His stare collided with mine, and we glared at each other. An electric feeling buzzed between us. I knew he felt it too, could see it in the way his eyes darkened, turning from angry determination to something that looked a lot more like craving.
Without looking away from him, I dragged the sharp edge of the rock in my grasp over the skin of my wrist.
I saw the instant Joriel realized what I’d done. He recoiled as if I were a flaming sword that could burn him if he got too close, but his gaze was now glued to the golden blood welling up on my wrist.
“What are you doing?” he gritted out as he pressed himself back against the wall of his cell.
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Laila, stop. I’m begging you.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t,” he spat out.
“Do you trust me?” I asked, taking a step closer to him.
“It won’t help.” But despite every word coming from his mouth, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the cut I’d made. “The demons have been trying,” he continued. “Drinking the blood of an angel doesn’t give you access to the heavenly fire.”
I couldn’t help the way my lips curved up. “I’m not asking you to drink my blood, Joriel.” Though I imagined he was fighting with everything in him not to give in to the urge to do just that.
“Laila.”
I ignored the warning in his tone as I reached for his hand with my uninjured one. “Trust me.”
His head dropped back against the wall behind him in defeat, his eyes slipping closed. “Okay.”
I’d never actually seen a blood exchange done before. I was going on nothing but stories as well-believed in the first order as the mates legend. I was choosing to believe both were true because the alternative was to give up all hope.
In the story, an archangel had brought a warrior of the sixth order to the palace after the warrior had been captured by a demon and drained of blood in the demon’s attempt to become an angel by drinking the blood of one. The blood exchange had been performed by one of the first-order angels who’d been in the great hall when the warrior had been brought in.
The only part of the story that worried me was that the blood exchange had been between two angels, and Joriel wasn’t quite an angel anymore.
Refusing to entertain my doubts, I brought the rock to Joriel’s chest, right above his heart. “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I dragged the sharp point over his skin.
He didn’t so much as wince. His eyes stayed closed, his body taut as he tried to hold on to his control.
I brought my bleeding wrist to the new wound I’d created, offering a silent prayer for this to work.
According to the story, all I had to do was mix my blood with his over his heart. It was the intent behind the action that really made the difference. I had to give my blood and my heavenly fire willingly without any motive other than to heal. Then Joriel had to accept that gift, not just the blood and fire butmyblood and fire. He had to trust me, to want a part of me flowing through his veins.
Please work,I thought over and over as I held our bodies together.
It seemed to take an eternity, but Joriel’s breaths eventually evened out, the tension draining out of him as he let out a sigh that I felt in my bones.
When he pulled away from my touch, he looked less pale, better than I’d ever seen him, in fact.
He shuddered and buried his face against my neck. “Laila.” He repeated my name over and over like it was a prayer.
“It’s okay,” I said as sweet relief rushed through me. I knew it had worked, I could feel it.
When he pulled back, my eyes dropped to the wound in his side. I couldn’t look too hard without feeling sick. Living in God’s court hadn’t given me a lot of experience with injuries or physical pain.
“Why aren’t you healing?” I asked.
He swallowed hard. “We all heal slower in Hell. And there are too many injuries. My body can’t keep up.”
“Is that why my wings aren’t growing back?”
