Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(64)
Author: J.R. Ward

“Not the point.” Jim shook his head. “You do not get to edit this game—”

“Oh, so I’m an asshat because I was trying to help you—”

“I need to know what she’s doing.”

Ad fell back on his ass and scrubbed his face. “Come on, Jim, she’s trying to f**k your head because you won’t let her f**k your body. That and a physics equation and you can solve the mysteries of the goddamn universe. You know this. So why are the particulars of the message important.”

“If I can’t trust you, I don’t know where I really stand.”

“And if she gets under your skin, we’ve lost both you and Eddie.”

Their competing logic drained the final vestiges of emotion out of the air, leaving a pervasive exhaustion that was clearly communal.

“Goddamn it,” Jim breathed, as he sat next to the guy.

“That about covers things.”

Jim took out his Marlboros. The pack was mangled, a couple of the cigs cracked in half and therefore unusable. But he found at least one that was still intact enough to light.

As he lit up, he glanced over at where the f**king had gone down. The weakness he’d felt in those moments was just one more reason to hate the enemy.

Adrian glanced across. “Eddie would have done the same thing about those runes.”

“No, he wouldn’t have.”

Those eyes turned hard again. “You didn’t know him longer than a matter of weeks. Trust me—he did what was necessary in all circumstances, and anything that has to do with Sissy Barten is your Achilles’ heel.”

“Obstructing information—”

“Can we just drop this—”

“—is as close to a crime as men like you and I have.”

“—and get back to work.”

As tempers simmered again, like their respective pots had been returned to the godforsaken stove, Jim cursed. See, this was the problem with Eddie being gone. No ref to call the shot or the foul and get the pair of them back on track.

No voice of reason.

And Ad kind of had a point. Jim was a little obsessed about Sissy, and Devina was smart enough to know that. But after years of being in the field, the one thing Jim knew to value as much as his own competence was intel—information was always the best weapon and the strongest shield you had against your enemy. If you knew their thinking and their actions, their locations and their movements, you could formulate your strategy.

“There isn’t a lot of solid ground in this game,” Jim said after a while. “I’m fighting on sand, against an opponent who’s got her stilettos on concrete. Shit’s already stacked against us, and if you’re filtering, that’s one more thing I gotta frickin’ worry about.”

Adrian looked over, all dead f**king serious. “I wasn’t trying to f**k you. Honest.”

Jim cursed out an exhale. “I believe you.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“Good.”

In the aftermath, although they didn’t hug it up or some shit, he figured they could give themselves gold stars: This argument had gone so much better than that first one at the side of the road. Back then, Eddie had had to pry them apart. Guess they were making progress.

“One last question.”

Adrian glanced over. “G’head.”

“What did it say?”

As silence stretched out, Jim figured it wasn’t a good sign. Yup…if someone like Ad was actually choosing his words, it was a really bad goddamn sign.

“Do you want to win this?” the other angel demanded. “And I’m not talking about just this round. I’m talking about the whole goddamn war.”

Jim narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

Jesus, he realized, that actually was the truth.

“Then don’t ask me to translate. Nothing good’s going to come out of it.”

There was a tense silence while Jim measured his partner: man, Adrian was meeting him right in the eye, without any kind of prevarication, everything in that big body still as if he were praying for the right answer to come back at him.

Shit, the burn to know to the particulars was like the worst kind of indigestion…but it was hard to argue with the other angel’s dead-and-serious.

“Okay,” Jim said roughly. “Fair enough.”

Up in Matthias’s room on the sixth floor, Mels lay lax on the bed, her arms loose, her legs twitching involuntarily, her mind blown and then some.

She felt like she’d had the best workout she’d ever gotten at the gym, followed it by the most incredible yoga session, and topped things off with a visit to a spa that specialized in deep-tissue massage and reflex-frigging-ology.

Oh, and also sat down at a DIY sundae bar that had hot fudge made out of Lindt truffles.

Bliss. Pure bliss. The best sex she’d ever had, even though they hadn’t actually had sex…

Next to her, Matthias was curled on his side, his head on the only pillow left on the bed, one arm tucked in, a little self-satisfied smile on his harsh face. Looking over at him, unexpected tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He’d been so generous, not asking for anything in return, seemingly satiated just by the act of making her feel good.

“What’s wrong,” he said quietly as he brushed away a tear with his forefinger. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, God no…I just…” It was hard to explain without running the risk of his feeling inadequate—and that was the last thing she wanted, after all he had done for her. “Just emotional, I guess.”

“Bullshit. You know what it is.” His voice was level, his hand steady as he stroked back her hair. “And you can tell me.”

“I don’t want to ruin this.” She sniffed a little. “It was so perfect.”

“So what are these for?” Matthias turned that forefinger around so she could see the glistening on the tip. “Talk to me, Mels.”

“I really wish I could give you the same…you know, I want to do those things to you.”

His expression didn’t change, but she knew she’d hit him where it hurt: She could tell by the way his breath stopped, and then abruptly resumed—like he’d reminded himself to draw air.

“I’d like that, too,” he said roughly. “But even if my plumbing worked, what I’ve got to offer you isn’t worth seeing, much less touching.”

“I told you, you’re—”