The Acceptance

warrior for God, her life wasn’t normal, would never be normal.

She was abnormal—in every way.

Luther couldn’t know what she did, and he wouldn’t believe why she did it. Normal people weren’t summoned by God.

Normal people didn’t destroy life in any grisly manner necessary.

Normal people didn’t behold the abominable evil that showed itself clearly to her, the evil she was ordered to annihilate.

Like spilled oil in a dirty gutter, it all came back to the surface: her duty, and Luther’s inability to ever grasp or accept it. He was a damn cop, and given half a chance he’d arrest her, see her prosecuted, and stand by while unknowing normal people saw her locked away.

For life.

And that hurt more than anything could.

Ready to disguise her anguish with anger, Gaby charged forward, and Luther held up a hand to stop her.

“Mort’s not dead, sweetheart.”

She drew up short. Sweetheart? What sappy shit was that? No one called her . . .

Then the rest of what Luther said sank in and Gaby’s world tilted. Her knees felt weak. Her heart punched hard against the wall of her chest.

Not dead? But . . .

Weeks ago, Mort had died. She knew it.

She’d seen it.

Images burned through her mind with a flash-fire intensity that seared her soul and inflamed her agony.

She saw Mort bravely staying behind in the abandoned building after she’d dispatched the zombielike souls and the monstrous doctor who’d created them. She saw Mort showing his first signs of personal pride, practically glowing with his sense of purpose—God’s purpose.

And then . . . Mort falling beneath a madwoman’s lust for blood, buried in ashes and dust . . .

“No.” Lost on the night breeze, her whispered denial faded into oblivion. She wheezed, trying to draw in needed oxygen, but instead her lungs bloated on the nastiness of depravity and the craven sense of despair.

“Yes, Gaby.”

Luther’s reassurance didn’t touch her. Reaching out, she braced a palm on the roughened surface of broken bricks, her eyes burning and her throat constricted. “I saw . . .”

“What?” New anger sparked in Luther’s brown eyes. “What did you see?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. She couldn’t let Luther know that she had been there, a part of it all, the biggest part—the part that butchered, hashed, and permanently destroyed atrocities too vile to survive.

He didn’t buy it. “You were there, weren’t you, Gaby? Mort lied about that much. Admit it.”

Luther didn’t approach her, didn’t touch her. He just waited, watching her, judging her reaction the way he always judged her—with suspicion and cynicism.

He was a good man.

Auras of strength and purpose always surrounded him, a protective halo to remind her of all the ways they contrasted.

That he remained distrustful of her was one good reason to keep her distance. If a do-gooder seraph like Luther ever found out what she did, he’d never be able to deal with it.

Reminding herself of that gave her strength, enough to amass her wits and face him again.

She steadied her palpating heart and locked back her jellied knees. Suspicious, hopeful, she surveyed him. “Mort’s really alive?”

Fed up, Luther reached for her—but this time Gaby was ready. Exhilarated by the idea that her old landlord and only true friend might have survived, she ducked out of Luther’s reach and came up behind him.

Her right arm clamped tight around his throat, tight enough to squeeze his windpipe. “Take it easy, big boy.”

The taunt sent him over the edge.

He reacted so quickly, he caught Gaby off guard. In a series of well-timed movements, she found herself slammed back up against the wall, this time with Luther’s big, imposing body plastered to her. Unless she decided to hurt him, and she didn’t want to do that, she couldn’t defend herself.

Her bones, her joints, protested and her pride prickled . . .

But oh God, jubilation filled her. Euphoria erupted. She was better than ecstatic.

Morty was alive.

Luther wouldn’t lie about that. He couldn’t. Somehow, by some divine intervention, Morty had survived.

Damn, but she couldn’t wait to see the little weasel again. When she did, she’d give him hell for sure.

Incredulous, Luther snarled. “Don’t you dare smile, Gaby.” He bracketed one big, hard hand around her throat, and with the other pinned both of her wrists high. “Don’t you dare act like nothing is wrong.”

Throughout most of her lamentable life, Gaby had had no reason for joy. Now she felt it in spades, and damn it, she couldn’t suppress it. Even Luther’s pissed-off attitude couldn’t dampen her buoyant spirits.

Gaby eyed him, lifted one brow, and when the happiness threatened to implode, she kissed him.

Luther jerked back—but she followed and kissed him again, needing to celebrate the foreign emotion of pure, undiluted happiness bursting inside her.

She’d never felt it before, and she loved it, wanted to cherish it and this moment. It was a first for her, a sign that somewhere in her blackened heart, a real woman lived and breathed and accepted influence from the world that had rejected her so harshly.

Breathing hard and fast, Luther resisted her impetuous onslaught for only a nanosecond before the hand at her throat softened, his fingers slid up into her hair, and he positively devoured her mouth.

Kissing was as new to her as joy, but doubly thrilling. As a creature of instincts, Gaby rubbed herself against him. When that didn’t appease, she groaned and bit him.

He jerked back, panting, his face red and his eyes burning like the devil himself.

They stared at each other. Gaby said, “I like kissing you, Luther.”

An internal struggle manifested itself on his features. He fought hard, making his beautiful brown eyes blaze and his sensuous mouth tighten.

He swallowed, worked his jaw, then flattened her by asking in a brisk, but affected voice, “Why were you chasing the boy?”

The wind left her lungs. Fucking asshole. Her pride bristled at such a harsh rejection. “Let me go.”

“Not until you answer me.”

She shook her head; not in denial, but because she didn’t have an answer for him. “I don’t know why.”

“What?”

Because she detested being uncertain in any way, she snapped, “Clear out your ears, cop.”

His left eye flinched. “So now we’re back to insults, is that it?”

“Hey, I clearly wanted to fuck. You’re the one—”

He released her so quickly, Gaby almost fell. Before she could regain her bearings, he’d turned his back on her and paced away. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, the other clenched into a fist.

In a perfect world, Gaby would try to figure him out. She’d want to understand her sudden hurt and why she’d ever, even for a single second, thought a man like Luther, a good, kind, beautiful man, would want any part of her.

But this world was imperfect, in part because of her, in other ways, in spite of her.

Best if she just left, right now, while she still could. She started to do just that.

Luther said, “Please don’t go.”

“No reason to stay.”

Without making a sound, he came to her and his hand closed over her shoulder. In a harsh, hungry whisper, he said, “I want you, Gaby. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “You’ve been hanging out with prostitutes and now suddenly you want sex. With me. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Hell, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again. When last I did see you, you