Dove Caught in a Burning Bush Ch. 06

Crucifel slept soundly beside Promethiel beneath his silken sheets, exhausted from the night's events and all the events that had led them down the strange path they'd found themselves on.

Far too much had changed for the angel in too little time.

It felt as though she was walking downhill, gravity forcing her to either take increasingly unreliable steps or give in entirely and let herself stumble and go crashing over the scree of sharp stones waiting below. It was an unknown, unexplored ground where any wrong step could send her plummeting from Edenara and into the celestial wastelands, perhaps even Hell itself. All she could do was keep moving forward, hoping that the ground stayed steady beneath her feet.

Before dawn broke through the fiery stained glass windows of her brother's chambers, it was as if her body knew to stir awake and make itself scarce before servants came to ready the Archangel for his day. So Crucifel carefully slipped from the warmth of Promethiel's arms, holding her breath as her hair dragged across his chest and shoulders.

They'd gone to bed in a bare tangle of limbs and wings, so she had nothing to cover herself with. Crucifel muttered a soundless curse to herself as she quietly dug through one of her brother's wardrobes for a robe or spare cloak, whatever she could find to hide her nakedness from any servants who would be traversing the halls early in the morning as they went about their tasks.

One last glimpse over her shoulder revealed the glow of a single, half-lidded golden eye as he watched her leave from his bed, softly closing the door behind her with a 'click'.

The princess made her way through the palace halls with her wings slightly raised to combat the looseness of a robe too large for her frame, head spinning as she tried to make sense of everything threatening to overfill her mind. Where did she even begin to sort through this bizarre mess her life had become?

Her father and mother had been murdered by her brother, who then ascended to the throne and gained his third pair of wings, proving that his soul had not been rejected in his transformation to Archangel.

That same brother then became more affectionate than ever before.

No. This was more than affection, affection was a held hand or a gentle kiss on the cheek.

This was an engulfing flame, a burning touch that made Crucifel want to reluctantly melt into it like ore in a forge. He'd declared his love for her, promised to protect both her and Edenara, even as he tormented her with his vulgar, sinful flirtations. Promethiel even smote an incubus with more hatred than she knew he possessed when he'd found it in her chambers, confusing her feelings further.

His intentions were unclear, shifting like dark water that even with her role as Prophetess, Crucifel could not see through. One moment he was verging on almost laughably villainous, then the next, he was tender and protective to the point of something like devotion.

And then, last night, she'd finally given in to his advances, letting Promethiel take her against the wall of the isolated tower that they knew so well while stardust rained outside. It had been...sweet, strangely enough. He'd been careful, gentle until she'd riled him intentionally, and yet there was a desperation in him that she couldn't understand. A need to win her over that bordered on fretful obsession.

She came to a stop in front of the stone doorway that led into the royal baths, then glanced over her shoulder at the pair of guards that had tailed her like shadows since she left the royal residential wing. Their presence made her nervous, as if they somehow knew that not ten minutes before, Crucifel had been half asleep with the Archangel's cock pressed against her lower belly.

"I shall be fine on my own, thank you. You both may wait at the door," she announced, stepping through the doors and into the steamy, warm room.

From floor to ceiling to the doors themselves, white marble met Crucifel's eyes as it leant the large space a clean, elegant feel to the layout.

Condensation clung to the inner side of the door as she closed it behind her, making the golden crest at the center gleam in light that seemed to emanate from every surface, as if coming from within the stone itself. And rising high into the domed ceiling, the white walls were lined with all too familiar depictions of eyes inlaid with gold, their swirling pupils mocking her as she stripped from the borrowed robes and tossed them away with a frustrated sweep of her wings.

At the center and taking up most of the space in the room was a large heated pool that had seen her clean countless times. Its edges were rounded and the bottom was fitted with tiles of cream and gold, polished to a high gloss that could be admired even through the softly shimmering water.

Crucifel sank down into it, sighing at the feeling of soothing, all encompassing heat sweeping over her body while resting her head on the edge of the pool. She closed her eyes, taking in slow, deep breaths of the damp air as though it could cleanse her lungs of Promethiel's scent.

Even now, she could swear she tasted it on the far back of her tongue, that damnable blend that followed the other angel wherever he went; jasmine and myrrh.

It felt like it had infused into her somehow, clinging deeper than just the first layer of skin. But perhaps that was the guilt speaking, telling her that their actions would dog her steps like a perfumed phantom, letting everyone who came near know their Prophetess's weakness and wickedness.

Crucifel knew now that there were other, more complex notes to his scent if one got far too close. The woodsy essence of sandalwood hid beneath that first honeyed layer, mingling with a light musk that made her feel terribly mortal from the mindless reaction it provoked in her, as if she was a creature from the wilds instead of the divine angel she hoped she still was.

For a being who had a grasp, tenuous or not, on immortality, that was terrifying. It was rawness that should only belong to something less holy.

Citrine eyes shot open with a soft growl of irritation, she'd come here to bathe away her shame, not dissect the layers of Promethiel's scent and how it made her feel.

With her long, white hair clinging from her shoulders all the way down to her hips like a second skin, Crucifel reluctantly left the warm waters to seek out the selection of scented foaming oils that the bath attendants would usually be lathering her with.

They were found in the small alcove where a number of vials, bottles and brushes lay in careful arrangement, allowing her to easily sort through to find her favorite of the bunch, the same she had consistently preferred since childhood; a sweet but herbaceous mix of rose, apple and basil, even just a whiff if it was enough make her feel nostalgic.

Oil and a sponge in hand, Crucifel returned to the heated waters and began her scrubbing from the top.

Efficiency started with the hair, lathering the scented oil through the lengthy strands with the tips of her fingers. She ran her hands over her scalp, rubbing away dried sweat and carefully picking apart any tangles to be found. Crucifel loved her long hair, truly she did, it was a favorite part of the form she took and the curtain of moonlight colored silk had become a part of her identity at this point in her life. But that didn't change the fact that it was an obstacle course of maintenance.

Angel or not, a body was a body and needed care.

Holding her breath, Crucifel ducked down into the water to let her hair fan out like an icy cloud below the surface, running her hands through it to make sure all of the suds were rinsed free. When she resurfaced, the smell of rose, apple and basil met her like an old friend, loosening the tightness in her muscles and easing the tension in her wings.

She sighed.

Ah, yes, the wings.

Usually a bath attendant would help her with making sure the four appendages were thoroughly lathered and rinsed, but her insistence of this being a solitary experience ensured there would be no one around to aid her. With that in mind, she curved one in toward her chest, pouring a small portion of the oil onto the primaries before beginning to gently knead the lather in, careful to avoid damaging any of the finer feathers.

"I thought I might find you here."

The voice made her warm bath suddenly feel like a winter sea.

Crucifel's wings snapped closed around herself in alarm as she turned to face the source of the voice, skin flushing hot with embarrassment and irritation. She was here for a nice, meditative bath, not to be harassed by the reason she needed to meditate to begin with.

"You're rather predictable, aren't you?" she stated, forcing her shoulders to relax as she met Promethiel's eyes. She wasn't fully upset by his presence, but the princess needed time to process exactly how she felt about him. About them.

Her brother was in a half kneel by the edge of the pool, one arm resting across his knee to support his chin as he watched her with an expression of amused curiosity. "Good morning to you too, my Dear. And, when I want to, I can be," he replied. "Would you mind if I joined you? You're taking your sweet time this morning and there are things that I must attend to without smelling like sex."

Crucifel paused. Her first loud, clear instinct was 'no' followed by tossing the bottle of oil at his head for even asking. But at this point, what good would that do for either of them? The previous night, she'd been clinging to him, feeling her body quiver and spasm around his cock as they pressed together in something that had been undeniably carnal.

She gave his request a moment's consideration before answering him, "This is your palace, I cannot dictate where you go."

Immediately, her decision was followed with a dripping wing pointed in his direction. "Just don't pester me while I clean my feathers, it is enough of a struggle without you hanging off me like a lovesick leech."

Promethiel laughed as he stood and began pulling off his robes, "perish the thought! I'll be a shining beacon of purity and chastity for you."

"You are nothing of the sort," Crucifel muttered under her breath.

Her eyes caught the briefest glimpse of a pair of nearly healed, golden scars across his ribs before shifting her gaze to the side and continuing to work the lather into her wing.

She'd barely noticed them the night before, being more focused on certain other things, but now in better lighting they were on clear display. Undeniable, and because of her. Had this been the work of something more mundane or divine, there likely wouldn't even be a scar, not unless it was an injury of absolutely grave magnitude. But this simple scratch from a demon was lingering.

A soft ripple shifted against her hips as he entered the water, followed by his sigh of contentment as Promethiel settled into the steaming pool. "You should allow me to help you," he said as he watched her reach behind herself to scrub at the back of a wing, leaning precariously to get at the base of it.

"I know how to clean my own wings," Crucifel retorted, glaring over her feathers at him.

Promethiel shrugged, raising his hands palm up amicably, "I'm sure you do, but I'm capable of helping, and you seem like you could use the extra hands. There are no servants here and I informed the guards that they were needed elsewhere early while their replacements came, so it's just you and me here."

Well, she had been worried about the impression of Promethiel entering as she bathed, so there was at least that. Dishonest as it was. Crucifel sighed, wings drooping into the water as she held out the oil to him. "Fine. Just keep on task."

"Shall we?" Promethiel asked, seeming to perk up as he stepped forward and took the bottle from her hand. He poured a small amount into his palms and began to rub his hands together to lather it.

Crucifel looked at him, her body burning as she realized how close, and bare, they were. Without intending to, she let her gaze trace across his shoulders and chest, stopping when she met the tattooed eyes above his pectorals. They squinted in clear, smug amusement, all of the inked eyes on one side of his torso closing in what could only be described as a mass wink. A shiver went through her, and the prophetess snapped her eyes back up to her brother's face, seeing Promethiel's lips curved in an equally impish grin.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said.

He tilted his head, white hair so like her own spilling off his shoulder to fall over his chest. "Like what?"

"Like you want to eat me alive."

Crucifel abruptly turned and presented her wings to him, allowing Promethiel to begin working the oil into the feathers.

"You know, Crucifel, you can relax around me," he murmured, kneading deep into the tissue of her wing. In the wreathing veil of steam, his voice felt oddly muted, but she could feel the rumble of it in her chest. "Have I not proven my devotion to you? How much I care?"

She stiffened, turning to look over her shoulder at him. "You killed them," Crucifel reminded him quietly, wings fluttering as she tried to ignore the tingle of pleasure it gave her when his fingers pressed where wing met skin. "How could I ever truly be at ease with a being who would kill his parents for his throne?"

"Fair enough, I won't defend myself from that charge," he whispered in return, continuing to work. "But you must understand. Every horrible, violent thing I did, and do, is for the good of Edenara." The archangel leaned forward, his lips not quite touching the back of her neck as he murmured mere centimeters from her skin. "And you, Crucifel. Every step I take forward as king, I have taken with you in mind."

She didn't answer him, the words sinking into her and making her feel both cold and hot all at once. Promethiel moved to her second pair of wings, gently pulling the left one above the water to stretch it out and work the lather into the feathers.

"I know you don't trust me," he told her softly, voice barely more than a breath on her ear. "But I truly feel as though I am meant to be your shield, like it was written in the stars we were pulled from. And now that I am king and Archangel, I mean to keep that promise I made and do everything I can to ensure you and the kingdom are taken care of."

Crucifel pulled away from him, her wings falling back into the water as she whirled to scowl at him. "You're right," she hissed. "I don't trust you, and I never will. You murdered Mother and Father! And for what? For the throne? To be allowed to lurch after me like a slavering beast?"

"Then you opened your legs and admitted your love to a beast," he countered smoothly, but she could see something like hurt in his eyes. Good, if she wasn't allowed peace of mind then he shouldn't either after everything he'd put her through. "You are my heart, Crucifel. Whether you accept that or not, I'm going to look after you."

She was growing weary of this tug of war between them, it was one that she always seemed to be engaged in with him these days. But that was what he wanted wasn't it? To wear her down so that he could pounce and pull her deeper into the wicked depths with him, to twist and seethe in the shadows until she recognized herself less than she already did. She already felt so dirty, so beyond absolution.

"Crucifel, please, let's not fight," Promethiel sighed, reaching out to her.

His lightly curled fingers beckoned hers without movement, they didn't need to make any motion for her to feel the quiet plea in the gesture. "Come, at least let me finish cleaning your wings."

She met his eyes for a long moment, then took his hand and let herself be pulled back toward him.

Promethiel began working the oil into her second set of wings, his hands gentle as he went. It was a mercy to her addled mind that he let them stay in silence for a time, allowing her to relax as he finished grooming her wings with all the care of a devoted servant.

"There you are," he murmured once he was finished, "all soft and clean."

Crucifel flexed her wings, they were heavy with water now but had a pleasant, freshly scrubbed feeling to them. "Not bad," she commented before turning to him, "very well, it's your turn."

Promethiel seemed surprised by that, his golden eyes widening for a split second before his somber expression warmed into a mischievous smile. "So I've done well enough to warrant similar treatment?"

"Quiet, before I pluck you like a newborn chick," Crucifel warned, snatching the oil back and pouring some into her palm.

Promethiel bowed his head and allowed her to massage it into his scalp, practically purring as her fingers slid through his long, white hair. Crucifel worked it to a lather, gathering the flowing strands of ivory and tugging his head to one side or the other so that she could focus on different areas. He tried to bite back a moan as she pulled on his hair, but the corners of his mouth curled up in a helpless enough way that she could see the pleasure in his expression.

What could also be seen was how his eyes were locked unabashedly onto her breasts.

In fairness, from his vantage point they were hanging right in front of his face. If he lost his footing and stumbled forward then the archangel would find a soft, pillowy pair of cushions waiting for his face. But in equal fairness, Crucifel scooped up water with a wing and dumped it over his head unceremoniously, smiling as he sputtered and coughed.

"I see my sweet sister has a playful streak," Promethiel huffed, golden eyes glowing as he wiped the water from his face. "But that's fine, I have one too." He took several quick steps back and spread his wings, the six appendages arcing wide before snapping forward to force a torrent of water in her direction.

Crucifel gasped and closed her wings in front of herself, trying to keep her balance as her crossed appendages shielded her from the watery onslaught. "If you keep this petulant display up, you'll have to just do this on your own," she warned, opening her wings just wide enough to glare out through a gap in the feathers.

Promethiel wilted, genuinely pouting with an expression like a kicked pup that was ridiculous on an angelic king. Then he lowered his own wings in acquiesce. "Fine, fine. But know that you were the one to start it, this time."

Wading over to him with the bottle in hand, she settled behind him in the warm water and began to work his wings to a lather as he had hers. His eyes glittered as she massaged his feathers with efficiency, the smile never leaving his lips nor the curve of the eyes inked into his skin as they watched her.

For a moment, she paused, letting the lather set in before working it from his secondaries to his primaries, swallowing when the archangel groaned softly.

"Oh, that feels divine," Promethiel sighed, arching his back to allow her easier access. It was unsettling how readily the prophetess's body reacted to his sounds. Crucifel could feel the blood rushing to her face and her nipples hardening as he groaned. She forced her eyes into a roll but continued on, guiltily lingering at certain curves of his wings that made him shudder with pleasure that made her own spine tingle.

Letting herself fall into a rhythm was calming, but with his back facing her, she couldn't avoid seeing the thinner, less jagged claw marks on Promethiel's back from her vantage point. She'd been the one to personally make those.

Not by accident or anger but with ravenous, lustful intent as he moved inside of her. To pretend anything otherwise would be dishonest with herself and her own sins, so she concentrated on his wings instead.

The sound of his voice broke her concentration, and she looked up to find Promethiel watching her over his shoulder with softened eyes. "You're beautiful," he murmured, his fingers playing idly with the long strands of hair that had fallen over his shoulders.