Angel Blood

4- Death & Cheap Perfume

Some angel bloods are conceived intentionally. Others are found. Sometimes they're orphaned, other times they're scouted much later in life, easily identified by their amber colored eyes and abnormal strength.

I don't know who created me. All I know is that I was picked out when I was a baby and raised by the very people who seek to abandon me just as my parents did.

There is no one coming for me. Within Sinclair's grasp, there is seemingly no end.

He watches as I tuck the gun back at my side, glaring pathetically at him. There's not as much heat behind it as I wish there was. I'm tired now. The weight of my fate nearly makes me crumble in front of his eyes.

Somehow I don't. I remind myself of the strong blood that flows through my veins and the even stronger rage that begins to brew deep within my gut.

I'm tired of being controlled and casted aside. First by my blood family and then by my chosen one. Now another puppeteer seeks to pluck at my strings. To some degree, he will—there is no avoiding that.

But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's causing hell. Sinclair Black has no idea what he's getting himself into.

The fury must show on my face because he raises a dark eyebrow. "Troubled, angel?"

"Call me that again and see what happens." I raise the gun to point at his groin.

He chuckles, the deep sound enraging and delicious all the same. I grit my teeth.

"So much savagery wrapped in a sweet little face." He raises his fingers to brush over the top of my cheek, letting the digits roll down to the cut of my jaw. I shiver, tingles erupting over my skin at the light touch. It takes me longer than it should to slap his hand away.

He takes notice, lip curling up slightly. "I'm going to enjoy keeping you."

I snort. Like hell he is.

His gaze settles back on my gun, impatience flickering over his features. "I'll let you keep your toy but first you'll need to learn how to behave."

It's so tempting and he knows it. My eyes glare into his, jaw ticking as I try to rein in my bloodlust. As much as it would bring me satisfaction, keeping my gun by my side is more important. Judging from the bullet wound slowly mending itself in his forehead, Sinclair can regenerate.

I sigh, slowly pulling the barrel to the ceiling. It's not worth it.

I startle at the strangled cry that emerges from the doorway.

The red head raises a quivering hand to her mouth, her pallid skin lightening another shade. A man stands behind her, large and tattooed, his bearded jaw clenching at the sight of his fallen companion upon the ground.

"You killed him," she gasps, her eyes seeming to memorize the pattern of brain matter and skull splattered against the ground. She glances at Sinclair, eyes narrowing. "Jesus, Sin. What's taking you so long? Kill the bitch already."

I blink. Here I'd thought she was just a harmless bystander.

"I told you to find Oliver," he growls.

She crosses her arms, staring pointedly at the man towering beside her. "And here he is. You seriously didn't expect me to leave you to deal with that conniving skank, did you?" Her eyes trace back over to me, finally noticing the ink on my arms: first the one marking me of divine blood, then the other binding me to Sinclair Black. Something akin to shock flashes over her face, then quickly turns into fury. "You didn't," she snarls, furious gaze finding Sinclair again.

He doesn't say anything, looking bored aside from the tick that appears on his stubbled jaw.

"I refuse to be around that," she pauses, disgust muddling her pretty face as she studies my arm and then my face as if she can see the golden irises that lay beneath my contacts, "freak of nature."