We Are Not Broken by Nadine Little EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Nadine Little
- Language: English
- Genre: Paranormal Angel Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
“Do you, Maia Buckthorn, take Hunter… um… the semi-indestructible
warrior angel, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The priest’s words drift to the lofty rafters and echo over the heads of
everybody gathered in the pews. A fist muffles a cough. Feathers rustle.
Ruby- and emerald-dappled sunlight brightens the rear of the church and
casts a shadow around the statue above the altar. Black wings spread wide,
the face chiselled in marble. The figure grips a blue sword, the blade
pointed downwards to a swirl of Latin script at his booted feet: Ordo
sanctorum angelorum.
The Order of the Holy Angels. Or, as I like to call it—my dad’s zealous
worship of the angels and their grudging tolerance of it.
I squeeze the warm hand in mine and say, “I do.”
Steph, my best friend in this universe and all the rest, sniffles on my
left. She dabs her eyes with a tissue, my bouquet of snowdrops and crocuses
clenched in her other hand on top of her diamond-bedazzled cane. Her
sapphire wig tumbles down her back almost to the low cut of her midnightblue dress.
She lasted longer than I thought she would. Wedding rehearsals are
unusual in Scotland but we held a run-through a week ago for the benefit of
Hunter and the other angels, whose culture has no such thing as marriage or
love, only dominance and brutality. Steph started bawling as soon as I
walked down the aisle on the arm of my dad, even though I was wearing
jeans and a hoodie, my hair pinned messily thanks to Hunter’s wandering
hands and enthusiasm at desecrating the confessional situated off the
antechamber.
He likes to get grabby in cramped, dark places. And, since he’s the
holiest of Holy Angels, it’s technically his church so he can do whatever the
hell he wants in it. Including me.
Greg, fellow Martello Court resident and rebel, rolls his shoulders next
to Steph in his charcoal suit and tie, the shirt matching the colour of Steph’s
dress. He’s been grumbling about how uncomfortable it is all morning. His
long hair is held back, one hand clasped over the other, as if his tattoo of a
spiderweb might offend the eyeballs of the priest.
The minister is holding his own, though, in what has become a very
unorthodox ceremony. It’s been an unorthodox couple of years, what with
the angel apocalypse and all.
The priest raises his gaze from me. He blinks fast, his throat bobbing.
Vestments whisper on the floor as he shifts.
“And do you, Hunter, take Maia Buckthorn”—a slight hesitation and
clearing of the throat—“the fragile human, to be your lawfully wedded
wife?”
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