Potere | Book II ✓

xiv | stop the divinity

xiv | the divinity

a/n: *sign of the cross*

divinity ; the state or quality of being divine.

Messiah ; a leader or savior of a particular group / cause.

edit : i'll be uploading this while im in class so i'll be back to scream with y'all soon xoxoxoxoooo don't cry too much while im gone.

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There's no time to be scared.  Liam lies near my head, unmoving.  Droplets of his blood speckle his handsome face from the small, miniscule cuts that the tiny shards of glass create.  While Liam remains unconscious, the threat of Diavolo nears.  His feet are inches from my head, just outside the shattered window and I repeat, there's no fucking time to be scared.

Being scared usually initiates panic, which initiates bad decisions, which typically leads to certain death.

All I can do is clutch, white-knuckled to my jammed seatbelt and pray it doesn't decide now is the best time to let me go.

I'm hyper-aware of every sound, every smell as I clench my jaw in nervous anticipation.  Diavolo drags the tip of his boot along the glass covered asphalt like a bull preparing to attack.  I hear the debris crunch beneath his boot, and I see the way it reflects, sparkling underneath the moonlight.

For just a second, I feel at ease, calm.  But as quickly as that feeling comes, it goes.  Just when I thought Diavolo would turn around, he does the complete and utter opposite.  He doesn't crouch slowly, he doesn't even kneel.  He throws his legs out from under him, clearly trusting the strength in his upper body to catch him.  It does.  He lands in a pristine, push-up position, and slowly – oh, so slowly lowers his body to the ground.

His hands are huge.

His leather gloves are scuffed.

He cranes his head and peers through the window.

I don't have to see his eyes to know that he's staring right at me.

And in that moment, I forget the basics.  I forget how to breathe, how to blink, how to think.  His breathing is heavy, forced, but behind it – behind every breath is a rumble, a growl threatening to rise from the back of his throat.  Like a dog, warning his master he doesn't like their company.  Like a lion, quietly telling another to back off – that this is his prey.

I can only imagine the color of his eyes.  Black.  Like every single star in the universe collided, leaving nothing but the abyss.  An endless panorama of the night sky, minus every beautiful star we've ever failed to appreciate.

Someone taps Diavolo's lower body, because he immediately whips his head over his shoulder, narrowly missing the frame of the SUV's window.  I hear the sound again, rumbling deep in the back of his throat – a warning, but it isn't directed towards me.

"You heard Valentin.  We scare them.  Not kill them."

I see two pairs of feet, standing on either side of Diavolo's slightly parted legs.  This was either the job of merely three Russians, or the rest of their little fleet has retreated to whatever is left of their vehicle. Which, I can only assume, is in better shape than ours.

"Besides," The other Russian pitches in, "You like the chase.  This—"  I can't see him, but I know he makes some type of gesture towards our totaled car.  "—this is not a chase."