Some angel bloods are conceived intentionally. Others are found. Sometimes they're orphaned, other times they're scouted much later in life, easily identified by their amber colored eyes and abnormal strength.

I don't know who created me. All I know is that I was picked out when I was a baby and raised by the very people who seek to abandon me just as my parents did.

There is no one coming for me. Within Sinclair's grasp, there is seemingly no end.

He watches as I tuck the gun back at my side, glaring pathetically at him. There's not as much heat behind it as I wish there was. I'm tired now. The weight of my fate nearly makes me crumble in front of his eyes.

But somehow I don't. I remind myself of the strong blood that flows through my veins and the even stronger rage that begins to brew deep within my gut.

I'm tired of being controlled and casted aside. First by my blood family and then by my chosen one. Now another puppeteer seeks to pluck at my strings. To some degree, he will—there is no avoiding that.

But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's causing hell. Sinclair Black has no idea what he's getting himself into.

The fury must show on my face because he raises a dark eyebrow. "Troubled, angel?"

"Call me that again and see what happens." I raise the gun to point at his groin.

He chuckles, the deep sound enraging and delicious all the same. I grit my teeth.

"So much savagery wrapped in a sweet little face." He raises his fingers to brush over the top of my cheek, letting the digits roll down to the cut of my jaw. I shiver, tingles erupting over my skin at the light touch. It takes me longer than it should to slap his hand away.

He takes notice, lip curling up slightly. "I'm going to enjoy keeping you."

I snort. Like hell he is.

His gaze settles back on my gun, impatience flickering over his features. "Careful. I'll let you keep your toy but first you'll need to learn how to behave."

It's so tempting and he knows it. My eyes glare into his, jaw ticking as I try to rein in my bloodlust. As much as it would bring me satisfaction, keeping my gun by my side is more important. And judging from the bullet wound slowly mending itself in his forehead, the damn creature can regenerate.

I sigh, slowly pulling the barrel to the ceiling. It's not worth it.

I startle at the strangled cry that emerges from the doorway.

The red head raises a quivering hand to her mouth, her pallid skin lightening another shade. A man stands behind her, large and tattooed, his bearded jaw clenching at the sight of his fallen companion upon the ground.

"You killed him," she gasps, her eyes seeming to memorize the pattern of brain matter and skull splattered against the ground. She glances at Sinclair, narrowing her eyes upon him with a betrayed expression upon her face. "Jesus, Sin. What's taking you so long? Kill the bitch already."

I blink, mouth nearly falling open. Here I'd thought she was just a harmless bystander.

"I told you to find Oliver," he growls.

She crosses her arms, staring pointedly at the man towering beside her. "And here he is. You seriously didn't expect me to leave you to deal with that conniving skank, did you?" Her eyes trace back over to me, finally noticing the ink on my arms: first the one marking me of divine blood, then the other binding me to Sinclair Black. Something akin to shock flashes over her face, then quickly turns into fury. "You didn't," she snarls, furious gaze finding Sinclair again.

He doesn't say anything, looking bored aside from the tick that appears on his stubbled jaw.

"I refuse to be around that," she pauses, disgust muddling her pretty face as she studies my arm and then my face as if she can see the golden irises that lay beneath my contacts, "freak of nature."

A loud, obnoxious snort rips from my throat before I can stop it. "That's pretty rich coming from you, demon spawn."

She bares her teeth at me, looking fit to rip me apart with her bare hands. I mirror the expression upon my own face. A part of me hopes she'll try. Mind as well take down as many monsters as I can while I'm still breathing. Who knows how long Sinclair will keep me around before he grows bored with my presence.

"Amber. Leave."

Sinclair's smooth voice makes her stiffen. He looks terribly unaffected by our bickering aside, his face completely devoid of emotion. The coldness of his tone makes her pause and for a moment I think she's going to refuse his orders until she gives a slight nod to her head, throwing one last look at the bloody corpse of her friend and sauntering out the door.

The man begins to follow suit but Sinclair holds up a hand. "Not you."

He sighs, the sound thick with weariness.

"She'll need fresh clothes. A shower, probably," his nose wrinkles slightly at my blood-crusted body. "She smells like death and cheap perfume."

I grit my teeth so I don't say something idiotic that will get me killed.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, tilting his head like a curious cat as he looks at me. Oliver's handsome features contort in confusion. "Wouldn't it be easier to kill her?"

"It would," he agrees, stormy eyes finding mine as he smiles secretly at me.

I tense, hand clenching around my gun.

"But I have a nasty habit of playing with my food," he says, turning to the door. "Don't let her out of your sight. And be careful with her. She's cute but she's a murderous little thing."

...

When Sinclair told him not to let me out of his sight, I didn't think he meant this.

"Leave." The water is already running behind me, warm clouds of steam brushing over my skin temptingly. Shortly after, Oliver had taken me up a flight of stairs and into a small studio-style apartment space, equipped with a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.

Oliver holds my gun in his right hand. I'd set it down briefly to undress before realizing he'd followed me in and promptly scooped it into his grasp. Annoying twat.

"Undress," he says, keeping his face blank. "Or I do it for you."

I narrow my eyes, tempted to dare him to try but something in his gaze tells me he'd easily overpower me, even without the use of my gun.

"This is ridiculous," I mumble, stepping behind the shower curtain with my dress on. The deliciously warm water quickly soaks the material, making it weigh heavily upon my body. "What could I possibly do in here worth watching?"

He snorts. "You tell me. Apparently you're quite the danger if you're ferocious enough to get Sinclair's attention."

I peel the sopping blood-stained fabric away from my body, finally safe from his gaze. Even so, I cover myself subconsciously as if he can see through the shower curtain between us. I shiver at the quiver of fear that lights in my stomach at the mention of his unusual interest. "When is he going to kill me?" I whisper. I know not to give myself false hope: it's unavoidable.

For a moment, I think my voice is lost in the sound of streaming water until he speaks quietly. "I don't know." Maybe I'm imagining, but he almost sounds like he pities me.

I take a deep breath at the deep emotion in my chest. I don't want to die. Tears sting my eyes but I quickly blink them away. I will not cry here, especially in front of my enemy's eyes.

I sigh and grab a bar of soap, lathering it with my hands and doing my chest to effectively scrub the crusted blood off my body. I wrinkle my nose at the putrid stench that rises with it. Sinclair is right, I do smell like death.

I wash until my body is pink and fresh, smelling faintly of cedar and musk. The soap is clearly made for a man, but I don't mind. The scent is pleasant.

Silently, I turn the water off and hold my hand out expectantly beyond the curtain. I refuse to step out in front of his eyes. Fluffy linen meets my fingertips and I pull it inside with me, wiping down my body before wrapping it underneath my armpits.

I crack the shower curtain, glowering at Oliver. He raises his eyebrows at my newly clean state. He doesn't have to say anything—I know I look different without the layers of blood and makeup.

"You're younger than I thought," he mutters.

I stare at him until he hands over the piece of clothing in his hand. He must have grabbed it while I was washing myself.

I raise my eyebrow as I unfold the fabric. It's a large grey t-shirt and a pair of women's cotton panties.

"Whose are these?" I mutter, staring dumbly at them. And where are the pants?

"This will have to do for now," he says, crossing his tattooed arms across his chest. "Until we can get actual clothing for you. Your visit is...unexpected."

I snort. "That's one way to put it." I stare menacingly at him until he rolls his eyes, hoping he gets the hint to turn around.

"That's not going to work on me. Now put the damn things on. I promise not to peek at your B-cups."

I scowl at that. My chest is certainly less impressive without my push-up bra and the direct hit embarrasses me more than I'd care to admit.

Cheeks burning, I swivel and climb back into the damp tub, closing the curtain aggressively behind me. Small chest or not, it would be stupid to trust a sex demon to look at my body.

The shirt is large, ending just above my knees. I try not to think too hard about the panties as I slip them on, instead thinking of how they're clean and smell faintly of freshly washed linen.

My arms wrap around my body subconsciously as I step out of the shower. The shirt shows less skin than my skimpy dress but somehow I feel twice as exposed.

He barely glances at me as he opens up the door, gesturing me to step outside into the bedroom.

I hesitate in the doorway, staring longingly at the gun hanging at his side. He shakes his head before giving me a light push into the room's dark interior. Sighing, I stride into the plush black carpet that spans across the bedroom floor. My best chance is snatching it when he isn't looking, but until then I'll have to make do with fist and teeth.

A queen sized bed sits int the corner, somber blankets neatly made. The leather couch that sits in front of the wide screen TV is smooth, not a single spot of wear and tear in sight. Even the white tile of the kitchen floor and marble countertops are perfectly clean, seemingly untouched. It makes me wonder if there's even food in the fridge, clothing in the mahogany dresser, or if this is all just a mirage. A pretty picture painted for the unsuspecting souls that are led up to bed.

Mindlessly, I wander into the kitchen, trailing my fingers over the spotless counter and searching for any sign of life. Without thinking, my fingers pull open one of the drawers, curiosity getting the better of me.

I'd expected plates, maybe some silverware, but instead a mound of junk stares back at me. Marlboro cigarettes, a set of keys, and about a dozen packs of condoms. I wrinkle my nose, surprise flitting through my chest at the discovery.

Fingers grip the back of my shirt, pulling me back abruptly. I don't even think before my hands are flying. The panic that rises in my chest is barely even an afterthought as my fingers grasp the first thing in reach—a salad fork set neatly in a jar of kitchen utensils—and whip it at the presence behind me.

Oliver jerks as the blunted tips embed themselves in the flesh of his arm, a sharp hiss escaping his mouth. The look on his face is absolutely murderous.

My mouth falls open. "You scared me."

He stares at the fork still sticking out of his forearm, then back up at me. His face pinches in pain as he stares at it in shock, reaching up to gently pry it from his skin. He winces as it pulls free. Luckily I hadn't pushed it in that far—I mean, he's bleeding a fair amount, but I've seen worse.

A dull laugh tumbles past his lips. "Really. So you stab me with a fork."

I shrug, glancing away. I have enough decency to feel a little bad. "You grabbed me."

"You were scrounging through things that aren't yours."

My eyes flicker back to him. "Who do they belong to?" I'd assumed this was just another empty space just for the sake of having, much like the small bedroom downstairs. For taking women and men alike as the demons needed. But from the dark look that passes over Oliver's face, I answer my own question.

"Fuck," I breathe.

"An appropriate reaction," a voice rumbles behind me. I startle at the dark presence that stands at the doorway, looking delicious and terrifying all the same.

"Sin," Oliver nods, wiping the steady stream of crimson the trickles from his arm against his shirt. "What can I do for you?"

Sinclair tilts his head in acknowledgment, then settles his eyes back onto me. "I've come to collect what's mine."

—

((A/N just a quick note for everyone—when I first started this story I had intentions of a mafia style romance but after plotting and figuring out exactly where I want this to go I've decided that a gang/crime theme is more fitting. i feel like it's similar but I also don't want to mislead anyone, so I'm just throwing it out there (:

Minor edits will be done on earlier chapters to better fit the image I have of the story now. Thanks for reading (: ))