Wings of Darkness: Book 1 of The Immortal Sorrows Series by Sherri A. Wingler Page A

would have chalked it up to nerves,
but I think I was still frozen from being miles above anything, earlier. 
On the other hand, he may have been right; shock wasn’t completely out of the
question.
         I stood up with my blanket still
wrapped around me and went into the laundry room.  I rooted around in the
dryer till I found one of my dad’s old t-shirts.  It was soft and grey and
still smelled of fabric softener.  Much better than the shredded shirt
that barely clung to him.  He flashed too much skin for me to concentrate
on a normal conversation, and this conversation was bound to be anything but
normal. 
         The microwave dinged as I went back
into the kitchen. He pulled the mug out and set it on the table for me.  I
noticed as I handed him the shirt that I only came up to his chin.  Ok,
collar bones.  Either way, if he wanted to kill me it shouldn’t be much of a
problem for him.  “Here, this is gonna be small on you, but it’s better
than what you have, now.” 
         “Thank you.”  He very
carefully avoided touching my hand as he took it.  He turned around as he
pulled the tattered shirt over his head.  I started to turn around too,
but I couldn’t help it; I peeked.  Smooth muscles rippled along his back
as he moved, but I couldn’t see any sign of the wings anywhere, just two long
scars that followed the contours of his back.  My cheeks were flaming hot
by the time he pulled my dad’s t-shirt on.  It was way too tight on him.
It left nothing to the imagination.  Damn I needed to focus. Or a cold
shower.  Gwen would be laughing her ass off at me, if she were here. 
She would also probably proposition him.  Good thing Gwen wasn’t around.
         “Ok, so first things first.
What
, was the guy trying
to catch us?  Why was he trying to catch us? And is he going to bust down
the door at any minute?”  Well, that was tactful.  I gripped the mug
of cocoa in a still trembling hand and sat back down in the hard kitchen chair
as I watched him toss the remains of his shirt in our trash can.
         Asher started to pace.  Our
little kitchen was barely able to contain him.  He started to speak a few
times, but didn’t seem to know how to start.  I was almost afraid to hear
whatever he might say, but in the back of my mind I was still hoping this was
some kind of weird, lucid dream that I was having.
         He stopped suddenly, and leaned up
against the kitchen sink.  “I apologize to you.  The fault lies with
me.”  Hunh?  What was that supposed to mean?
         “How is any of this your
fault?  And back to my original question about the nut-job; will he come
here?”  My throat tightened, imagining what might have happened if he
hadn’t found me in time.  Found me; probably stalked me, if I were being
more accurate.  Ah, who cared?  He’d saved me from certain death.
         He shook his head, the highlights
in his hair glinted under the overhead lights.  Good lord, but he was just
so pretty, in a thoroughly manly sort of way. His hair was an awesome shade of
pale gold that you hardly ever see, and his eyes were deep and dark; they
seemed to change shades of grey, depending on his mood. I really needed to get
my head out of my own ass, and focus.  I could be murdered at any moment,
and all I could think about was the exact color of grey his eyes were? I
sighed, thoroughly disgusted with myself. 
         “Samael will not come here. 
You are safe.”  He watched the spot above my head instead of looking me in
the eyes.  Withholding information, maybe?  It was just as
well.  I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair.  I would have
died on the spot if he’d caught me staring at his mouth.
         “Samael?  Who is he?”
         That brought serious, steel grey
eyes to bear on mine.  He looked almost pained.  “Samael is the Grim
Reaper.”  Either he was crazy or convinced, but he wasn’t joking. 
Just my luck; he