By Joey W. Hill
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Extra resources for A Witch's Beauty
He could be rationalizing the hell out of things, not wanting to accept that the woman to whom he was so attracted could in fact be as dark as Marcellus and the other angels feared. He was still missing too many pieces. Even so, there was an alarm going off in him and gaining strength, telling him he didn't want to know what was ahead. But he'd promised to protect her. To do that, he had to understand whom or what he was protecting. But was he forging ahead as an angel dedicated to a mission, or as the male who needed the key to her, needed it now, for he'd touched his mouth to hers and found himself hungry for more?
He was distressing her. It helped orient him, bring him back to a world where there was some semblance of civility, order. Those things could be illusions as well. He'd fought so hard to believe he could forget, thinking that the higher he piled Dark One bodies, the faster he flew, the farther it would be from him. In the end he'd discovered the only way to handle the memories was to stay still enough to accept their presence. Meditation. Gods, he'd never expected that meditation would be the hardest thing for him to learn, but there it was.
Her face was over him, an ironic map of the fight between good and evil, the way it had been mapped over his heart, leaving it a scarred battlefield like hers. Maybe they were the mirror of each other, after all. She closed her eyes briefly, as if she was dealing with some great emotion, before her lids sprang back open, her mouth going to a thin, firm line. Here it comes, he thought. The unexpected surge of humor was a gift straight from the Lady, he was sure, providing a beam of warmth, which shattered the hold of the lingering despair.