DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hush, Hush and/or Crescendo. The characters belong to Becca Fitzpatrick and her publishers, I am just playing with them!

1758

Patch had met her at the local pub earlier in the night. Everyone had called her a Lolita, and that irked him. His friend, Rixon, had told him that she would never speak to him. Nor would she give him the time of day. Patch was always up for a challenge.

When he had approached her, she hadn't glanced upward. He took the seat next to her and admired her tiny body, the curve in-between her beautiful hips and voluptuous bosoms, tucked beneath a lacy, red and black corset, the long elegant flow of spiral-curled red hair and the heart shaped face.

"Enjoying the view, sir?" She asked in a voice that dripped like velvet.

Patch suddenly felt vulnerable, but maintained his cool composure. "Difficult not to, my lady."

Something played at her lips, a smile of mischief. "I've been told."

Patch had no response, so he waited for her to speak again. She looked at him for the first time. "You have magnificent eyes."

Blue as the sky, he remembered Rixon saying when Patch was at a young age, over millennia ago. The Archangels all had those eyes, and Rixon was jealous. Patch spat on Rixon, he had fallen, after all.

"Nora," said she, she did not tell patch her last name.

"Patch," he said clumsily, feeling a fool.

"Patch?" She snickered crudely. "What a peculiar name."

"A nick-name," he said. "From the lesser folk."

"I am not lesser folk, I shan't be called 'lesser folk'." She glowered at Patch, he meant not to offend her. "What is your real name . . . Patch?"

The way she said his name engulfed his mind. "Call me Cipriano."

"That is not your first name," Nora informed him.

"I am well aware." Patch smiled at her.

After what seemed like moments of flirting, Nora had downed her final drink of the night, and stood. Her petticoats teased under her skirt, and Patch felt his heart flutter.

"Allow me to escort you home?" Patch requested.

Nora looked at him as if he were mad and lifted her delicate brow. "I was under the impression you would never let a lady go home alone on such a dark night."

"Of course," Patch said quickly.

Patch felt someone grab at his upper arm. " 'Ave y' lost yer mind?"

"Unhand me, Rixon," Patch said.

"Y' don't want t' fall, m'Lord." Rixon's dark eyes were filled to the tip with concern. "Trust me."

"Why would I trust scum like you?" Patch asked, genuinely confused.

Rixon looked pained, and shoved Patch toward Nora. "Do as y' wish. Enjoy the lass, but realize y' is the scum y' claim I t' be."

Patch was now in the Nora's home, sitting on her sofa like loafer. She excused herself to relieve herself, and returned less her skirt.

Patch must have stiffened because she giggled. "Nervous about something, Cipriano?"

Patch felt fear hit his gut, Rixon had been right. Nora began to unlace her corset, the ribbons looping gracefully in front of her breasts, and sauntered toward him. Patch should've stood, left, rushed away from the temptation which the Archangel's would've called The Devil's Hand. He winced, why would he give himself to her? He couldn't feel anything anyhow.

Suddenly he wished it was Cheshvan, where he could've taken Chauncey and used his body for this. If the Archangels knew of Patch's claim of his Nephilim, they would have his head.

But Nora's body was so . . . alluring.

Patch stood abruptly, heading towards the door.

"What is it, Cipriano?" Nora asked, sounding hurt.

He looked back into her fierce eyes and felt his defenses fail him. Nora walked to him slowly, and pressed her hands into his chest, undoing his intricate shirts various folds, ties and buttons. Patch closed his eyes and his head leaned back on the door. He could feel her.

He always wanted to feel someone . . .

His hands snaked up onto her waist, and he felt her lips touch his neck. He shivered as Nora whispered, "Yes."

Patch let her grab his hair and throw him onto the floor. She rolled him over and pressed herself against his body. The pressure alone felt amazing, and he wanted more.

They tossed and turned and fell over each other as if they had been waiting for eternity to be together. She held him, touched him, made him feel alive.

As he knew they would, the Archangels found out. They were furious.

Patch remembered well how it happened, how they grabbed his arms and pinned him to the ground on his stomach. His pleading screams and they tore off his shirt, exposing his back, his wings, and the icy hot pain he felt when the ripped his wings from his body.

And then there was the shame.

Patch hated the way they looked at him as if he were useless, as if he were the devil. He hadn't done anything wrong! He pleasured himself, he was happy and it felt amazing, why was that a crime?

He begged them, but his two closest friends grabbed onto his arms again and lifted his bleeding form up. His knees wobbled, and he was just happy he didn't have to stand on his own. He felt his hands shaking and the sweat falling down his face as the lead Archangel called out in the ancient language. A dark portal opened at Patch's feet, and he felt himself begin to cry. He tried to hurl himself backward, but he was too weak. He glanced at his captors, he previous friends. "Please," he yelled. "Please, don't do this!"

And they shoved his broken form down into the darkness.

The cold, the fear, the tears, and the blood. Every single tragedy that ever happened on earth, Heaven or Hell, was here. He remembers children dying in the streets, innocent people shot in a robbery, woman beaten, raped and killed. And then himself, atop the beautiful Nora.

He didn't belong here, not with these . . . these evil, heartless and cruel people.

After hours of torture and torment, he hit the cold went ground of the earth, where he would forever be.

"Aye, laddy. How was it?"

Patch looked up at Rixon's cold face. His dark eyes were warm though, as he extended his hand to his friend.

"How was it to feel again?"