She juggled the cardboard tray of styrofoam cups in one hand and pulled the door open with the other. "Shared Blessings" was stencilled on the glass in neat letters, the name of the small charity that operated out of an old and slightly rundown building in the heart of the city. The sun was bright but there was a cool nip in the air and Emma was dressed casually. Jeans and boots with a slim cream-coloured sweater under a tan leather jacket, hair pulled back in a braided bun at the nape of her neck.

"Where have you been this morning?"

Mary Margaret Nolan tucked her dark bangs behind her ears and looked up as Emma set the tray down on her desk and handed her a peace offering in the form of a large green tea latte.

"Sorry," Emma apologized, "Overslept a bit, I had a late night."

David, Mary Margaret's husband and a co-director at Shared Blessings, stuck his head into the room with a wink, "Was it a hot date, Emma?"

She passed him a coffee with cream and two sugars from the tray and gave a flat, firm, "No."

"You sure about that?" Mary Margaret asked, sipping her tea and smiling at David like a cat that got the canary.

Her own cup in hand she went down the hall to her office with both of them following and could practically see the knowing looks they were trading behind her back. When she opened the door the first thing she saw was the large bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase on her small desk.

"That was delivered for you this morning." David explained, leaning against the jam and bringing his drink to his lips.

Emma set down her coffee next to the vase and shrugged off her jacket, "No date, just catching up with an old friend I hadn't seen in a while."

The office phone rang and Mary Margaret went to answer it while David grinned, clearly not buying her story. He strolled back to his own office with a comment about late nights with old friends that was heavy with insinuation. She ignored him and surveyed the floral arrangement. White gardenias, a great bunch of them tied neatly with a black velvet ribbon.

A small envelope was nestled in with the blooms, the card inside inscribed with only a few words and signed with a single initial.

Beata, I miss you already.

K

She thumbed over the gilt edging with her eyes closed. I miss you too, damnate.

Pulling out out her phone she typed him a quick text, Thank you - E, and tucked the card away where no one could find it.

With the flowers perched on her desk and filling the office with their rich scent, she sat down and booted up her computer. The new emails loaded and she scanned down the subject lines, deciding what to address first. There was a dozen different things that clamoured for her attention, the homeless outreach project, the soup kitchen and food pantry, the assistance they offered to runaways and street youth, job training and work placements in local businesses. Anything and everything they could do to help the people who needed it.

It was hard work, but it was her eternal mission to answer the prayers of lost souls seeking their way to a better path. She helped them find it, guiding them away from the darkness and into the light. The methods had changed as the world did, but the underlying purpose was still the same.

Salvation.

Redemption.

After forwarding a few messages on to David and answering several others, Emma glanced at the time and saw that it was a little after one. By now Katie would be on the train and on her way back home. Her parents were supposed to call and confirm once they'd picked her up, but she had no doubts that the girl would make it. Killian would see to it. She had faith in his promise, and she trusted him.

She could still feel him, waking up underneath him on his ridiculously comfortable bed with his clever mouth teasing at her breasts, his hot breath, (he was always hot), against the sensitive peaks. She recalled the way he traced the curve underneath with his tongue, his hands spread flat on her ribcage and his heavy erection pressed against her thigh. It had been sinfully good, as it always was.

But it could only be that, the few stolen hours snatched here and there, the favours traded back and forth. They could not attract too much attention from any of the others, from her side or his.

Last night would have to sustain them for a while, they couldn't see each other again anytime soon. The memory of being under him, running her fingers through his soft hair and pulling his head down to capture his lips with hers as she took him into her body again and held him there as they lay cocooned in silk and each other with the rest of the world held briefly at bay, it had to be enough.

Her demon's dark, silky voice whispered in her ear, "It's not enough, Emma."

When Mary Margaret appeared in the door and called her to a meeting she welcomed the distraction from the direction her thoughts kept pulling to.

It was the first Monday of the month and they always met around this time to review the previous month and plan out the upcoming weeks. David had his laptop open on the conference table and Mary Margaret held a sheaf of papers. The young couple shared a loving look that made Emma smile, and then David's eyes went back to the screen and Mary Margaret passed out the photocopied notes as they got down to the business at hand.

Two new restaurants had signed up to donate their day old leftovers to the soup kitchen. Mary Margaret had a meeting with a law firm the following week that might turn into some pro bono work for the charity's clients who had legal issues they needed to resolve. The good news first, and then the bad.

"We ran another deficit last month," David said, turning the laptop around and pointing to a spreadsheet filled with numbers, donations against expenses, "Second month in a row."

"How much?" Emma asked. They operated on a shoestring budget and didn't have much in reserve to cover any shortfalls in their expenses.

"Almost twelve percent. Month before it was eighteen, so things perked up a bit, but if this continues we'll have to make cuts."

"I hate the idea of cutting anything." Mary Margaret added, cupping her hands around the remains of her green tea latte with a worried look on her face.

Emma reached over and squeezed her wrist in reassurance, "The mayor's gala is coming up soon and we always get a big boost in donations from that. In the meantime, I'm sure I can get the shortfall covered for now so we don't have to make any cuts."

"You're going to talk to the anonymous benefactor?" David asked.

She nodded.

Mary Margaret looked at her husband and then at Emma, "I wish you could tell us who he or she is. I really want to thank them for all the support they've given."

"You know the rules, Mary Margaret. Our mystery donor has only one condition - they must remain anonymous and we will respect that. Even you guys have to stay in the dark, just to be safe. We don't want to risk losing their contribution."

"I know," Mary Margaret sighed heavily, "But, you'll tell them how much we appreciate their generosity?"

"And that I've got all the tax receipts ready if they ever want to stop being anonymous." David piped in.

"Yes," she said, standing up, "I will, but I can tell you one hundred percent that our benefactor does not care about tax receipts. We're done for the day, right?"

Mary Margaret gathered up her notes, "Yes. Oh! Emma, Katie's parents called me just before the meeting. She made it home safe."

David closed his computer and spoke in voice that was laced with anger, "That guy should be arrested. I know she doesn't want to press charges, but he shouldn't get off scot free after what he did to her. He knew she was fifteen, the son of a bitch."

Emma paused in the doorway and met his furious gaze, "David, I'm sure he'll get what he deserves at some point."

She knew he would. Killian would see to that.

...

A block over from their office building the large looming bulk of the Cathedral of Saint Raphael stood silent guard as it had done for over a hundred and fifty years. Not a long period of time in the grand scheme of things, but in a city that regularly tore things down to make way for what was considered more modern and updated and therefore better, it was practically ancient.

Her boots crunched on the brown leaves that had blown across the wide stone staircase as she made her way up and went through the heavy oak door. She slipped noiselessly into the back pew so as not to disturb the service already underway. The early evening Mass was sparsely populated with only a few devout souls in attendance. From the pulpit Father Hopper was reading from the Gospels, shoving his glasses back up his nose every time they slid down too far, which was a frequent occurrence.

The church worked closely with the charity on many projects and she knew Father Hopper well. He worked two shifts a week at the soup kitchen and helped counsel many of their clients. While he had a somewhat nervous demeanor, the middle-aged priest was a good man and cared deeply about both the spiritual and earthly welfare of his flock.

She leaned back against the solid wood of the pew and listened to him speak, reciting the familiar passages and verse that spoke of solace, faith, and love.

"Peace be with you," she intoned at the end along with the rest of the worshippers.

As the service concluded most of them left, heading back to their homes and waiting families. But a few lingered with bent heads and clasped hands, seeking something inside the thick and sturdy stone walls.

She watched and listened.

After a moment she stood up and crossed the echoing nave, sitting back down next to one of the stragglers. A young man in his early twenties, dressed in grubby looking jeans and battered boots with a backpack on the floor at his feet and the yellow remains of a bruise on his cheek.

Her voice was soft and carried only to his ears, "Do you have a safe place to sleep tonight?"

Their eyes met and the answer she already knew was written on his face. She pulled out a business card from inside her jacket and handed it to him. His hands were cold as his fingers brushed hers and the nails were bitten down to the quick. Hair fell over his forehead as he looked down at the address he was cradling in his palm.

"Go there and tell them Emma Swan sent you. They'll feed you and give you a bed."

The young man looked at her and back down at the card, "Thank you," he said, sounding both relieved and confused, "But how did you know?"

She didn't answer directly but she gave his shoulder a squeeze when she stood up, "Call it an educated guess, of sorts."

Father Hopper was being monopolized by an elderly couple at the door, shoving his glasses back up his nose as his listened to their litany of minor complaints and perceived slights. Emma touched his elbow when she stepped over the threshold and gave a sympathetic smile to the beleaguered looking priest before heading back down the steps and making for home. He had to deal with the parishioners who had too much time on their hands but her work was done for the night.

The tree-lined street was filled with large, rambling Victorian houses that had once been single family dwellings but were now mostly converted into multiple apartments. She lived in a second floor walk-up that was small but filled with original features, wide baseboards and high ceilings with elaborate plaster mouldings. Over the years she'd stayed in everything from the grandest palaces to the most spartan lodgings, but she had a special fondness for this place.

Her phone rang just as she finished her late dinner of takeout Chinese. She stuck the chopsticks into the carton and swiped over the screen to answer, not bothering to check the display to see who was calling. She knew who was on the other end.

"Killian."

"Evening, love. Did you get the flowers?"

She stood up from the sofa and went to the large bay window in her living room, drawing the curtains shut for the night with the phone held between her head and shoulder, "Yes. And I also got a message from some very relieved parents that their daughter made it home safe. Again, thank you."

"You're welcome, but I didn't do it for them, you know."

The window seat was covered with cushions and she sank down, drawing her legs up under her. The words came out in a rush, "I have another favour to ask."

Amusement filled his voice, "Another deal with the devil, blessed one? You're making quite the habit of it. What do you need?"

She explained about the budget shortfall and he answered her immediately, "I'll have the money transferred first thing in the morning."

"Thank you."

They were silent for a moment. She could hear him moving around and she wondered if he was at home or at his club.

"My sheets smell like you," he whispered and her eyes closed. He was at home. The whisper of the rustling silk was audible even over the phone, "Come over tonight."

"I can't"

"Yes you can."

"Killian...you know I can't."

A long resigned sigh came down the line, "What if I ask for quid pro quo?"

She smiled into the darkness, "You won't."

"Oh, the things I do for you and I get so little in return."

He couldn't see her, but she raised a brow at that, "I wasn't aware that last night was so unsatisfying for you."

Killian's voice dropped low and dripped with lust, "Well darling, I was dreadfully unsatisfied with the amount of time I got to spend with my head between your creamy thighs and my tongue buried inside you. You taste so delicious, I need an entire night simply to savour you properly."

She'd damn him, but he was already. Heat pooled low in her stomach as his voice continued to whisper and caress in her ear, "I want to bind you to my headboard, put your legs over my shoulders and fuck you while you scream my name and beg me for mercy. And then I want to lay on my back under you and watch you ride me again like you did last night, taking every drop of pleasure you can wring from my cock."

"Killian, stop," she protested, pinching the bridge of her nose and trying not to rub her thighs together, "This only makes it harder."

"Oh, it's definitely hard right now. And my hand is a poor bloody substitute for you, Emma."

Temptation beckoned and her fingers were curled so tight around her phone that her knuckles were probably stark white. She let out an exasperated puff of air,

"I should have let them burn you at the stake when I had the chance."

That got a laugh out of him, "What, in, where was that again...Barcelona? No, Valencia. Ah yes, I remember. The most beautiful angel in the heavens came to me that day and practically wrested me right from the fire."

"Never say I don't do anything for you, infernal one."

"I seem to recall you insisting that particular rescue was not actually for my benefit."

She shifted back, stretching her legs out in front of her and picking at a thread on her sweater, "Yeah, well. Maybe it was."

He chuckled, "And the truth comes out at last. Just as you should come over here and join me in this very large bed."

Her resolve had strengthened, "No. Now stop asking or I'll hang up on you."

"Fine. I'll stop asking, at least for tonight."

Silence fell. She could picture him lying in the bed they had shared, dark hair against the pillow and blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. He didn't speak, but she could hear him.

"Soon," she murmured, "I promise, Killian."

He lost that seductive purr and dark promise and there was only simple truth in his words, "Emma...just, I miss you. I always miss you. Don't make me wait too long."

"Goodnight, damnate."

"Goodnight, my beata."

Spain - 1570

He had got himself into quite the predicament this time.

It had all started out with such promise, roaming a country that prided itself on it's devotion to the one true church and as such kept making war on England's Protestant queen and the sullen, stolid Dutch, hemmed in on their southern borders by an empire they viewed as barbarous infidels, rife with suspicion and mistrust and easily whipped into a frenzy under his guiding hand.

It had been glorious, until somehow it had turned back on him and he found himself on the wrong end of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, taken into custody and charged with a litany of crimes. Chief among them blasphemy, but also sodomy, usury,

Bestiality.

While he was certainly guilty of most of what they claimed, he was rather affronted by that one.

He groaned and felt like a poker had been shoved down his throat. Someone had suspected that he was more that just an ordinary heretic, and he'd been clapped in irons that had been blessed and consecrated and they'd taken precautions to ensure that he couldn't escape. He could do nothing except lay where they had left him, the verdict had been decided and he was to meet his fate in the morning.

"This is quite the predicament, damnate."

He managed to open one eye and turned his head at the sound of the voice. All he could see at first was blinding white light, but then it coalesced into a slim figure standing outside his cell. He blinked as a memory pulled at the back of his mind and recognition dawned.

"So we meet again, beata. I do wish the circumstances were more to my advantage and you'll have to forgive me for not rising in your gracious presence."

"I am not here to offer you forgiveness."

The cell door opened and she came over to where he lay sprawled in the dirty rushes against the wall, the hem of her gown dragging across the cold stone floor. The light washed over his face as she neared and he shut his eyes again.

"Oh, what have they done to you?"

He sensed she was very close, crouched down next to him and he wondered absently why her light wasn't burning him. Or maybe it was and he was simply too far gone to notice. The torture had been extensive...and rather creative. He did admire how inventive the inquisitors could be.

"If you've come to hear my final confession, fair warning, it shall take some time."

Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from above him and he chanced opening his eyes again. The angel was gazing down at him, so near that a loose strand of her golden hair was resting against his cheek.

"They're going to execute you in the morning," she said, with no expression save a slight lift of her brow.

"They're going to try," he retorted. Torture was one thing, but they did not possess the means to actually destroy him, a fact that she was certainly aware of, "Will you come watch? I'm sure it will be most entertaining when they attempt to burn me."

His mouth was filled with ash and he turned his head and spat into the filthy straw.

"I'm not here for that, either."

Her voice was as serene and unaffected as he remembered, and she was just as lovely. Green eyes the colour of sea glass swept over him, taking in his weakened condition, and settled back on his face.

"They do not yet know for certain what you are. If they obtain actual proof when you don't succumb on the pyre, it will only encourage this madness to continue. More poor wretches will continue to suffer and perish in the flames."

He closed his eyes as he resigned himself to the reason for her appearance, "So you have come to dispatch me properly then, blessed one? Well, just do me the courtesy of making it quick."

He tilted his head back and bared his neck, steeling himself for the slice of the flaming sword. But instead he felt her hands on his chest through the sackcloth he'd been forced to don, and the soft exhale of her breath on his face when she spoke with a hint of amusement, "Have a little faith, infernal one."

There was a clatter as his irons sprang open and fell away from his wrists and ankles.

"Was that a jest?" he asked, rubbing at the livid red marks the shackles had left behind and hissing slightly at the pain as the feeling slowly returned to his numbed limbs. She didn't answer, but he looked at her again and saw her lower lip was caught between her teeth as if she was trying to hide a smile. But then her face grew serious again.

"Can you walk?" Emma asked.

He sounded as incredulous as he felt, "You've come to release me from the custody of the Holy Tribunal?"

She waved her hand over him, "There is nothing holy about this. And you came to my assistance once, I am merely discharging my debt to you."

She helped him to his feet. Her gloved hands held him steady and he had a fleeting wish to feel the white skin that lay underneath the embroidered satin. It was a foolish impulse, her bare touch would be more painful than that of the implements that had been used in the attempts to draw a confession from him.

Still, he collapsed in the bed of the wagon she had procured and imagined what it would feel like to brush his fingers over hers. He lay on a bed of straw, thankfully clean this time, and welcomed the diversion as his body recovered from it's ordeal, bones knitting back in place and skin healing over the many abrasions.

When the wagon stopped several hours later at the outskirts of the next town, he was nearly restored and he climbed down from the bed without assistance and watched her pass a coin to the silent peasant who held the reins.

He urged the large draft horse on and the wagon rumbled away over the hard-packed dirt road. The angel looked at him briefly, and then she drew up the hood of her cloak and turned.

"Why did you really come for me, Emma?" he called out, and she paused.

Her answer was barely above a whisper, "Because I heard you, Killian."

Their eyes met and held for the space of a heartbeat, but as soon as he blinked, she vanished.