Page 14 of Angel's Smoke

It was his physical proximity to a piece of the Empyrean’s gates, a piece that still held traces of Empyrean magic like he suspected, that somehow must have been enough to light the celestial fire that would show him?—

“My soul bond.”

Every time, everysingletime Iron had decided to go in the opposite direction of the very mate who held the twin spark of his soul’s flame, the relic’s shard would light up like a damn Christmas tree and point its judgmental finger at just how fucking dense of an asshole Iron truly was.

Because he was refusing his destiny, his fate, his former power and ability to finally get him and his brothers back to the Empyrean and end Cyro’s tyranny by connecting with his soul bond.

All so he could diddle over a puzzle he’d been holding the missing piece to all this time.

Iron’s angel fire licked at his core, filling his limbs with celestial power that seemed to spread and search for what it couldn’t find but yearned for regardless. Crouched low and deep, with his heart hammering in his ears, Iron prepared to unfurl his wings and take to the skies. The inaction was killing him. If he didn’t at least get eyes on her property soon, assess the roads, check for frozen tree limbs in threat of falling, he was liable to pull his hair out.

He needed to know she was all right, even if he couldn’t speak to her yet. He needed to know?—

That tingling warmth patted his chest, emanating from his flannel’s breast pocket again. Before he could grab the vial, however, the small tube twitched within the fabric, jostling and moving slightly until the shard’s tip was angled toward his left hip where he kept his phone.

Then a soft vibration pulsed against the denim. When he slowly retrieved his phone and looked at the screen, the rest of his world fell away. A single text.

Unknown number: Hi, it’s Anna. The Subaru lady with a braking problem.

A row of three dots appeared, then more text followed.

Unknown number: Just checking to see whether your warped code of integrity has any room for gratitude. I hope so. I hate owing people. That’s how ghosts are made. And I never said thank you, though I’m still not entirely certain for what. Either way, thanks.

Three dots made an appearance again, then vanished, appeared, and vanished once more before her texting finally fell silent . . .

That wouldn’t do.

Chapter8

Anna didn’t even wait for the remote possibility of a response. She just buried her phone beneath her pillow, flung her glasses back on her nightstand, and returned her ear to the divot it had occupied for the past hour.

Holy shit, she’d actually texted him. A complete stranger with a hero complex who had been running laps through her thoughts for the lion’s share of the past five hours. Even her bath, whichalwayshelped her fall asleep, apparently decided to pile on the pressure instead of relieving it.

It didn’t matter that she’d tucked herself into bed at nine thirty or made a very intentional choice not to consume any more media, written or watchable, in hopes she’d coax her mind into a pleasantly euphoric state of slumber.

Nope. Instead, she’d had to go and contract a bout of guilty conscience over how rude she’d been to the man who, for some reason that still failed to find her, had taken time out of his evening to ensure she was okay.

When she was still wide awake hours later, she typed out a message before she could call the words back. It was only after she’d realized what she’d done that true embarrassment prickled her cheeks. Before any dots could bubble up under his name in their nonexistent text string and possibly pepper her screen with encouragement, she cut the conversation off real quick.

“A small thank-you. Just a small thank-you. Nothing that needs a rejoinder.”

Of course, these were the words of an irrational woman who had convinced herself that such a text likely wouldn’t be responded to. For one thing, it was late. Far past acceptable communication windows. And surely, if he even felt compelled to respond, it wouldn’t be with anything more than a simple thumbs-up reaction or a smiley face. For most people who were either sleeping or well on their way to getting there, the path of least resistance was often the most desirable. Why tap out a whole sentence when a simple emoji would suffice and get the point across quickly enough for them to both fall back to sleep?

Besides, if hedidrespond to her, was that even someone she wanted to be talking to in the first place? People who had conversations or intense thought processes this close to midnight were often very bothered people. She had more than enough clients who confessed to late-night snacks and work sessions being a significant part of their dietary undoing to know this.

Good decision-makers kept reasonable hours with reasonable boundaries, something she clearly needed to work on more herself. And no, she wasnotabout to blame it on the pregnancy. After the night she’d had, any sane person would have wanted to show their gratitude. It was an act of goddamn integrity, really, a virtue they’d already established to be an area of concern between them. Doing what was right without the expectation of reciprocity. To volley back against her message would just be inconsiderate. What would he do, after all? Thank her for thanking him? And where would that cycle end? In madness, obviously.

Anna hitched the covers higher up over her shoulder to block out both the chill of the room and the frigid wind pelting the panes of her windows. Only once she settled more snuggly into her cocoon and tried to search out sleep again did a soft vibration tickle her cheek and ear.

Her eyes winged open. She scrambled for her glasses and dove for the phone beneath her pillow. Within the soft pale-blue glow of her screen sat a message, offered up like an oyster presenting its pearl. From Iron.

Iron:Is becoming a ghost a sizable worry for you?

More dots . . .

Iron:And no thanks needed.

Anna settled the pillow behind her head against the wall and tucked her knees close to her chest like she used to as a kid when reading before bed held far more interest than dreaming.

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