Dark Angel, page 1
DARK ANGEL
WICKED ANGELS
BOOK ONE
LILITH DARVILLE
CONTENTS
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1. Jaden
2. Destiny
3. Jaden
4. Rayne
5. Jaden
6. Rayne
7. Jaden
8. Rayne
9. Jaden
10. Rayne
11. Jaden
12. Rayne
13. Jaden
14. Rayne
15. Jaden
16. Rayne
17. Jaden
18. Rayne
19. Jaden
20. Rayne
21. Jaden
22. Rayne
23. Jaden
24. Rayne
25. Jaden
26. Rayne
27. Jaden
28. Rayne
29. Jaden
30. Rayne
31. Jaden
32. Rayne
33. Jaden
34. Rayne
35. Jaden
36. Rayne
37. Jaden
38. Rayne
Epilogue
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Also by Lilith Darville
About the Author
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FRIEND & FAMILY ALERT
Hello Cherished Readers!
Once again, I've been accused of romanticizing abuse because my heroines don't always respond the way people expect abuse victims to react. Some say I don't know what I'm talking about, but I'll leave that debate aside. What I do know is that, as a survivor of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse who found healing through the wholehearted love of my Hubster, I represent one type of survivor—the thriver. There's a whole subset of us who choose to heal and break the cycle of abuse with determination and courage. These are the individuals I write about, and these are the stories I tell in the hope that they will reach those living in the midst of abuse, showing them that there is a glimmer of hope, that abuse can be overcome.
I've met well-meaning folks who offered various pieces of advice, including "sucking it up" and accepting abusive situations. But in my darkest times, it was romance novels that solidified my belief in the possibility of wholehearted, healthy love. Fairytales do come true—I am living proof. After enduring years of abuse, including an incident involving a drunken boyfriend that landed me in the hospital, I was drowning in despair, believing there was no way out. And then, Hubster walked in, the lead singer of a band I'd followed in high school but hadn't seen for months, with another bandmate.
"What are you doing here?" I asked in shock at the sight of these two gorgeous men, whom I barely knew, appearing at my hospital bed. They were members of a rock band who lived together on a farm, pursuing their dream of creating music.
At that time, he wasn't my Hubster, just a much older, incredibly handsome, and out-of-my-league rock singer. I was the teenage "loud" fan who had a bit of a love-hate relationship with him. High school ended, and I moved to the city, where I ended up with a man who turned out to be a deeply troubled alcoholic with a violent temper.
Hubster insisted on hearing all the "sordid" details and didn't stop pressing until he was satisfied he'd heard the whole story. Then he declared, "You're coming to live at the farm to recover."
His bandmate and I raised objections, but Hubster had a single-minded determination when he felt "the right thing" needed to be done. With a bit of arrogance mixed in, his response to objections was, "I'm the lead singer. This is what I want." And because he rarely asked for anything and was known for doing the right thing, all objections were silenced, some might say. That marked the start of our rather unusual and reverse romance (note, I said reverse romance, not reverse harem romance... hahaha). He not only encouraged me to embrace my strength as a woman and ignore criticism about my "manly" behavior, he insisted on it. We truly had a love story for the ages, and that love helped us both heal from childhood trauma. For me, he differed from one of the strongest heroes in romance novels in one way only: he wasn't a billionaire. He said that was my job. 😜
So yes, I write heroines and heroes who are strong, resilient, sometimes aggressive, and occasionally abrasive. Yes, I write characters who don't conform to societal norms. Because let me share a little secret, folks—most of us who break the cycle of abuse do so because we refuse to accept the norms that protect and, in some cases, encourage abuse in our society. I do it in the hope that, like me, there's someone out there who will read my stories about redemption and healing through love (yes, with some steamy bits thrown in) and hold onto that kernel of hope that will give them the resilience to survive, knowing there are better days ahead.
Keep reading and feeding your hopes, dreams, and fantasies! ❤️🔥
PS: For those who wish to join me on the quest for wholehearted living and loving, I highly recommend I Thought It Was Just Me by Brené Brown. It’s a life changer!
1
JADEN
“Get that look off your face, or you’re going to fuck this up, Jaden. Keep your macho testosterone bullshit tucked away in your back pocket.” Sasha, my childhood friend and partner in this madness pauses, punching my arm while piercing me with her steely eyes. “And do not kill anyone. We’re here for one rescue, that’s all.”
I let my eyes wash over the dilapidated building where an air of abandonment masks the horror within its walls. Celestial magic hums through me with powers that never get old. I pull the power closer to me. Fuck off. I’ve got this. I pivot my head, mouth ready to spew my venom on her. Sasha gives me the hand and my mouth snaps shut. She’s right. We’ve been following a trail of trafficker crumbs leading to the pimp, Viper, who runs the Ontario stable. The plan is to extract one crucial victim, a linchpin in our strategy. While my instincts scream to rescue them all, focusing on this specific target aligns with our meticulously crafted operation, Pandemonium Eruptus, designed to dismantle The Game from within.
Sasha straightens her broad shoulders and heads for the desolate warehouse. Our shared determination and a pit bull approach brought us to this terrible place—a human slave stable—where women are sold to the highest bidder: men with enough money to satisfy their twisted depravity. We will rescue another innocent life. Is that what they call kidnapping these days?
Viper’s making a public spectacle of this Vic and if she’s been close enough to rattle his chains, she’s been close enough to learn valuable intel about his trafficking operation. Intel I intend to gain . . . before damage turns to absolute ruin. One more step toward finding and killing the leaders of The Game, the national sex trafficking ring responsible for killing my fiancée.
Wind whistles through the warped sheet metal siding. I tug the collar of my leather jacket hardening my heart against the emotional pain we’re about to witness as chill fall air chases the late afternoon sun. Shutters hang askew, flapping in the wind. Broken glass grinds under our feet as we make our way through the litter and detritus. The gleaming, solid steel door looks incongruous in the desolate terrain of the industrial graveyard.
I square my shoulders, preparing for the callous inhumanity we’ll find within and ignore the niggling warning raising my heightened intuition. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to change my life and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it. “We have a special mission for one of your rescues. We task you with protecting her at all costs.” The angel of death’s words, long forgotten, choose this inconvenient moment to drop by for a visit. At all costs?
I am a killer. The celestials call me a warrior angel, but whatever the title, I destroy those who prey on the weak and defenseless. Mind games are my weapon of torture, although I favor my magic knives to deliver the killing blow. Truth be told, it’s the mind games that give me juice. I rob scum of their identity and their precious assets until they wish they were dead.
I give payback to the most deserving by planting their dirty little secrets where they will do the most damage. Like dropping sexually explicit text messages to the unsuspecting wife of some rich bastard whose assets are in her name, exposing his true nature. But others need to be erased . . . period. Some might say I’ve lost my moral imperative. They would be wrong. I believe I’ve found it. I have zero tolerance for the pond scum who prey on innocent women and children. Make them suffer. Deal the killing blow . . . Walk away.
A blink is all it took for me to lose my goddamn mind and embark on this desperate path. A path where one misstep leads to certain death, where there is no room for emotion. All for the love of a woman . . . or so I told myself. My Savannah, who they took from me. My Savannah, who died in my arms. My Savannah, whose memory is inexorably linked to my soul. Something I will never forgive or forget. At least that’s what I tell myself because that way, I don’t have to face the demons that consume me—I couldn’t save her, and I can’t save myself.
Reckless with rage and single-minded obsession, I’d set about to make the fuckers who’d made Savannah suffer pay. No risk was too great. As long as I kept killing, I didn’t have to think. On my own private vigilante quest, I’d taken foolish chances while I hunted down and erased her killers, almost getting myself killed in the process. On the brink of death, something miraculous happened. The angel of death appeared with a mission and the gift of magical powers. In exchange, I agr
Now, with the blessing of the celestials, I hunt men like Viper and make them pay for their sins. Most, I don’t kill. That would be too easy. I make them suffer. Panic will do in the best of them. In most cases, they do me the favor of offing themselves. In the meantime, we rescued and rehabilitated the victims who weren’t already broken and lost. Only time would tell which camp our latest rescue falls into.
After talking our way past the muscle and brainless security at the door, Sasha and I stand in a damp basement room with crumbling cement walls. Small barred windows are set high on the walls, well out of reach. Exposed wiring snakes around damp rusted pipes. Dark stains that look a lot like blood decorate one corner. We find Whippo, the dirt bag snitch we’ve bribed, and let him know we’ve come to collect the goods. After the requisite whining on his side and threats on ours, he leads us into the pit where people considered human waste are held for their next owner.
Several bunk beds that have seen much better days line the walls. Women in various stages of undress and despair sit on several of them. The sharp tang of excrement, old blood, and rabid fear attacks my empathic senses. My new gift. My curse. Struggling not to gag, I have to stop myself from cringing as the long tendrils of their desperation try to encircle me. Sasha steps aside, her green eyes scanning the room.
Whippo locks the door behind us. I steel myself against the flinch as the lock slips home. Let me out. I push the thought from my mind and stop myself from punching Whippo as he leads us to a stack of rags lying on the floor next to a molding, bug-infested mattress on a lower bunk in the corner. A small still hand sticks out from under the pile of rags, yet nervous energy vibrates from it like the voltage from a power grid. Electromagnetic current arcs toward me and slams into my heart. It takes every neuron in my body not to react. In this world, any show of emotion is a sign of weakness.
“Get up. Kneel.” The stupid bastard kicks the bundle of rags on the floor, eliciting a pain-filled grunt. Despite appearances, whoever lays there is on the alert, ready to spring and flee at any moment.
“Don’t. Do. That.” I clench my fists so hard I almost break the skin. Keep your cool, Jaden.
“Don’t tell me my job, man,” Whippo snarls back.
A slim brown finger shoots up from the rags. “You’ll get your piece of me tonight and not before, you fucking asshole. Wasn’t last night enough for you? Greedy bastard.” The rage in the husky voice matches the solid defiance of the extended middle finger.
Whippo grasps a rag-doll girl and hoists her into the air. She glares at him through smeared glasses with eyes dark as a midnight sky. Her matted curls frame a face battered by hardship, yet filled with resistance. As she swings from his grip, desperately searching for the floor, she slaps Whippo's arm with surprising strength.
“Get your goddamn hands off me!” she snarls, her voice ripped with defiance. Her words, though tinged with bravado, tremble with a hint of vulnerability. I catch her eyes once more, and within those dark pools, I glimpse something akin to hope—fragile, nearly extinguished, but not quite dead. Something that speaks to the darkness in my soul.
My insides combust with a blend of unwanted emotions—anger, curiosity, and another sensation I can't quite put my finger on. These feelings shoot through me like electricity, yet something about this filthy, dirty, defiant yet delicate little thing I’m assigned to protect draws me in.
Whippo pulls his arm back. I catch it mid-swing and let the stinging vibration run up my arm. The man has muscle and might be a formidable match if we have to go nose to nose.
Whippo’s head swivels toward me. “What the fuck, man?”
“I’ll take it from here.” I lock eyes with him while he debates whether he can take me. I almost hope he’ll try; I’m spoiling for a fight. I narrow my eyes at Whippo, letting my disgust wash over him like a tidal wave. “Get out of our way. We've paid your price, now you'll do as we say.” The venom in my voice leaves no room for argument, and he lets her go while releasing a foul stench of fear.
My gaze locks with hers and a surge of energy crackles through my fractured soul. Swollen lids barely conceal the spark of intelligence and curiosity behind her rage-filled eyes. She masks a deeper layer of uncertainty and longing beneath her bravado, then just as quickly it slips away and the light in her orbs fades. Still, she never looks away, even shifting her glasses up on her nose with her index finger. Sasha tenses beside me, ready to pounce and protect me. I subtly unfurl my fingers, signaling her to stay still. Sasha stills.
“Don’t know about this,” Whippo’s nasal voice makes me flex my fist. Now, he decides to have doubts? “Viper going to be goddamned nitro about this. He has plans for little Miss Destiny here. Five hundred bucks ain’t worth getting killed for. We’d better call this off.” Whippo’s whining reminds me of a large, annoying insect. In this world, everyone can be bought, and he’s just told me his fee. I sigh and hand him five hundreds. “Better now?”
Whippo grabs the bills and releases Destiny. She stumbles to her knees. He wiggles his fingers for another bill. I clamp my teeth and hand over another hundred.
“How old is this kid, anyway? What plans? You never said anything about plans.” I spin bullshit as I take a step toward Whippo, getting up close and personal.
Something just doesn’t smell right and maybe he knows more than I give him credit for. Our intel confirmed Viper intends to make an example of this particular victim at one of his infamous pimp circle parties. However, there isn’t usually violence at a slave stable, at least nothing beyond the usual slaps, pinches, and the occasional earlobe twist. They like to keep the goods in working order—the better they look, the more money they fetch. Finding a victim with such obvious injuries is highly unusual.
Within these grim, putrefying walls, the menace breathes, a cruel beast lurking in the shadows, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Whippo, the embodiment of this menace, snivels and stammers, his reptilian eyes darting about, sniffing out the prospect of treachery or money.
“Plans?” Whippo’s voice cracks, and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That ain’t none of my business. She's fourteen, maybe. But Viper wants her for something special. Something big's coming down, and this kid’s a part of it.” His eyes gleam with avarice. He chews on his bottom lip, his mind calculating risks and rewards.
I can feel the weight of Sasha's gaze, a burning intensity that speaks to the shared purpose that has led us down this harrowing path. Her presence resonates with a silent, steadfast support. This world, the monstrous reality we've immersed ourselves in, is a cancerous growth on the soul of humanity. Yet we persist, driven by an unyielding mission to obliterate the disease, one festering sore at a time.
Sasha steps forward and runs her finger down Whippo’s arm. “Can we go now, sugah. You gonna get me in trouble with the man. I need to clean her up and get her all pretty. She’s got to make us some money.” Sasha shimmies up against him, grabs his sack and squeezes, making sure he has no second thoughts. “Oh my, you really are a big boy.”
Whippo startles. and his eyes dart to me. I give my don’t-give-a-fuck shrug.
Sasha steps even closer and murmurs, “Want to take me for a test run?” She squeezes his junk harder.
I suppress a smile as Whippo struggles to find his bravado. He doesn’t seem to notice Sasha backing him to the door. I bury the internal eye roll and hunker down, keeping my gaze fastened on the ragged woman kneeling at my feet. She tugs the moth-eaten blanket, quickly covering an orange tube top, a short pink skirt and ripped fishnet stockings. An outfit so dreadful it can’t be a mistake. Between the fresh bruises dotting her skin like cans of paint thrown on canvas, her skin is the most beautiful shade of caramel. I lock eyes with hers and am rewarded with a jet stream of pure hatred before she lowers her eyes. But I swear I saw a flash of connection, of recognition. What the fuck is wrong with you, Jaden?
