Azrael placed the sealed sample bags into Adrian's hands, his expression unreadable, his eyes sharp with intent.
"Run them in our lab," he said, shutting his eyes as he leaned back against the seat.
Adrian glanced down at the labeled strands—Little Roe's hair and his boss's sample—before looking up again. "Yes, sir. Should I handle it discreetly?"
Azrael rested his head against the leather, the car already pulling away from the hotel.
Round green eyes flashed in his mind.
His fist clenched, thinking about the fucker 'Uncle Vicky' that was to tell the boy bullshit.
That foolish spitfire of a woman had likely been the only one showering the boy with kisses all these years. But what about later? Would those innocent eyes be tainted by scorn, hearing whispers about being an illegitimate, fatherless child?
Azrael's blood boiled at the thought.
His grandfather already knew. Little Roe was a walking positive DNA test, and he could not condemn that clumsy, pouty kid to live a fatherless life he had lived, so why bother?
"No," he said finally. "Just keep it away from prying eyes. Send a copy of the results to the Estate."
The Chairman would already be livid. His boss was declaring war.
"Y-Yes, sir."
Azrael shut his eyes, rubbing his temple with the throbbing behind his eyes.
Adrian immediately reached into the console, pulling out a bottle of water and a tablet. "Sir."
Azrael opened his eyes slowly.
He chucked down the tablet. "And this Valerie—get me everything on her before it's on Grandfather's desk."
His thoughts wandered to the night his life had slipped out of control.
Five Years Ago
Azrael had always been a restrained man. Despite the rumors attached to the Hawthorne name, he was not reckless with women or indulgence. That reputation belonged to his cousin, Vincent.
They looked nearly identical, close enough that strangers—and sometimes acquaintances—mistook one for the other.
After the private plane crash that claimed Vincent's parents and Azrael's father, Vincent moved into the Hawthorne estate.
Frail and depressed in childhood, he was coddled where Azrael was hardened. Discipline shaped one; indulgence shaped the other. And with Azrael cleaning up the aftermath, Vincent grew shrewd in the worst ways.
Freshly recovered from a fracture sustained in a car race, Vincent insisted on celebrating, begging Azrael to come. His cousin had just survived a brush with death, so for a change he decided to show up.
By the time he arrived, the suite was loud with music and tipsy laughter.
"Bro! I didn't know you would come!" he shot up, grinning wide, kicking his knocked-out friends out of the way. "If you told me, I wouldn't call on these morons!"
One of his friends handed him a glass, and he accepted it out of habit.
He frowned; he felt something amiss.
His vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting in slow distortion as a strange weightlessness crept through his limbs. He set the drink down, intending to leave, but the floor shifted beneath him before he could reach his phone.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! Did you give angel dust to my brother?" Vincent's panicked voice cut through the haze. "We are dead, you fucker…"
Darkness fell.
Azrael opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Feeling weight on his chest, he looked down to see molten gold pouting up at him.
....
His head throbbed as consciousness dragged him upward, but what greeted him was not the sterile quiet of a hotel suite.
Golden light shimmered above him.
She sat astride his hips, her hair spilling like molten sunlight over bare shoulders, her large dark wings swaying lazily behind her.
Her delicate hands rested against his chest, fingers splayed over his racing heartbeat.
"Azrael…" she called softly, her voice layered and distant, as though echoing through water.
He blinked, certain he was still dreaming, yet the warmth of her palms seeped into his skin. Her lips were curved in a faint pout, her expression both innocent and dangerously inviting, as if she did not understand the effect she had on him.
"Azrael," she repeated, leaning closer.
Heat surged through him, like he was on fire. Her clumsy seduction was driving him mad like a dog in heat.
She had an effect on him that could rip his heart out, and he felt he would swoon over how ethereal she looked doing it.
He slid one hand up to the nape of her neck and pulled her down. She gasped at the sudden movement, wings fluttering behind her in surprise, her fingers instinctively clutching at his shoulders before clutching his shirt.
Her breath fanned across his jaw, scared and uneven.
The angel looked startled, wide-eyed and flushed, as though unable to comprehend the dirty carnal desire of men.
Her lashes fluttered as he leaned down to devour her sweet, drunken sounds, lulling him to fall deeper into the sweet abyss as his lips traced her sinful curves, stripping what he could, tearing what he couldn't.
Her soft moans echoed like prayers as she clutched him closer. She fit against him as though her body was molded to his.
Soon, he was lost in her, thrusting while his mouth mapped every inch of her sacred skin.
"Azrael! Azrael!"
He buried his face against the curve of her neck, inhaling a scent that felt maddeningly real. She trembled under him, a soft sound escaping her lips, half protest, half surrender. Her wings trembled.
"Azrael…" she murmured again, as if from underwater.
Desperate to stop her from slipping, his grip tightened as he flipped her over, his thirst for her igniting again.
The line between dream and reality dissolved completely. He was like a madman driven by her otherworldly wiles.
He could feel the heat of her skin, the subtle hitch in her breath, the way her fingers scratched on his bare skin as though afraid he might disappear.
The golden light flickered.
She screamed his name through the night
....
Azrael sat on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, muscles taut. His mind still reeled from the dream—or whatever had just happened.
The ringing of his phone sliced through the haze. He picked, staying silent.
"Br—Bo! I—I…It wasn't me! I swear! The boys, they..." a panicked voice stammered on the line.
"Come up here." He cut the call without another word, eyes narrowing as he turned.
There she was.
Golden hair fanned across the pillow, catching the morning light, framing a face that was nothing short of irresistible—high cheekbones, full lips, wide eyes that shimmered like molten honey. Every line of her body, every curve, radiated a dangerous allure, as though the world bent just to accommodate her beauty.
His angel was a call girl.
She looked ravished, utterly unguarded, sprawled across his sheets.
A quick glance down at the faint red spot on the sheet told him that this little angel was new to the business,selling her services for the first time last night.
Feeling the heat rise in his groin again, he leaned closer to taste her kissable curve again when the sound of the lock turning cut through the tension.