Finale

My stomach took a nauseating lurch. I chewed at the inside of my cheek, then forced myself to nod. I might as well accept the inevitable. The sooner I confronted what lay ahead, the sooner I could formulate a plan to conquer my fear.

“What can I do to help?” I asked.

Patch studied me, frowning slightly. He stroked his thumb over my lip, then across my cheek. “You’re ice cold, Angel.” He tilted his head toward the hallway leading lway leadeeper into the townhouse. “Let’s get you into bed. I’ll light the fireplace. What you need right now is warmth and rest. I’ll draw a hot bath, too.”

Sure enough, fierce shivers racked my body. It was as if, in an instant, all heat had been sucked from me. I supposed I was going into shock. My teeth chattered, and the tips of my fingers vibrated with a strange, involuntary tremor.

Patch scooped me up and carried me back to his bedroom. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, peeled back the duvet, and deposited me gently in his bed. “A drink?” he asked. “Herbal tea? Broth?”

Looking at his face, so earnest and anxious, guilt spiraled inside me. I knew right then that Patch would do anything for me. His promise to stay by my side was as good to him as a sworn oath. He was part of me, and I was part of him. He would do whatever—whatever—it took to keep me here with him.

I forced myself to open my mouth before I chickened out. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, my voice sounding thin and brittle. I hadn’t planned on crying, but tears welled in my eyes. I was overcome with shame.

“Angel?” Patch said, his tone questioning.

I’d taken that first step, but now I froze. A voice of justification drifted across my mind, telling me I had no right to dump this on Patch. Not in his current weakened state. If I cared about him, I’d keep my mouth shut. His recovery was more important than getting a few white lies off my chest. Already I felt those same icy hands slide up my throat.

“I— It’s nothing,” I corrected. “I just need sleep. And you need to call Scott.” I turned into the pillow so he wouldn’t see me cry. The icy hands felt all too real, ready to close on my neck if I said too much, if I told my secret.

“I need to call him, that’s true. But more than that, I need you to tell me what’s going on,” Patch said, just enough concern slipping into his tone to tell me I was past the point where I could use a simple distraction to get out of this.

The freezing hands curled around my throat. I was too scared to speak. Too scared of the hands, and how they would hurt me.

Patch clicked on a bedside lamp, pulling gently on my shoulder, trying to see my face, but I only twisted farther away. “I love you,” I choked out. Shame ballooned inside me. How could I say those words and lie to him?

“I know. Just like I know you’re holding something back. This isn’t the time for secrets. We’ve come too far to turn down that road,” Patch reminded me.

I nodded, feeling tears slide onto the pillowcase. He was right. I knew it, but it didn’t make it any easier to come clean. And I didn’t know if I could. Those wintry hands, closing off my throat, my voice . . .

Patch slipped into bed beside me, dragging me against him. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, the warmth of his skin touching mine. His knee fit perfectly in the crook of my own. He kissed my shoulder, his black hair falling over my ear.

I—lied—to—you, I confessed to his thoughts, feeling as though I had to push the words out through a brick wall. I tensed, wa I tenseiting for the cold hands to seize me, but to my surprise, their grip seemed to weaken at my confession. Their chilly touch slipped and faltered. Buoyed by this small step forward, I pushed on. I lied to the one person whose trust means more to me than anything. I lied to you, Patch, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself.

Rather than demand an explanation, Patch continued a trail of slow, steady kisses down my arm. It wasn’t until he’d pressed a kiss into the inside of my wrist that he spoke. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly.

I rolled over, blinking in astonishment. “Don’t you want to know what I lied about?”

“I want to know what I can do to make you feel better.” He rubbed my shoulders in tender circles, giving me a certain reassurance.

I wouldn’t feel better until I came clean. It wasn’t Patch’s responsibility to lighten my burden—it was mine, and I felt every last pang of guilt as though they speared me with an iron blade.

“I’ve been taking—devilcraft.” I hadn’t thought my shame could grow, but it seemed to swell inside me by three sizes. “All this time I’ve been taking it. I never drank the antidote you got from Blakely. I kept it, telling myself I’d take it later, after Cheshvan, when I didn’t need to be superhuman anymore, but it was an excuse. I never intended to take it. This whole time I’ve been relying on devilcraft. I’m terrified I’m not strong enough without it. I know I have to stop, and I know it’s wrong. But it gives me abilities I can’t get on my own. I mind-tricked you into thinking I drank the antidote, and—I’ve never been more sorry in my life!”

I dropped my eyes, unable to bear the disappointment and disgust that would surely rise in Patch’s face. It was awful enough knowing the truth, but hearing myself say it aloud cut to the core. Who was I anymore? I didn’t recognize myself, and it was the worst feeling I’d ever experienced. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost myself. And as easy as it was to blame devilcraft, I had made the choice to steal that first bottle from Dante.

At last Patch spoke. His voice was so steady, so full of quiet admiration, it made me wonder if he could have known my secret all along. “Did you know, the first time I saw you, I thought: I’ve never seen anything more captivating and beautiful?”

“Why are you telling me this?” I said miserably.

“I saw you, and I wanted to be close to you. I wanted you to let me in. I wanted to know you in a way no one else did. I wanted you, all of you. That wanting nearly drove me mad.” Patch paused, inhaling softly, as though breathing me in. “And now that I have you, the only thing that terrifies me is having to go back to that place. Having to want you all over again, with no hope of my desire ever being fulfilled. You’re mine, Angel. Every last piece of you. I won’t let anything change that.”

I propped my weight on my elbow, staring at him. “I don’t deserve you, Patch. I don’t care what you say. It’s the truth.”

“You don’t deserve me,” he agreed. “You deserve better. But you’re stuck with me, and you might as well get over it.” Scooping me under him in one agile movement, he rolled on te rolledop of me, his black eyes all pirate. “I have no intention of letting you go easily, something to keep in mind. I don’t care if it’s another man, your mother, or the powers of hell trying to pry us apart, I’m not easing up and I’m not saying good-bye.”

I blinked my wet lashes. “I’m not letting anything come between us either. Especially not devilcraft. I have the antidote in my purse. I’ll take it right now. And, Patch?” I added with heartfelt emotion. “Thank you . . . for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing,” he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you get away.”

I sank back on his bed, happy to oblige.

CHAPTER 32

SURE ENOUGH, WORD OF MY REQUESTED MEETING with Nephilim higher-ups spread. By Sunday afternoon, Nephilim channels buzzed with anticipation and speculation. I was getting all the press, and news of Dante’s announcement had fizzled. I’d stolen the show, and Dante hadn’t put up any protest. I had no doubt Patch was right—Dante was putting his plans on hold until he could see my next move.

Scott called every hour with an update, which was usually to tell me the latest theories Nephilim were churning out in regard to my first combative strike against fallen angels. Ambush, destroying lines of communication, sending in spies, and kidnapping fallen angel commanders had all made the glorified list. As Patch had predicted, the Nephilim had quickly concluded that war was the only reason I’d call a meeting. I wondered if