Demonic Affairs: A Reverse Harem Paranormal Fantasy Romance (Angel's Guardians Book 2) Read online

  It all seemed quite exciting when I thought about it that way, even when my reality was my teammates starting to mill about and grumble about what the hell they were going to do with the rest for the evening.

  You would think that the reality of it would be less exciting. It usually was, with such flights of fancy. Yet, in a way, I was finding myself in a reality as exciting as any daydream I’d ever had.

  “Man, I am jonesing for a few quick reps after all that espresso,” announced Kieran, pulling his shirt off over his head while heading over to the set of free weights the boys insisted on keeping in the bloody living room.

  It was just not the kind of exciting I needed surrounding me at all times, day and night.

  “You work out,” declared Alexander as he tore off his corduroy jacket, revealing the thin mock turtleneck shirt clinging to his well-toned frame. “But I work,” he continued, walking towards the set of research folios and the work laptop set up on the living room coffee table, insisting on walking in a manner which maximised the sculpted beauty of his rock-hard gluteus goddamn maximus as he did so.

  It was a most unwelcome sort of distraction indeed, leaving me standing flustered and a bit a-swoon as I could not help but watch in the entryway.

  “I need to start roasting the arabica beans so they can properly off-gas before tomorrow’s breakfast.” Troy had also decided to join in on this trend of the boys announcing declaring their activities out loud, albeit with his standard formality.

  At least he is not opting to take his shirt off like the others, I thought.

  But the small amount of relief even that thought provided did not last long as Troy strode towards the kitchenette and shed his thin, green jumper, slinging it over his shoulder. I was left staring at the impressive upper back and abdominal muscles which rippled every time he took a step.

  I decided to ignore everyone and just go back to my room to have pleasant dreams thinking about the more romanticised version of my life.

  “I don’t care what you all do,” I said blandly, a non-sequitur making little sense to anyone and probably making less sense to myself.

  Alone in my room, staring up at the weathered ceiling, I was having trouble sleeping yet again. I couldn’t stop thinking about that evening, about all of these distractingly gorgeous boys I’d been teamed up with. Eventually I did fall into slumber, and opening my eyes I found myself in that wonderful place where I’d last seen my mother: the angel Gatriel. “Mum?”

  It was as I’d remembered from that last dream: azure skies, rolling fields, a city of gems and gold in the distance. In the fields were animals, not of flesh and blood but of refined light, lazuli hues and viridian shades.

  It was like a growing, ever-evolving dreamscape. It became both more real and richly detailed as well as more majestically surreal and unearthly each time I witnessed it. It was like a parallel reality to my own, becoming at least as real as my own—yet Gatriel remained the exact same wondrous and comforting presence each time my dreams took me there.

  “Keep your focus, my angel baby,” I heard Gatriel whisper. “You need to wake up now.”

  “No, I’m not ready!” I heard myself say, although I wasn’t sure why. “I have questions. I want to stay here with you.”

  “Natasha, wake up,” I heard my angelic mother say firmly, and suddenly I was back in my bed in the flat, still hearing the words “wake up” echoed through my mind.

  “I’ve been less than angelic,” I heard myself sleep-slurring as the dream faded. “My thoughts.”

  “You’re an angel to me always.” My mum’s voice seemed to echo out of nowhere as I opened my eyes to the empty bedroom.

  “I’m not a real angel,” I protested automatically, but then I heard something creak in the living room.

  I recognised the sounds and aromas of Troy cooking breakfast in the kitchenette just outside my makeshift bedroom. I could smell the heavenly aromas of sautéed onions, olive oil, eggs, and—yes, even for breakfast—red wine. It may have been morning, still, but Troy had a magical way with the stuff I was addicted to, the way he would use it to enhance the flavour profile of nearly everything he made. I put some clothes on and went out to help my teammate—or at the very least, take in the magnificent aroma of what he was preparing.

  “Did you just cook?” I enquired. “That’s my job!”

  It definitely was not my job and it even more definitely was Troy’s job, but even after a rather serious dream—or perhaps because of it—I had decided to be in a less than serious mood.

  “You were snoozing!” he retorted. “I had to get breakfast ready…I thought it’d be easier than waking you.”

  “Well, thanks,” I replied quietly and a bit ashamed both at my yelling and my failure to convey a teasing tone.

  I mean, could he have possibly thought I was serious? My complaint would have been absurd on the face of it—is not as if I were doing any cooking compared to Troy or at all for that matter.

  But considering that as Troy’s brekkie fry-up magic was filling the kitchenette area, I realised I was also blushing—or really blushing—for a different reason entirely.

  Out of all the boys with whom I shared that tiny flat, and with whom I’d gotten to know so well over during our time together, Troy was likely the only one who would not only assume I was serious with such a complaint, but also very likely the only one of those boys who would bother taking the time to address it seriously as well.

  Either that, or he was having a bit of a flirt with me, which was also a reason to blush even if it were not quite as touching.

  As usual, Troy didn’t seem to notice my blushing, regardless of its cause, or much else about me even as he turned some small part of his attention in my direction. Rather, he just kept happily working on his breakfast fry-up, smiling confidently—maybe with a touch of obliviousness—with his eyes fixed down upon the skillet.

  I found myself sighing again, this time louder than I would have liked. I wasn’t sure of the response I’d expected, but there was something inside me that just needed to scream out:

  “Can’t you lot all just put your shirts on or something so I can try to keep my head about me in this damn place?”

  As I was lost in what was becoming an annoyingly common reverie, Troy had finished whatever he had presently been doing with his culinary wizardry and had at last loosened his gaze on the skillet, choosing at that moment to look over at me instead. Our eyes met, and I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Whatever frustration I had about my teammates’ and current flatmates’ habits—and it was a frustration I was not shy about sharing when it got to be too much—was something I realized I was likely written all over my expression as I glared at poor Troy.

  Troy who had been doing nothing but try to cook in the wonderful way he always did.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is there something on my face?”

  “I’m going shopping.” My eyes were turned downward onto the cracked kitchen tile. I could not think of anything better to say, but at that moment I needed to get out, to go somewhere, maybe out of my own slight embarrassment or maybe out of the continuously pent-up frustration of living there or some combination of all the above, but I just wanted, needed to go.

  And shopping was about the only reason I had to do that.

  “I’ll go with you,” Troy offered. For some reason his offer felt like a massive weight lifting from my spirit.

  “Really?” What I had really wanted to ask, instead of that vague, unformed question, was what type of shopping he thought I was doing, because I was not sure yet myself.

  But also, did he really want to go with me, or was it just some Troy version of being polite?

  “May I please take you grocery shopping, my dear?” Troy responded, answering my unspoken question about the kind of shopping, and also sounding sincere enough to mean it beyond mere civility.

  Plus, none of my teammates had ever called me that before, at least not since we had been in Paris. Ho
nestly, part of me wanted to give Troy what-for for being fresh with me. However, after my eyes finally traveled up to meet with his, I could see the sparkle of humour, of gentle teasing. I’d never seen such a thing from Troy before. How could I resist going to the grocery store with him after that?

  “Let’s go!” I finally conceded.

  “I needed a few more herbs for cooking,” Troy mumbled while turning off the burner, as if he were suddenly growing shy again.

  “No garlic!” Alexander relayed from the heavily shaded living room which had been dressed with black-out curtains to avoid letting even a drop of sunlight in at any time. While I thought that Alexander just may have been asleep at that hour, apparently he had overheard our plans—just like everyone could hear at least a little bit of everything at all times in that place—and had decided to allow himself a bit of a half-joke at Troy.

  “Garlic is something I need,” Troy half-yelled back, possibly not getting how serious Alexander was.

  “He’s allergic!” shouted Michael from the veranda, also having overhead us.

  And, of course, also not wearing a shirt as he sat and read in the morning sun. I mean, why would he? Why would any of these damn guys ever possibly want to waltz around our shared living quarters anything but half-naked? That might allow me a moment to actually relax and think without having to stare at some ridiculously well-toned pecs and abs, and naturally that was just too much to ask.

  “That’s an understatement,” added Kieran between bicep curls, also overhearing as apparently he’d been standing in the hallway just outside of the kitchen the entire time. “Alexander’s garlic allergy, if you can even call it that, is about as severe as an allergy can get.”

  And of course, Kieran was also shirtless.

  Goddamnit.

  Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I summoned the strength to let go and ignore the stupidly tantalizing imagery all around me and just enjoy all the repartee. And it worked—I laughed a little out loud but much harder to myself at the boys’ ridiculous banter.

  As usual, I had to stop myself from laughing as hard as I wanted, but, also as usual I felt that to be the correct decision. I didn’t want to encourage too much silliness. One of us had to be responsible.

  It was, in many ways, all becoming too stressful moment to moment, but I loved the idea of getting out. I felt ecstatic as Troy and I left the flat, exhilarated enough to offer a chummy arm to him.

  “What do you cook better than me?” he asked as we strolled down the boulevard towards the supermarket nearest our flat.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m not cooking better than you. I’m not cooking at all. Well, maybe I’ve maybe cooked once, or twice.”

  “Yes, you are better and you know it,” he continued. “I just enjoy the results too much to even remember to pay my compliments to chef Natasha.”

  As we walked further down the boulevard, towards the grocery market, it had become more crowded with Parisian locals and tourists. Troy quickly checked that his pointy fae ears were still tucked properly into his ball cap. As for me, I looked at Troy.

  “You think your hearing is so much better than mine that you can just cover your ears?” I asked, almost without thinking much about it.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Troy replied.

  “You flatter yourself if you think I’m that curious.” I barely had time to finish my rejoinder before he looked down, taking my cue that I’d annoyed him.

  His pride was so easy for me to hurt. Even if I’d meant to do no harm, I still caused him some sort of agony, just as he and the others caused me.

  We turned from the warm, summer weather and delightful atmosphere of the street into the relatively sterile, air conditioned confines of the grocery store.

  “All the signs are in French.” I blushed, wide-eyed as we entered the cavernous, cheese and bread-smelling market building.

  I mean, duh, but it was still my way of admitting that my French skills may not have been as fluent as my teammates’.

  “You mean Français,” corrected Troy with that same joking twinkle in his eye which I recognised from earlier that morning.

  “Hmm, I never took you as the humorous type,” I said with judgement, although trying not to sound too offensive. I would have liked to think I was just joshing him, as well, but apparently some of his usually endearing earnestness was rubbing off on me as well.

  “You can learn a lot about someone just by observing their mannerisms.” Troy’s eyes still twinkled affectionately, even as he grew more serious.

  It was an appropriate comment from him, too, as there was a lot I was noticing about Troy the fae that morning.

  And for once between Troy and I, I didn’t even have a response.

  “Uh, so garlic?” I was almost tripping over my words. “And what other groceries do we need to stock up on?”

  “So cute.”

  I swear those were the words I heard Troy whisper, barely audibly, in response.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Condescending, I was just asking about groceries, s’il vous plait!”

  “Ah,” Troy said grinning. “So you do know a touch of French after all!”

  “Français!” I responded, walking away from Troy and towards what seemed like it may be the produce section.

  Troy followed.

  “You know I was just teasing you, right?”

  “Ha, ha,” I said sarcastically.

  I was really feeling flustered by him again, as I was getting flustered by a lot of things at that time.

  For the first time in a long time, I had half a mind to ring Emilio back in London, or wherever he was at that moment, to grill him about being paired with these infuriatingly sexy and just plain infuriating teammates.

  Yet, I was taken with the atmosphere of the Parisian supermarket—the aromas of wines, cheeses, coffee, and olives, the unfamiliar yet charming packaging lining the shelves, the accordion music which I swear was playing over the PA speakers—that I dropped that urge from my mind and embraced the experience, grabbing an empty shopping carriage and pushing it down the nearest aisle as I let Troy catch up to me.

  “Here, Natasha,” Troy said, tossing a bag of rice into the cart I was pushing. “Just because you’ve never been to Paris before doesn’t mean you should deprive yourself of the little joys in life.”

  Goddamn that sexy-ass, suddenly lighthearted fae, I nearly found myself grinning, and that was in spite of myself.

  I had a job to do, for crying out loud! I was in Paris for the same reason Troy was there—and for the same reasons Alexander, Michael, and Kieran were, for that matter. We all had a job to do, and I couldn’t let myself or any of my teammates get distracted.

  Yet Troy kept showing off his apparently newly discovered sense of humour when “translating” the French signs around the supermarket.

  I didn’t really speak French, but I understood a few key words, and whenever he read one out loud, it made me laugh.

  “Are you sure danger is the right word?”

  “Oui oui,” Troy responded with a grin like I’d never seen him sport previously. “Dangereux.” The word sounded nearly the same in French as it did in English, and I didn’t know what was so funny about it, but seeing it emblazoned on a shelf full of energy drinks made it difficult to fight a smirk on my face.

  Especially when it was making Troy laugh so darn hard.

  “Why would they call baked goods ‘fat’?” he asked, while I nearly broke into a real laugh.

  “La matiere grasse, Natasha!” Troy was just beaming pointing at a display of biscuit tins. “Butterfat.”

  I didn’t know why it was funny, but boy was I laughing, out loud, louder and harder than I had probably ever laughed in a grocery store previously, and again it was despite my own conscious inhibitions.

  I didn’t know why I was letting myself get distracted by something so silly. I had probably let my guard down, but I fought the nagging feeling of that being unacceptable with the rat
ionalisation that, as I had only fairly recently discovered that I was indeed an angel living on Earth, I was growing more used to living publicly and comfortably in the world with that knowledge.

  The moment my laughter finally began to let up, and I felt the wide, giddy grin begin to relax and drop just a bit from my face. I looked away from Troy and tried to get myself together and focus on the task at hand.

  At first, I had felt the usual relaxed sensation of having just laughed my damned arse off, a healthy feeling, but as my smile dropped even further I began to sense that something was off.

  Quite off, indeed. As I began to feel hot, regardless of the air con blasting in the store, and tense again in a different way that was just, well, off. Like every one of my muscles was just starting to cramp up but stopped at the point of mild discomfort, I knew there was something wrong beyond just another poor night of sleep.

  At that point, when it had first started, I was sure it was some problem within myself—feverishness, an odd tenseness throughout my body, a general malaise that seemed to be sweeping me suddenly—yet as I turned my neck to look at Troy again, I found myself unable to move as quickly as usual, as if time were slowing as the air grew thicker with heat and the usually bright colours of the store grew brighter, with slight auras starting to rise and fall along evert surface.

  When I finally locked eyes with Troy, I could see that sense of off was with him as well. There was a glazed, confused look to his eyes, and as we were sharing whatever oddness was starting I knew that there must have been forces afoot, the type of forces that we had both grown familiar with.

  Indeed, a supernatural force was swamping my senses. It was like a tidal wave of energy, overflowing, covering, and permeating every single part of me. It hit me like a fucking truck.

  I could hear the din of panic growing around me. I was not the only one who felt it, but the weird magic only started to grow stronger.

  There was a rushing swirl of windy white noise, oscillating between deeper and higher registers so drastically that it made all of my nerves stand on end. The wavering between high and low had the quality of a panicked scream, and the terror it activated in me was appropriately primal.