Mon Ange De La Mort: A Dark&steamy Sapphic Novella by J. Aceyn

Author:J. Aceyn [Aceyn, J.]
Language: spa
Format: epub
Amazon: B0CC4FC9TZ
Published: 2023-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6 Damnation

I'm already up and crossing the bar at top speed. Thank the universe, I'm wearing board shorts because they are prime sprinting material. I’m also barefoot, my slides sitting abandoned back at the booth. I'm much faster this way, thanks to all the running on the beach I’ve been doing. Instead of rounding the bar, I jump and slide across the lacquered corner to save precious seconds. Dino wiped it down only an hour ago, so thankfully, it is neither sticky nor wet with spilled alcohol.

"Vex, where are you going?" I hear Dino calling out. My ears are trying to tune in ahead of me, listening for any other indications of what I'm rushing into.

“It’s fine, just give me a minute alone with my girl!” I call back, hoping they choose to listen. I try to play off of the "I can't keep my hands off of her" vibe we've been rolling with all night. No matter what is ahead, it won't do anyone any favors if Dino or Jerissa get in our way.

My feet hit the floor, and I turn down the hallway. The bathrooms lie just beyond a neon sign proclaiming "Piss Stop" in Budweiser colors. It flickers weakly in the shadow-plagued corridor.

The unmistakable sounds of a struggle become more pronounced the moment I start down the hall. I’m only two steps away from the door that leads to the women's room. The lighting here is minimal, with only the neon sign casting its eerie, reddish glow.

A figure dressed entirely in black gear comes flying backward out of the swinging bathroom door. The intruder is bulky in stature, presumably a man. He sure makes a manly grunt when he slams into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway.

His head hits the sturdy old oak with a resounding crack. The shadow cloaked body slumps to the floor, unmoving. I'm mid-stride and have yet to put on the brakes. Instead of stopping, I stutter my steps. Lining the shot up, I fire off a kick strong enough to knock his head from his shoulders.

For good measure, of course.

As if I had just scored three extra points on a field goal, the momentum of the kick spins me ninety degrees. I stop facing the restroom, reaching out to catch the door before it can swing shut.

Ilya comes striding out like an avenging warrior with all the flare of a runway model. She's rocking an off-the-shoulder top, currently torn at the collar and slightly askew. A thin, red line crosses her throat in a horizontal strip. The irritated skin is puffing up and growing more prominent by the second. Ilya steps through the door I hold open for her, wiping blood from her lip with eyes narrowed into slits. Coming to a stop, she stares down at her attacker with evident disdain.

I catch her around the waist and draw her into me. My hands lift to cup her chin. I use it to direct her eyes to mine. My thumb runs over a split in her bottom lip while examining her for damage.

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