Priest (Trident Agency #2)

10. Oliver

10

OLIVER

O liver hadn’t known where he was going to go, only that he had to get out now if he didn’t want Priest to come home and stop him. The note said he’d be gone a while, that he was free to use anything in the house, and to please not leave.

But Oliver, of course, wasn’t going to obey.

Not that order, anyway. He did make himself at home. He showered, he had a cup of tea, he found comfortable clothes that were kind on his body, which was still sore. But he also didn’t waste any time. He wasn’t trying to openly defy Priest, but he couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

It wasn’t a lack of patience; it was knowing that the Trident agents didn’t fully believe Poe was alive. The more time that passed, the more likely it was Poe wasn’t going to survive whatever he was going through. And Oliver did not want to live in a world without his best friend. He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t survive it.

He didn’t bother taking a car. There was a trolley stop a few blocks from the bookshop, and it seemed the most logical place to start. If he was part Angel, it wasn’t much, so he couldn’t rely on whatever new powers were cropping up. He wouldn’t be able to sniff Poe out, but maybe there was something the guys missed.

Something only he would notice. A message Poe left behind or… or… anything that would get him a step closer.

He thought he was prepared to see the damage, but the moment he rounded the corner and saw the rubble, he nearly fell to his knees. The shop was just that: brick and mortar, filled with ink and papers. It was a building full of things.

But they were his things. His and Poe’s. It was a lifetime of hard work, of getting to a place Oliver never thought he’d be, considering how he’d grown up. It was blood, sweat, tears, sleepless nights, and endless days reduced to nothing. And whoever had done this had taken one of the only people Oliver considered family.

He hadn’t let himself think about what Poe was going through, but it was getting harder and harder to avoid. He stepped past the hole that had once been the shop door and stared at the pieces of twisted metal that had been the frame for his glass counter.

The last time he’d paid attention to that space was when Priest was there. If he closed his eyes long enough, he could picture the moment perfectly—their almost kiss. The almost moment where Oliver thought he’d finally broken him down.

Only he hadn’t.

He’d run.

Priest wasn’t running now, but was it worth the price to have him if it meant this was his reality? The answer seemed simple enough. Oliver didn’t just like him. He didn’t just love him. It was more than that. It was something no words could describe. The feeling ran deep, through his soul. When Priest was holding him, kissing him, feeding on him, they were connected in a way Oliver hadn’t realized was possible.

Not that he had a lot of experience to go on, but he had enough.

There was something different happening. Something new.

And he was angry he wasn’t allowed to dwell on it because every second thinking about Priest was a second lost not finding his best friend.

He swallowed heavily, then flinched when he felt something on the edge of his jaw. His hand flew up to brush it away, and it came back wet. Fuck, he was crying. He realized the tightness in his throat was his body attempting to hold back a sob. This was too much. It was all too much.

His gaze cut to the wall where the stairs were that led to his apartment, but the hole above him told him there was nothing left to find there. Everything was ruined. He ran both hands over his face until his cheeks were dry, and then he squared his shoulders and turned toward the space where the counter used to be.

His eyes moved over everything, but it was all covered in ash from the fire. It smelled like burning rot. Not a single book had survived. Not a single artifact. Not one spell jar. His potions were cooked, leaving smears on the floor.

“Where are you?” Oliver whispered, but there was no one to hear his words.

As he picked his way through the carnage, time passed slowly—like the turn of the Earth was caught in a river of honey. His limbs were still stiff and aching, and after what had to be at least an hour, he had to stop. There was nothing there—and if there was, he wasn’t going to find it.

He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t a member of the Alpha Team. He might be part Angel, but it wasn’t enough to give him the strength he needed to do any of this.

Oliver’s gaze cut to Azriel’s bar, clearly visible through the gaping holes where his windows used to be. There were no windows at the club, but he had no doubt the Angel was there. He was probably sleeping still… or drinking or fucking. Or some mixture of all three. The last thing he wanted to do was drag Azriel into something he wanted no part of, but he was at a loss. The Alpha Team wasn’t prioritizing Poe, so what choice did he have?

He stepped over fallen beams and burnt brick as he made his way back outside. The smoke had long since cleared, but his lungs still felt clogged with ash, and he coughed several times as he made his way into the alley.

That was where they’d picked up a scent. Where they’d found one of Poe’s shoes. Maybe there was something left.

He walked from one end to the other, kicking over old takeout containers and soggy cardboard boxes, but if Poe had left anything else behind, Oliver couldn’t see it. He wondered if the shoe was even his. If the scent was even his. It wasn’t like he could verify for himself.

His stomach ached as he turned back toward the club. He had to get Azriel. He was at the end of the line.

“Poe. Please,” he murmured helplessly. Pointlessly.

Why did he have to be this? Why couldn’t his new Angel powers come with something useful besides the ability to teleport three feet and be overwhelmed with ridiculous premonitions that never made sense until well after the fact?

“If you’re out there?—”

Something crawled up his spine. It was so powerful, so intense, he swore it was a physical touch. He spun toward the club, then froze. Nothing was there. No one was with him. Oliver closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Poe,” he murmured again.

The sensation was back. It was like a second heartbeat beside his own, but it wasn’t lodged in his chest. It was moving —tugging him to the right. He took a step, and the feeling increased. Urgency flooded his limbs.

“Poe,” he said again, his voice stronger.

The feeling was like a rapid drumbeat. It was Poe. It was the feeling he had before when he knew Poe was alive—it was his heart. He was hurting—he was in danger—but he was alive. He wanted to run, but he needed to think clearly if he was going to have a chance at finding his friend.

“Where are you?”

There was no answer. Then, before he could start to panic that this was one more useless thing now plaguing him, his feet began to move. It was a slow stumble at first, but once he stopped resisting and gave in to his body, he began to run.

It felt like there was a hook lodged in his ribs, pulling him along. He let go to the power, and by the gods, this was what he needed. He started to laugh as the buildings whipped by him. He wasn’t moving faster than a human, but it didn’t matter. His powers had found Poe.

However they came to be—whatever his horrible family had done and whatever secrets they kept—in this moment, he was grateful. He was going to find him. He was going to bring Poe home and?—

Everything stopped.

Powerful arms wrapped around him, gripping him. The creature’s heat was white-hot, almost burning Oliver through his shirt. He instantly began to fight. He wasn’t going to let himself be taken!

“Let me go! Fuck you, let me g—mpfhhh!” The creature pressed a hand over Oliver’s mouth. His claws dug deeply into Oliver’s skin, and he began to flail, trying to scream past the warm, sweaty palm pinning his lips together.

“Oliver!”

It took him a moment to recognize the voice and a moment after that for his body to stop fighting.

“Oliver! It’s me. It’s me.”

Priest.

He went still, and the second Priest’s arms went lax, he twisted out of his grip and turned to hit him. “What the fuck! What is wrong with you?” he shouted for all of the street to hear. He swung his fist, but Priest caught it midair and stepped into his space.

His eyes were completely black, his claws still pricking at Oliver’s skin. “Stop screaming.”

“You scared the shit out of me!” Oliver said, refusing to lower his voice.

Priest let out a low growl. “It serves you right. What in the nine hells were you thinking leaving the house on your own?”

“I was thinking that none of you give a shit about Poe!” Oliver shouted. He shoved at Priest hard, but the Demon was an unmovable wall. He was undeterred. “I was thinking that if you’re not going to help him, I’m going to do it my godsdamned self, and I don’t care if I die in the process!”

Something snapped in Priest. Oliver felt it before he saw it. There was a charge in the air, rippling above Priest’s skin. He let out a deep, dangerous growl that shook Oliver to his score. His sharp nails became full claws, his eyes somehow darkened further, sucking him into their endless depths. His face lengthened and sharpened as his pale skin melted into a grayish black, like unpolished hematite, and long, twisted horns rose from his temples.

Priest’s Demon, no longer politely hidden beneath his human face.

He towered over Oliver, almost a foot taller than he had been a moment ago, with a broad chest and clawed feet. He was powerful and deadly. His fingers curled against the front of Oliver’s throat, his claws pricking his skin. He backed him up so swiftly Oliver’s feet left the ground, and he hit the wall with a dull thud.

Priest’s anger curled around him as he leaned in close, staring into Oliver’s face. There was a faintest flicker of flames in the back of his black eyes, a glimpse of the hell all Demons were born from in one way or another.

“Don’t you ever, ever , say that again,” he snarled through thick fangs, the cute little ones from the day before replaced by teeth that could bite him in half if he wanted to.

Oliver lifted his chin. “I meant it.”

Priest’s grip tightened, pressing into the sides of his throat, and Oliver felt a warmth rushing through him. Pure lust. Some of it was Priest’s, but so much of it was his own. Priest’s nostrils flared, his Demon face scrunching in confusion as his tongue flicked out to taste the charge between them.

“Oliver,” he growled. “Focus.”

He couldn’t. He was drowning .

He closed his eyes in a slow blink, overwhelmed with need. Carefully, in case Priest didn’t like it, he gripped one of those thick horns, squeezing when Priest groaned. He traced his fingers over the hard twists of the black length until he reached the blunt tip, then wrapped his fingers around it once more and gave it a few quick strokes.

Priest’s thigh wedged between his, pressing against his aching balls, his other hand landing on Oliver’s ass to rock him against the hard muscle.

“Take me home,” he gasped, grabbing onto the other horn and rutting against Priest without thought to where they were or who could catch them.

Priest’s forked tongue dragged over his lips. Whimpering, he opened to him, letting him taste the inside of his mouth. He tipped his head back against the wall behind him, offering anything to Priest. Offering everything .

“Oliver,” he said, softer this time. His Demon began to fade back into his skin—not completely, but enough for Oliver to see the face of the man he’d come to know. His horns shrunk down to half their length, so he moved his hands to grip at the back of Priest’s neck, pulling him closer. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it. I want you. I need you. Take me .”

Priest closed his eyes as Oliver’s dick throbbed behind his zipper, and he tightened his grip around Oliver’s ass and released his hold on his throat.

Much to Oliver’s disappointment.

He ached for that possessive recklessness, craving for his Demon to use every filthy trick up his sleeve to bind them together.

“Hold tight, little human. And don’t let go.”