Is it the voice that gets him drunk or the things she says with it?
He reasons that it does not matter what makes him dizzy, only that his head is swimming.
And oh, how it swims. How deliciously it swims!
He is young, Messiah. But old enough to know what dark thing is stirring in the pit of his gut. Old enough to know what it is, young enough to not know what to do with it. But he feels no overwhelming need to analyze it. Instead, he merely allows it to overwhelm him. Until it convinces him to reach out and touch her, which he does, gladly. And she is just as warm and he’d suspected, just as downy soft. And he smiles into the curve of her shoulder where his mouth has come to rest.
How the halo lies. Because he is not a saintly thing and he is no angel. She’d been correct in her initial appraisal of him – devilish. The wings shift as, finally, he pulls his mouth away. “Oh, I don’t have it in me to lie,” he murmurs, a lie in itself. Everything about him is a lie. “But I’ve got plenty that’ll taste sweet going down.” He smirks then, leveling her with a loaded glance.
Does she look like an angel? He shake his head and the tangles of his forelock fall over the golden gaze as he considers her. He draws in a long breath, the mouth pressed into a thin, thoughtful line. He studies her a long time, the gaze lingering heavy on her hip, the soft angle of her knee, the curve of her mouth. And then he finally meets her eye again and the smirk deepens. “I have come to find that angels very seldom ever look like angels.”
