Page 157 of Wings of Lies
A door squeaked open. I scanned the room desperately, hoping for help, but found only rusted hooks, chains, and knives. Blinking away the light-headedness, I released my power.
Where the hell were we?
“Funny, isn’t it, that your Glory is the only thing that could melt Ember Chains, but it’s the one power you don’t have access to.”
No.
“I figured you’d be out for longer. Shame about your mother. I had to sedate her with Nerium. She was inconsolable when we brought you in.”
No.
“Speak when you are spoken to!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Every word he spoke was a shard of glass slamming into my ears, filling me with an intense, visceral hatred.
He stepped into view. Not a spec of fuzz or color sullied his uniform. It remained white all the way down to his pristine battle boots. “Lucille, I didn’t want to start your punishments just yet. But if you do not speak, I will have no choice.”
I lifted my hate-filled eyes to his face, contemplating spitting on the stupid white metal of his armor. “What do you need me to say, Father?” I ground out.
His sneer flattened to a line. “Never call me that.”
“Then what should I call you, Father?” I didn’t know why I egged him on, but it had something to do with the fact of him knocking my mom out, cutting me up, and abusing us with his words, playing on replay in my mind.
I saw a flash of metal and flinched back. Except I had nowhere to go as the metal sliced my cheek. Blood slid down my face. My wrists yanked on my chains.
He held up a dagger with an ebony blade. “You will call me by my name.” He smiled, twisting his dagger back and forth, gazing at the drop of blood dotting the tip like he won some prize.
I abhorred him—more than abhorred. There wasn’t an ounce of daughterly affection toward him.
Oh, wait. I wasn’t his daughter.
He strolled to the end of the table. “Do you not remember?” He paused. “Do you know what I am?”
“A bastard?” I goaded. The last thing Michael deserved was compliance, especially when that was all he ever wanted.
He chuckled. The hilt of his dagger flashed before the ebony blade sliced the arch of my foot. Tender flesh that never saw the light of day split.
I pushed against my chains. The cut stung but barely bled.
They were taunts. Little slices to satiate his craving for abuse until it wasn’t enough. By the long scars in single file lines on my back, it was never enough.
“An Archangel. Pure and renowned,” he said with his chest puffed out. “Just like your mother. Until you.”
Gag.I attempted to hide my disgust, but it was as futile as stripping the sarcasm from my tone.
His gray eyes churned with malice and a sickening joy. “Lucille, do you know my name?”
“Nope,” I said in a platonic, chipper voice that was as fake as the smile lifting his lips.
This time, his chuckle gained volume, sounding pleased. “Did your mother ever clarify my abilities to you?” His finger tapped against the table, waiting. I glared at it.
“You know, can’t say we ever cared enough to talk about you,” I said, looking over at her unconscious form. My purple flames itched to come out, but I was still light-headed, and every one of my limbs was pinned down. Even if I could manage an icicle, I wasn’t sure how to slam it into Michael’s face. But maybe if he touched me at the right moment… My thoughts trailed off, mulling over a plan.
He walked around to my arm, fingering my blood at the tip of his dagger with his gloved hand. The white remained stain-free as he smeared it down the middle, his ebony blade absorbing the red line.
What was that thing?Was that the knife I needed to steal?If so, that female had a lot of faith in my abilities to escape Ember Chains without a key or my Glory.
“As an Archangel, we all have a singular power. Mine is one of truth. So, my dear Lucille, we will play a game.”
