Madeline Noel fled war-torn Heaven to hide within the mortal world, but the blessing that could protect her from evil is the holy realm’s forbidden power.
As a talented soprano for the Eden Theatre Company, Madeline hides among prima donnas and tone-deaf flutists. Her perfect voice may entertain audiences, but a careless laugh may shatter glass, and her greatest scream can kill. To control her unrestrained voice, the angels forbid Madeline from embracing the emotions that strengthen her song. Anger. Fear.
The demon-hunter Damascus vows to defend Madeline from Hell’s relentless evil, but he cannot protect her from her own feelings. Though they deny their dangerous attraction, her guardian becomes her greatest temptation.
Surrendering to desire may awaken the gift suppressed within Madeline’s soul, and neither Heaven nor Hell will allow such absolute power to exist.
Damascus moved, drawn by the promise of the melody. A thrill cascaded through her, sobering and affirming all at once.
The warrior submitted to the maiden.
“I’m taking you home.” His voice roughened, forsaking gentleness for urgent need. “You need your rest.”
He pulled her from the pub without courtesy, without compassion. The chill of the street rocked her with new shivers, but it did nothing to quench the riled fires within his eyes. Night fell. Shadows hid their touch. Damascus tucked her against his body. They Traveled to her apartment.
The dizzying, disorientating blur of Travel blinded her in the lurching bedroom. Damascus offered her no reprieve. The oppressive wrapping of his arms dropped her to the softness of her bed. The mattress creaked as his weight pressed over her.
Her gasp silenced on his kiss.
What had she done?
And why hadn’t she done it before?
His lips bound against hers, searching her mouth, claiming a path along her cheek, chin, and neck. A barrage of goose bumps prickled her, offering her courage, bundling her stomach in knots of curiosity and the first absolute wanting she ever allowed herself to enjoy.
Her murmured promise called to him, beckoned him close, moved his hands against her body.
He never touched her like that before, and his grip did not gentle or slow. He tore at her shirt, yanking the material higher until his palm caressed the soft skin of her hip. He pushed her deeper into the bed. Pinned her.
She couldn’t move. The flare of his fingers seared the button from her jeans. It was everything she imagined, and nothing she should have ever wanted.
“Damascus…” Madeline cursed the smoky lust haunting her voice.
He kissed her without hesitation. She gripped his shoulders but the otherworldly poise and strength of the warrior never yielded. His rough demand parted her lips, and her short, staggered murmur was all he permitted before lashing her tongue with his.
Her body responded.
She wished it hadn’t.
Damascus seized her wrist as she wiggled against the solid muscle. The heat of his embrace intoxicated her, just as the call of her song tempted him. His overwhelming, inescapable power captured her beneath his desire.
But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It wasn’t Damascus.
It was the song. The drink. The frustration and exhaustion and fear. The times she fantasized about his touch—the wishful, dangerous thoughts which drifted from chaste admiration to desperate lust—forged a forbidden need.
But this wasn’t passion. This was her voice. The cry of her notes.
The weakened betrayal of her emotions over all sanity.
And now his arousal trapped them both. She seduced him against his will, like she was some sort of…demon.
The need in her voice betrayed her. The soulful plea begged him for the wrong reasons, for the strength he possessed that she did not.
His hands ripped the zipper down along her jeans. Madeline arched. The denim exposed every curve to him. His rasping groan might have been a compliment. It still was. But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his excitement and his love and his urges.
It was the damned song.
Damascus would never touch her, never act on his needs, never want her.
Not unless she forced him to betray everything, including her.
About the Author
Gracie Madison would spend every day, all day writing…if it were socially acceptable. Ever since she was a little girl scribbling with a crayon, Gracie’s dedicated herself to her books and all the supernatural and paranormal, creepy and beautiful stories and characters born within the pages. Now Gracie is committed to finally sharing those books with the world. When the laptop is pried from her hands, Gracie is probably working her day job, rooting on the Steelers, or out with her husband searching for Pittsburgh’s best sushi.
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