Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 34 The Theater of Pride

*Logan

They lay tangled together on the floor, her wings folded on her back, keeping her warm, for too long. Danger stepped silently through these tunnels, sniffing and snuffling at every crack, and would find them eventually.

"Chiara," he said, voice husky. "We have to go."

"I know." But she didn't stand. Her head was sweetly heavy on his chest and her fingertips danced in delicate circles across his bare skin. These sensations were so unfamiliar to him and he marveled at his body's reaction to their simplicity. Silken tresses tickled when he shifted. Her breath, hot and moist, carved into him as rushing water cuts stone.

He knew he had bruises on his back, as she must have them on her knees from their carnal, sensual coupling, small physical marks that would come and go, but the time spent here was going to leave a rutted scar, a deep wound that would never fully heal.

He would never blot her from his memory, never forget. She would haunt him until he died and whatever remnants of a soul he might have was obliterated in the devouring pits of fire below hell itself.

Would he haunt her, as well? She was a fighter and in some ways stronger than he could ever dream of being.

"Logan," she asked, and her tone instantly made him tense. "Would you cut off my wings, given the chance?"

A thousand memories crashed into him. A thousand pair of wings burning his hands, his blade hacking into them, the screaming, the blood, the wings falling. The taste of his victory, the exultation he had felt each time, stirred his Daemonium.

That bastard.

His true self.

"No." His voice rasped rougher than the floor beneath them. "Not yours. Not ever, this I swear to you, Chiara."

She didn't know, but this was his second vow to her in this hidden hole—that he would catch her, his angel falling into sin, and that he would never cut her wings, which meant he could never let himself shift to his Daemoneum near her. He had to control and suppress that side of himself utterly to protect her.

She shivered, curling closer. Her vulnerability killed him. It would kill her, if he wasn't careful.

"We have to go." He carefully peeled her off of him. Reluctantly. The loss of her touch an excruciating emptiness. The only way to survive this place was to be ruthless, though, in all ways.

He rebuilt the stone and steel walls of his resolve.

Silently, they crept from the secret niche. He led her through a short maze of tunnels, the air thick with moisture and dread. It curled around his wrists and caught at his throat, it dragged at his feet.

He found the entrance to the next hall—Pride. He stepped through to inspect before returning to her in the tunnel. She reached and brushed his hand, but didn't take it. The turbulent thudding of his own pulse pounded in his head.

Stop needing her.

"It's safe." He motioned for her to go first. She tiptoed past him.

A voice whispered to him the very instant Chiara walked through the door, while he was still in the tunnel. The lurkers had finally found him. Clawed fingers scraped his neck and fetid breath wafted over his face—the voice was not only in his mind. The hissing whisper ended.

Fuck.

He stepped forward to follow Chiara, feet heavy.

He had his orders. He had a very tempting offer.

Hours ago, at the end of the Keeper's tunnel after the Pestilences and after he saved Chiara from Death's embrace, the other monstrous things that lurk in the tunnels had come to him, but he didn't believe their promises at the time. They whispered to him then, he dismissed their words. One had whispered again to him now, and he spiraled into doubt and rage.