*Logan

At the very moment he and Chiara ducked out of the brothel hallway and into a side tunnel, Logan started to fall into a mind-trap. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched his brain back to the here and now.

Hell thought it could fuck with his mind? Not a chance.

He took Chiara's hand to lead in her the near total darkness, through one of the many tunnels that coursed through the stones of Hell like veins, tugging demons back to a dark heart.

But she went rigid, refusing to follow. A moan of heartbreaking sorrow came from her mouth.

Shit, shit, shit!

"Chiara!" he shouted. She fell and he caught her. She fought him. He pinned her arms down.

She cried, weeping the same way she had for so many nights in the dungeon—silently and in despair, with a pain that came from a deep, hidden place.

The invisible monsters haunting these tunnels had wormed their way into her head through the path carved by that ass-scum Zeigfel. Logan would destroy him utterly. But that had to wait.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "Chiara, come back to me."

His heart sang the same words as his mouth. She had to come back—she had to find the way. "Fight them."

He cradled her close, forcing her to be still and not attack him on accident. The fight was in her mind, her heart, and for her soul. He kept repeating the words, not knowing how else to reach her.

The last drops from the flask of the Fountain of Life water?

No. She wasn't injured. It wouldn't help her this time. It gave him an idea, though.

He only knew scraps her angelic language, bits and pieces mostly picked up during training so demons would understand if orders were shouted on the battlefield. But this was the battlefield, was it not?

"Chiara, revernale am lii."

Chiara, come back to me.

The words stung him sharper than needles piercing tongue and throat. Time stopped, the angelii words acting like a strange spell in the tunnel, and then other words crashed into him harder than a wave during a storm at sea.

No angel would ever freely choose a demon echoed in his head. His own words, whispered to himself when they first went into the Hall of Gluttony, were slicing into his heart and mind like whip lashes to his back.

He had taken her, his angel, while caught up in the sin of lust, and he had enjoyed the sweet bliss she gave, savored every cry and whimper and every gasp of pleasure he dragged from her body, but he knew—with terribly certainty—that she would never have chosen to fuck him if she hadn't been in one of the halls.

What had he done? To her? To himself?

Having tasted her once, so completely, would he ever be able to let her go when the time came, because the time would come when she would look at him with utter disgust and hate herself for fucking him.

Or, worse, would he give into his daemonium's call to become her new torturer, keeping her in a different kind of dungeon, with different chains on her wrists?

His stomach turned remembering her pinned to the filthy wall across the room from him, jaw clenched against a scream as Lucius or Dirk worked at her with a sharp blade.

No.

He wouldn't chain her again, even if his torture would be a different kind. It would still be torture for her. How would he find the strength to let her go?

Give her a blade and let her figure it out....

She wasn't as good as him, but she was good enough to escape from him if given a weapon or two.

Even if he was the Dark Flame, the Wing-Cutter, she was the Light Bearer and as strong an angelic warrior as he ever faced in battle.

Faced in battle.

Hell below. She might return to the angelic ranks to fight again. One day, she could stand in battle and fight demons, risking her life and worse, as he knew better than any except her. Knowing her as he did now, he was sure she would fight, if called by her captains.

His warrior. Cold and deadly as ice on a winter morning.

He would be forever cast out—on the run. But she would be welcomed back and celebrated among her winged kind as a survivor, a rare, wonderous thing.

He would be alone.

She would be loved.

His heart ripped in half. There it was. The thing he could never give her. She would find an angel worthy of her love, one who would worship her as she should be worshipped, who would take her to his bed—

A scream of jealous rage tore from his chest, up and out his throat.

"Fuck!"

His enemy was her future and Logan's inevitable fate.

He had begged her—Chiara, come back to me—in angelii, but if she came back he would be saving her for herself and them, not to keep her for himself.

The spell created by the angelic words ended when Chiara gasped for air and opened her eyes. She had a feral, fearful wildness to her. Obviously, wherever she had been in her mind, it had been terrifying.

He talked her down. Calmed her, while on his knees. Whatever it took.

The enemy was near and she had to trust him so they could keep moving.

Steps rang out nearby.

"This way." He led her down a branch of the dark tunnel. He couldn't be sure, since the tunnels themselves had a way of changing and shifting over time, so it was impossible to memorize the paths, but this one seemed to lead deeper into hell.

So less likely it would be searched.

Chiara almost didn't join him in the shadows of hidden recess. He'd found the door by instinct alone, born of years searching for such hiding places when he was a pup escaping the training sessions. When he and his brother were still friends, allied against a common hatred of the other demons, and both still alive.

"Quickly," he whispered, beckoning. Trust me, my angel.

Logan held his breath, waiting her for her answer. Then, torn from his mouth, a ragged, "Through flame and blade, Chiara, I am with you."

She stepped inside with him and he caught her in his arms.

For now, his angel.

***

Logan entwined his hand Chiara's thick hair and drew her head to his chest. They stood together, breathing, waiting, listening for a long moment.

Just breathe. Just fucking breathe for a moment.

Would the lurkers find them in there, this hidden pocket in the rock? In the past, when he was young, nothing ever wormed its way in his head when he found these hiding places with his brother. It was as if they were alone, just the two of them. No one and nothing else existed in the whole world for a few precious minutes.

They could stop fighting for once.

Inside these tunnels, outside the halls of sin, other enemies crept—attacking the mind, wearing down his defenses, eating into his heart. Now his every crime tormented him, starting with how he sacrificed his own brother in the arena to gain a place among Lucius's soldiers.

But it was Zeigfel who called their names to fight each other.

That rat's ass bastard knew they were twins. Logan knew it would happen, sooner or later. No demon can have an actual brother, they must all be brothers on the field. A true brother to care for?

Logan nearly spit his hate.

It was not allowed.

Zeigfel made sure that Logan understood that rule.

He tightened his hold convulsively on Chiara, accidentally catching her wings against the bare skin of his arm.

Biting back a hiss of pain, he loosened his hold and moved his arm off her feathered joint at her shoulder blade.

"Are they coming?" she breathed. She was trembling still from her brush with the tunnel lurkers haunting her mind and was covered in sweat. She must be freezing. He kept her close, hoping his body heat helped.

It would be the only thing she wanted from his nearness in here. No lust or other sin existed in the tunnels—only despair. Generally speaking.

"Yes, but with a little luck, they'll pass us by. Few know of these hiding spots," he whispered.

He cocked his head to listen and was rewarded by the scuffing and clanging of boots that came...and went. "We will wait a bit, but I think it's all right."

She nodded, probably knowing he would see it in the dark, and certainly feel it, although she must have been sightless from lack of light.

"Logan?"

Her voice spun out in the space like the winter's icy air that she resembled so much as a fighter, sharp and biting.

He didn't answer, only held her, reluctant to let go since she might never return to his arms. No angel would ever freely choose a demon. That he, too, had been ensnared by the sins in the hall was no excuse for what he had done to her.

"Why are you helping me? What is your end game?" she asked.

And this was how he lost her. His angel. Tell her the truth and she would fight him. Lie and she would despise him.

"Chiara." He couldn't continue for a moment. "We made a deal. That's all."

"Tell me if you care for me. Honestly."

"I care that you can get me through the Midlands alive and safe from your kind, that's all."

"You can find your way through just fine," she snapped.

"Remember what else demons do? They lie. All the time. Take what you will from that."

"You aren't lying about caring for me. Your every action tells me the truth."

"Self-motivated," he quipped, lies spilling from his mouth. "I'm only interested in surviving."

"No. Demons know underground routes, hidden paths, and the tricks to navigating the human world. You don't need my help fighting."

"Only against hordes of angels, where you would provide a welcome distraction. I'm stacking the chips in my favor, that's it."

"You would already be out of Hell if you weren't helping me, stop the bullshit." She pulled further away from him.

"Never. Bullshit is what I do, and you are trying to pretend I'm something more than a demon whose only interest is self-preservation."

"We spent months in that dungeon, lying to each other every single night, I know you very well when you are lying."

"You really want the truth, Chiara?" he asked. "All right. I, too know you. I know the sound of your wings against your skin, I know the sounds you make when you are dreaming which mean you are having a nightmare, I know your strengths—physical and mental—against your enemies, and I know your weaknesses when you think you are alone, I know the sound your tears make rolling on your cheeks, I know you would carve a path of flame and blade to get me through the midlands, and you would be as beautiful and deadly as lightning doing it. But if you want the truth, I won't ask you to do it."

"Logan, I—"

"Don't. Just don't." He couldn't take whatever she was going to say. He had to force himself to continue. "The second we are out of Hell, you will be free to leave everything happened in the halls behind you. Forget the deal. Forget it all."

"I'll never forget, no matter how many centuries I live. I am steeped in sin," she whispered. "Stained and marked by sin and by you."

"I won't apologize."

"I'm not asking you to apologize." She lifted her head and in the dark, found the back of his neck to cup, drawing him down to her.

Her lips found his. She was warm and supple in his arms, melting into his embrace.

"There is only truth here. Sin with me again, without the hall telling you to," she said, breathing into his mouth.

He turned his face. There was not enough air in this hiding space, but he couldn't leave and he couldn't push her away. No angel would ever freely choose a demon.

"Logan," she insisted.

"I am a monster to you and your kind."

"I don't care." She forced him to face her and found his lips again in the darkness.

*** But is Logan still a monster? Thanks for reading! I had a scare this morning when I almost erased the rest of the story from my files, but luckily had a back-up copy that my hubby was able to recover! He's my hero - I hope everyone has a hero in their lives (or are the hero to someone else). Hugs and hit the star if you enjoyed this chapter!!! ***