Deep (Pagano Family #4)(45)

His only answer was a short, audible exhale, the stunted syllable of a mirthless laugh.

She kissed his shoulder again. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. My ribs happily suffered a moment’s discomfort for it. But something’s wrong, Nick. Will you tell me? Can you?”

He pushed his hand into her hair, cradling the side of her head. His eyes, once they’d met hers, had not left. “Brian died today.”

“Oh, no. Oh, my God.” He hadn’t told her much about his life yet, but he’d talked about Brian several times. She’d met him at Neon, of course. He had saved her and Nick both that night. He was Nick’s best friend. “I’m so sorry.”

She rose onto her knees on the sofa and encircled him in her arms, his head tucked to her chest. He resisted at first, holding his body rigid, and then he gave in, resting against her, but only lightly, his hands going around her waist. They sat like that, silently, for a long time. Bev felt even closer to Nick like this, giving him comfort, than she had earlier, in her bed, though she understood that she’d been giving him comfort then, too.

She knew not to ask what had happened; he would tell her if he wanted to, and she had no need to know. In the time she’d known more than simply his name and face, two people close to him had died. Maybe more than that, for all she knew. She and he had almost been killed by a bomb. In the time she’d known Nick Pagano even existed, others had been killed, including his father. That story, and the events at his funeral, had made the news. She’d been online, too, in the past week and a half, and she had a fuller understanding of Nick’s own reputation.

He had not exaggerated when he’d told her that he and his life were dark and violent.

Chris was right: she was making a dangerous choice. Maybe even a foolhardy choice. But it didn’t matter. If this was the latest incarnation of her bad-boy fetish, then so be it. But she didn’t think it was that. She’d seen his eyes when he’d told her that he treasured what was his. Nick was usually inscrutable, his face a dark mask, but that day, when he’d come in to know why she’d been crying, she’d seen past his controlled exterior, and she had seen his regard for her. Since that day, he had been more open to her. She knew it; she trusted in it. He was dangerous, but not to her.

She kissed his still-damp head and dropped a hand to his back, rubbing over that broad expanse of muscle and skin. And that amazing tattoo. Sitting back on her heels, she kissed the top of one wing. “You have feathers, too.”

He chuckled a little. “Mine are a lot different from yours.”

Realizing that this was the first chance she’d ever had to get a really good look at his back, she turned a little to study the artwork.

His feathers really were a lot different from the light, downy puffs on her wrist. His made up enormous angel’s wings that seemed to have burst painfully from his shoulder blades. They arced over the curve of his shoulders and swept down his sides, trailing off below his waistband. The wings, the feathers, seemed to be made of steel and were inked with so much talent and precision they seemed to have actual weight.

The sword that spanned the length of his spine, from the grip, beginning at the base of his neck, to the point, again below his waistband, was intricately detailed. The metal seemed to be etched with ancient runes and symbols, and the grip was like carved, grained wood. The barbed wire that wound around it all made Bev ache a little in its brutality. And then she noticed that some of the barbs had been made to look as if they’d pierced his skin.

His ink was the opposite of hers in every way. Hers was meant to remind her of lightness and freedom. His was weight and pain.

She kissed the wing on his shoulder again. “What’s the story of your ink?”

He smiled a little at that and then reached across his body, took her hand from his shoulder, and held it. “What do you know about the archangels?”

“Like, Michael and Gabriel and whoever?”

“Yeah. And whoever.” His smile widened to fullness.

She shrugged and then smiled, too, feeling a little sheepish. “Not much. Actually, most of what I know came from Supernatural.”

“Supernatural?”

“The TV show. About monsters and demons and angels. The archangels are a thing.”

“Oh—is that the one about the gay guys who ride around in the vintage Impala?”

“Oh, my God! They’re not gay—they’re brothers!”

He chuckled. “Okay. Anyway, there are seven archangels. Catholics only recognize three: Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. But there are four more. One of them is Samael. All archangels are God’s warriors. They’re not gentle beings with harps—they’re violent and powerful. Samael walks the line between good and evil. He’s an angel of retribution and destruction. Of death. He’s God’s enforcer. He’s also known as the Prince of Demons.”

“Sounds like Sam and Dean got it right, then.”

His brows drew in at that, but Bev just shook her head and went on. “So, you have Samael’s wings and sword on your back?”

“Yes.”

“Because you identify with him.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” It made sense, actually. But there was a lot of pain represented in that ink. “But you don’t rest easy with that.”