Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3) by Marie Johnston (top 10 novels of all time TXT) 📕

She hadn’t specified a time. To her surprise, he hadn’t either. Was he busy moving his own chess pieces into place?

Sierra had also asked for things to do. Reading, coloring, movies, she didn’t care. The days were boring. Other than surreptitiously searching the quarters for cameras and listening devices, she didn’t have a thing to do.

She’d gotten ten coloring books, five boxes of various pens and markers, three boxes of thrift store novels in all genres, a box of DVDs, also all genres, and an old TV and DVD player. Andy didn’t trust her with streaming.

It’d been a week. Time to see how far her leash extended.

She pushed her hair behind her ears and rose. The clothing Andy had ordered for her was nicer than the ones her teammates had set her up with. The closet was now full of maternity pants in all sizes and fabrics. A few robes too—sky blue, ruby red, and soft brown. She didn’t know if Andy realized they wore robes in Numen, pristine white ones. If he did, he was probably rubbing it in that she wasn’t in Numen. She wasn’t touching the robes.

She’d received a pair of athletic shoes that were half a size too big, a pair of black canvas shoes like the ones she’d arrived in, and fluffy white slippers.

Stuffing her feet into the slippers, she went to the door. The bouncers who had walled her off when she first arrived took rotations as her guard. The one whose junk she’d punched hadn’t been put on the rotation. Andy must not trust him.

She opened the door, and her guard jumped. Had he fallen asleep standing up?

“I’m going stir-crazy.”

His mouth pursed. “You can’t leave.”

“I just want to wander out here.”

“Fallen,” he barked and blocked her. He towered over her, his shoulders eclipsing her view. His eyes were bloodshot like he’d been on a bender the night before, and his ink-black hair was shaved close. Except for the bleary eyes, there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t look like a bodyguard.

“I can look out the window, can’t I?”

“Get inside, fallen.”

That wasn’t the insult he thought it was. She’d heard it so much in the last two and a half weeks that it was now tied to her identity. Yes, she was fallen. She’d dealt with it. Everyone else needed to as well.

“Wouldn’t the clientele like to see Jameson’s knocked-up side piece wandering around? Give them a little hope?”

“Andy’s charged with your care.”

The bodyguards didn’t even know Jameson was dead. “Then ask him if I can look out the damn window and listen to the music.” A steady beat reverberated through her feet. She could feel it inside as well as out here, but she needed every advantage she could get.

The guard bristled, but put his hand to his ear and half turned his back. She looked to the ceiling and sighed. He’d realized this wasn’t the big time of bodyguard work, hadn’t he?

He twisted around. “Why?”

“Because I’m fucking bored!” she yelled, hoping that if Andy was down the hall in the conference room, he’d hear.

It must’ve worked. The guard removed his finger from the bud in his ear. “You have five minutes.

“So generous,” she said sarcastically, but inside she was grinning. Andy was in his office. That was her cue.

She’d be patient. The time alone to reflect on Andy’s delight over her baby had solidified her intentions.

She’d been right to leave the ultrasound picture with Boone. Holding back her disgust wouldn’t be possible if she had to watch Andy’s eyes glow if he found it. There was no way Andy was getting his hands on this baby.

As a warrior, she could do humans no harm. It would be the same for her team. As a fallen, she had no such restraints, and if Andy was the first and last human she killed, so be it.

The shiny, black metal beast gleamed under the Las Vegas sun. The weather was perfect for riding. Too bad he disliked motorcycles. For a while, it’d been exciting. Then it’d been work. When he’d ridden, it had meant he was away from his family, deceiving anyone who rode with him about who he really was. After the shooting, motorcycles had become something he could freely hate.

Yet, here he was again.

Four days after Sierra had given herself up, he’d used the new black car Harlowe had gotten and gone out for a haircut. As hunks of his hair had hit the floor, the man he’d hoped to forget had re-emerged. The lack of hair made his eyes sharper, angrier. He was back to looking like he’d kill someone with his bare hands any second. He’d trimmed his beard so it was a quarter inch longer than stubble and gone to another thrift store for worn blue jeans and used T-shirts. He couldn’t look like his clothing still had their tags on.

The next stop had been the most run-down tattoo shop he could find. Harlowe had said she’d used a Sharpie the one time she’d infiltrated the club, but that was one of the rules about undercover work: commit fully. He hated the little black rose on his biceps, but he’d already checked into what it’d take to laser it off as soon as he could.

Then he’d come home to the bike Urban had procured. An Indian, from this century, and thankfully it looked like a model from the years that Boone had ridden. Gleaming black metal and a black seat with a small rip to add legitimacy. It didn’t bring back the itch to ride. But he didn’t have the urge to kick the thing over either, so whatever mental hang-ups he’d had were in the past. It was a tool to help Sierra.

Boone should’ve done a few test drives, but it was time to go to the club. It wasn’t a biker club this time. But he was undercover again. Two excruciatingly long weeks had gone by and