From
Price of Angels
Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Gilley
He
happened to catch a glimpse of his reflection, as he pulled a towel from the
cabinet and laid it on the counter. He almost didn’t recognize himself, the way
his eyes were bright, almost feverish, gleaming with a strange light inside a
face that was clenched tight with an active, vibrating tension. He looked wild,
unpredictable, pulsing with energy.
Ghost was wrong. He didn’t need a
break; this wasn’t the look of fatigue, overwork. This was purpose. This was,
for the first time in a long time, something more than obedience. This was
revenge. Revenge by proxy, but no less driving.
Passion.
The archangel was awake.
As he turned toward the shower, he
had a fast, indistinct glimpse of the wings inked into his back.
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