standing over the bastard, Jim said in a guttural voice, “I know what you did.”

Adrian let one knee go down to the concrete floor. Then the other. “Duh. You frickin’ watched.”

“The prostitute. The runes on her stomach. You burned ’em off her, didn’t you.”

Ad started flapping his lips, but the curses didn’t carry far.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear.” Jim leaned over and put his face right in the guy’s grille. “You ever keep information from me again, and you’re off the team—if Nigel won’t arrange for it, I’ll f**king take care of the job. Do you understand me.”

Not a question.

As Adrian’s eyes lifted, they were like two blowtorches mounted through the back of his skull, but Jim didn’t give a shit. The angel could go volcano if he wanted; they were not going to operate on any other terms.

When Ad finally spoke, the words were hoarse, the other angel’s lungs still more focused on reoxygenation from the shot to the nuts than allowing him to bitch. “Do you think Devina…did that because it was going to help you?”