Chapter 10

Chapter 10

I woke in slow increments,my senses sending my mind messages long before my thoughts returned to interpret them. Softness underneath me. Gloom surrounding me, broken up by flashes of distant light. A scent tickled my nose, sank into my skin, familiar and foreign and so, so good. I inhaled deeply. Leather and fire and dark spices. It was all around me, but especially concentrated on the soft surface underneath my head.

Pressing my nose into it, I stretched out, languidly moving my body like a cat shifting into an even more relaxed position. My skin slid along what felt like silk sheets, and my mind finally decided to come back and compute a little.

I opened my eyes to the next flash of light conveniently blinding me, but after a few seconds, my sight adjusted to the semi-darkness. A bed. I was lying on a bed, and I fucking knew this bed. I’d picked my overly revealing dress off this very mattress earlier, under the watchful, hungry gaze of its owner.

I was upright within a second, my eyes darting around the room. No sign of Azazel in the shadows anywhere. Just me, in his bed, curled into his sheets—and his scent—still wearing that damned dress. Of course, as flowy skirts are wont to do, the loose material around my hips was now bunched up, leaving me disconcertingly exposed from my waist down—exhibit A of why I hated nightgowns. I grimaced as I realized I’d wiggled all over his bed half naked.

The lightning outside illuminated the room for a second, and my gaze caught on something lying next to me. A pile of clothes—a fresh pair of jeans, a tank top...and underwear. Well, well.

But not just that. Something gleamed in the faint light coming from the window, the spark of a jewel. I reached out and my fingers grazed chilled metal. Gingerly, I grasped the object, held it up and turned it to the window. The next flash lit up the dagger’s sheath, made the black jewels set in it spark to life.

I carefully drew the blade out of its protective case and held my breath. Almost as long as my lower arm, it shone in the low light, its dark metal iridescent. Beautiful.

And sharp. I tested the edge, and even though I barely pushed, my fingertip came away wet. Sucking on the small cut, I sheathed the dagger again.

This...this was no accident. He wouldn’t leave this blade lying around here just like that, not with me in the room, right next to it. And a pile of my clothes laid out for me to find.

No, this was deliberate. He’d just given me a weapon.

Frowning, I scooted off the bed and quickly donned the fresh clothes. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but one thing was clear—I really, really did not want to face him right now.

My panic from before had abated, yes, and my mind wasn’t as jumbled anymore. I couldn’t shake the sense of dread, though, the insidious grasp of primal fear lurking behind my more rational thoughts.

All it took to cause a new shiver of trepidation to skitter down my spine was a flash of memory of those wings pinned to the wall.

There, right there, was my thundering heartbeat again.

Yeah, no, I needed to just get out of here, find my way back to my rooms and hole up there for...however long it would take to come to terms with...this.

Ironic, wasn’t it, that I’d fought so hard to break free of those rooms, and now all I wanted was to retreat to their relative safety. You sure had it right, Alanis.

With the song Ironic playing on repeat in my mind—thanks to that weird quirk of mine that would get me an ear worm of a random song by only thinking of one word from the lyrics—I crept toward the door to the next room and opened it as if neutralizing a bomb.

The sitting room loomed empty in the low light of the torches, the door in the opposite wall cracked open about an inch. A voice floated over, muted but familiar. Azazel said something, and someone whose voice I didn’t recognize replied. I couldn’t make out all the words, but it seemed he was receiving some sort of report about his estate.

Damn. The exit to the hallway was in that very room. To get out of here, I’d have to walk past him. And ask him for an escort to my suite.

No way would I brave the hallways by myself again, not with the memory of the inferni’s teeth sinking into my flesh still vivid in my mind. If it weren’t for those blasted beasts, I could simply summon an archway—thanks to the convenient dagger with which Azazel supplied me—and sneak out of here with my demonic spouse none the wiser.

As it was, the threat of the inferni hunting me down again kept me from venturing out alone. However stubborn I could be, I wasn’t too stupid to live.

Well, nothing for it—I had to let him know I was up and moving and ready to go back to my rooms. With any luck, he’d have someone else escort me right back, maybe the demon he was talking to. After all, wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Me, staying in my rooms, with as little interaction between us as possible? He was about to get his wish.

I turned back to the bed and swiped the dagger off the mattress. A gift was a gift. I wasn’t trained in wielding blades, and I didn’t know how much good it would do me if I had to use it in self-defense—I had a sword against the inferni, and they overran me in seconds—but I wasn’t going to just leave this beautiful stabby thing here.

I walked out into the sitting room, stopping a few feet away from the door leading into whatever parlor or some such room lay beyond. My stomach tightened, my muscles tensing.

The other demon broke off mid-sentence, the following silence oddly attentive. I frowned at the little splashes coming from the room, like water dripping and gurgling in a fountain.

“Leave,” Azazel said quietly.

“My lord.” Sounds of retreat, a door opening and shutting.

Taking a deep breath, I stalked into the room.

Azazel stood at what appeared to be indeed a fountain, his fingers idly playing through the agitating water. His broad frame held a hum of tension, a bite to his energy as it misted darkly about his form. The air seemed to hush around him, as if holding its breath. In awe—or fear.

“Sleep well?” His voice was a silken murmur, his expression guarded as he looked at me.

Yeah, about that. I so didn’t appreciate the little trick he pulled on me earlier, and the reminder of how easily he could infiltrate my mind only reinforced the urge to get away from him.

“If you would be so kind,” I said with as much politeness as I managed while my anxiety grasped for control, “to have someone escort me to my rooms. Please.”

Something harsh and dark flitted across his expression, there and gone again. He took a step toward me, and I moved back a little, even without conscious thought.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his voice was a sensual purr. “Didn’t you want my attention?” With the kind of lithe grace of a great cat, he closed the distance between us. “You have it now.”

My back bumped into the wall. “I thought you wanted to ignore me,” I whispered. “That’s fine by me, you know.”

His power buzzed in the inches separating us, as tangible as a physical touch. An image of the torn-off wings flashed before my eyes. I sucked in a harsh breath, and my gecko brain eagerly reached for the reins, instincts kicking in once more.

He clucked his tongue, his voice a soothing murmur. “None of that now.”

Grasping my right wrist with one hand, he lifted it and pulled the sheath off the dagger I still clutched. With his hand wrapped around my hand holding the blade, he brought the knife up to his throat, laid it against his skin.

“This dagger is forged in Hell,” he said softly. “As such, it is one of the few weapons that can make me bleed.” His eyes swirled silver as they held me spellbound. “And kill me.”

My heart raced, bright spots danced in my vision. Breath coming too fast, I was glad I was leaning against the wall for purchase. One slice, and I could slit his throat. My hand trembled ever so slightly.

“Now,” he murmured, leaning in just a little, putting pressure on the blade, “can we talk?”

I stared at him for a moment, then gave him a tiny, shaky nod.

“Good.” His easy smile was so at odds with the fact he had a dagger against his throat. Perplexing man. Demon. Whatever.

“I have never touched you with the intent to harm, and I never will.”

I swallowed. “Your manifold threats sure said different.”

“Like your contemplations of how to eviscerate me?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“That was just a figure of speech.”

“As was your pondering of where best to stab me, or how your hands would feel wrapped around my neck, I’m sure.”

I inhaled sharply. “You bastard.” The insult tumbled out of my mouth before any fearful instinct could stop it. My hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger. “You’ve been reading my mind?”

“There’s a difference,” he said with remarkable calm, considering he was riling up someone one second away from giving him a bloody necklace, “between intrusive reading and picking up aggressive projections.”

I opened my mouth, closed it. Shook my head. “What?”

“You need to learn shielding.”

“My thoughts?” Horror speared through me. My grip on the dagger slipped a little. “In that room, with Zaquiel… Did I—could he…?”

“I shielded you.”

“You…” I blinked, closed my eyes for a moment. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” When I looked at him again, his eyes had warmed, his focus sharpened. “I’ll teach you how.”

I stared at him for the span of a few heartbeats. “You? Will train me? Why?”

“Do you want me to keep picking up your stray thoughts?”

I numbly shook my head.

“Then you need to learn to put up shields.”

I got that much, sure. Didn’t explain why he offered to teach me himself instead of pushing me off to Azmodea or someone else.

“Like I said,” he murmured, “you have my attention.”

“Get out of my head.”

“I’m not even in it, love. And unlike with auditory signals, I can’t block your thoughts by covering my ears.”

“How much—” My hand holding the dagger shook. “How much have you caught?”

“When, exactly?”

Good grief. I closed my eyes, too mortified to hold his gaze as my mind helpfully flashed back through all of our interactions and the many thoughts I had about him…a lot of them unruly and way too revealing.

The sound of fabric rustling made me snap my eyes open again, only to stop short at the sight of him rolling up his right sleeve and thoughtfully regarding his forearm as he flexed his muscles.

“Arm porn,” he mused. “I can see it.”

My face burned like a supernova, and my hand holding the dagger trembled…slipped.

Azazel hissed low as the blade slit through his skin, leaving a trail of bright red.

With a yelp, I dropped the knife. I covered my mouth with both hands, my heart skipping a beat. Or a dozen.

Blood poured out of the wound like a morbid waterfall of red. A wet gurgle bubbled up from his throat. His eyes were wide, his features slack. He sag-leaned forward until his forehead met mine and braced himself with his hands against the wall on either side of me.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” I whispered, my thoughts racing.

I killed him.Good Lord, I killed him. He was bleeding out all over me. My hands shook as I pressed them against his chest, trying foolishly to steady him. I wouldn’t be able to hold him upright. He was going to collapse right there, his blood painting his tunic in a gruesome crimson batik.

He’d given me the means to hurt him, and I’d gone ahead and slit his throat.

“I’m sorry,” I wailed. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh, God…”

His lips moved, but no sound came.

“What?” I whispered.

He shifted his head, brought his mouth to my ear. “Azazel,” he muttered.

I stilled.

“If you feel the need to invoke a higher being,” he continued, his voice turning into a purr, “it should be me.”

That. Stinking. Rat. Bastard.

With a groan of angry frustration, I pushed against his chest. It shook under my hands. A sound much like wheezing close to my ear, his breath huffing against my neck.

That did it. His silent laughter made me snap. The horror of thinking I killed him veered straight into fury, and I slapped the hell out of his shoulders, his chest, his arms, punctuating each smack with a growled, barely coherent insult.

He let me. For a good thirty seconds, he allowed me to vent my anger while he—irritatingly—kept on half wheezing, half chuckling close to my ear.

“Stop.” Slap. “Laughing.” Slap. “You.” Slap. “Jerk.” Slap.

One more choked chuckle, then— “All right.”

He withdrew enough that I could see his face, the quicksilver lightning of his eyes…the unusually open, unguarded expression as he considered me with such intent focus, it rattled me.

“The dagger,” he said, his voice soft yet serious, “can indeed kill me. That wasn’t a lie. You would have to cut off my head, though, which takes more pressure than a slip of a hand.”

Without bending to pick it up, he held the blade from one second to the next, and pushed it—hilt first—into my hand again. He positioned my hold such that the tip of the knife pointed at a spot somewhat left on his chest.

“If you want to incapacitate me, stab me here. With enough force, the blade will pierce my heart and stop it…for some time.”

I stared at the dagger pointing all too eagerly toward that vulnerable spot, then met his gaze with horror-widened eyes, my anger all but fizzled out again. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I do not…” He paused, muscles feathering along his jaw. “…wish for you to fear me.”

I swallowed hard, my throat too dry. “Why do you care?”

Wouldn’t he prefer me cowering scared in my rooms?

Another long pause, during which he appeared to struggle for words. “You’re quiet when you’re afraid,” he said eventually. His voice low and rough, he added, “I don’t like you quiet.”

“Oh.”

That was all I got out. His uncharacteristically open answer threw me for a loop, and I was still spinning when he cupped my cheek, caressed my jaw with his thumb. My lips parted on a soft exhale, and his gaze dropped to my mouth, his features drawing tight with hunger.

And yet, he waited.

For me to ask him? If he thought I’d beg him again, he—

“May I?”

My internal diatribe screeched to a halt. I blinked. “What?”

“Kiss you.”

I stared at him, my thoughts jumbled, my hand still holding that damn dagger. My lips prickled as if already feeling his touch, and I licked them absent-mindedly. The power emanating from him darkened, sharpened, his frame vibrating with tension.

And I knew, without a sliver of doubt, that if I told him no, he’d take that pent-up power, choke it down, and leave me be.

Outside our charade in front of others, he wouldn’t take what wasn’t offered.

“And I wouldn’t break you,” he murmured. “I may sever the wings of the demons who sought to kill me, and I am not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy it.”

His energy stroked over my senses, made me shiver.

“But I will never lay a hand on you with violent intent.” He grasped the dagger—on the end of the blade—and squeezed. Blood welled from between his fingers. “That is my vow.”

“Not the palm!” I squealed and let go of the knife.

His brows drew together. “What?”

“You don’t draw blood from your palm. Too many nerves! And it takes forever to hea—”

I broke off when he opened his red-smeared hand to reveal two cuts…which rapidly closed before my eyes.

I pursed my lips. “Well, um, never mind. I guess.” Glancing at his neck, I added, “So is your throat…?”

He summoned a towel, wiped the blood from his hand and then from his neck as well. Clean, unblemished skin greeted my eyes, not even a scar left over from the cut.

“You can still kiss it better,” he said, tapping the sinewy column of his throat. “It feels a bit…tender.”

The sly slant to his mouth belied the earnestness of his tone.

I leaned fully back against the wall. “Does it now?”

“Mh-hm.”

Every second ticking by hummed with energy, the space between us charged with the kind of tension that made your blood pump faster…and prickle with the knowledge of hovering on a threshold of sorts. A decision loomed, bold and brash, frightening in its consequences.

I could take this step now, open the door for something more, and enjoy what he was offering. Or, I could turn him down, retreat, and keep things the way they were—with me being so damn lonely I started talking to a toilet.

Yeah, no, it wasn’t even a decision at all.

He raised a brow, amusement flickering over his face. “Did you really name your toilet after—”

“Hush now,” I said.

Determination filling my veins, I raised my hand, curled my fingers into his shirt and slowly pulled. He followed my cue and leaned forward, bracing one palm against the wall again as he bent down a little.

Our breaths mingled in the space between. His scent—now mixed with the metallic tang of blood—filled my nose with every inhale, a dark seduction on its own. I rose on my toes, held his gaze until the last, until I was too close, my nose brushing against his jaw. Pausing, I exhaled, my heart hammering in my chest.

Even though he stood perfectly, inhumanly still, he didn’t feel passive. More like a predator lying in wait, luring its prey closer with the pretense of motionless silence.

Stubble rasped over my lips, the heat of his skin searing my mouth as I pressed it against his throat.

The faintest tremor went through his frame.

Parting my lips, I touched the tip of my tongue to the pulsing vein along the column of his neck, licked a short line up toward his jaw. The slight aroma of sweat and the fading echo of iron richness tingled on my tongue. I pressed my lips once more to the spot where the dagger had drawn blood, then withdrew and came down from my tiptoes.

A lightning storm raged in his eyes, almost concealed by his half-closed lids. Smoke tickled my nose, and I turned my head to the side, raised my brows at the sight of his hand against the wall. The surrounding area was blackened, tentacles of soot spearing out from his palm and fingers.

I turned back to him, softly sucked in air. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

It hurt to look at him for long, the ethereal cut of his features too intense, too raw and refined at the same time. I focused on his lips, on the perfect curve of his mouth, just full enough to be a sensual promise.

“You may,” I whispered.

He exhaled roughly, cupped my cheek and tilted my head back just so. A brush of his thumb over my lower lip, his breath a hot brand on my skin, and then his mouth moved over mine.

I’d expected a possessive claiming, a harsh explosion of passion in the meeting of lips and tongues and teeth. A growl-turned-kiss.

What I got was a dance of seduction in sinfully light steps, a lure for my senses with touches that teased, dared…coaxed. His lips would graze mine, ever so lightly, barely more than his breath whispering over my mouth, and he’d withdraw as soon as I pushed for more, until I would chase him in his retreat.

It turned my blood to lava.

With a snarl, I grabbed the back of his neck, yanked him closer and claimed his mouth with the unbridled force I wished he would use. He laughed—laughed—into the kiss, lifted me with his hands on my waist and shoved me against the wall.

Yes.

Without missing a beat, I wrapped my legs around his hips, and—good God—the pressure on my core when he pushed forward, pressed his entire body against mine. Diabolically divine.

I trembled, gasped into his mouth as he devoured me lick by torturous, delicious lick, his hands on my thighs, fingers digging into my jeans. I burned, burned, burned.

The astringent aroma of smoke in the air, scratching my lungs.

With a sigh, he broke the kiss, set me down and stepped back. I frowned and wanted to protest—

“Were these,” he said, waving at my jeans, “your favorite pants?”

I glanced down and jerked back. The dark blue fabric sported the smoldering outline of a handprint on the outer side of either thigh. A few blackened threads barely held the material together, with skin peeking through the gaps.

Skin that didn’t show a single burn mark, contrary to my ruined jeans.

I made a sound of dismay and glared at him. “Did you do that on purpose?”

He had the good grace to look sheepish. “I can burn off the rest and turn them into shorts?” he offered.

I raised a brow, poked a finger through the soot-stained holes. “Why didn’t my skin burn?”

“I would guess,” he said, crouching down in front of me, his hands encircling my thighs right over the seared marks, “you’re fireproof.”

Flames ignited from his fingers, closed a ring around my jeans legs until the material below fell down to my ankles, leaving me standing there in short shorts with Azazel’s hands still resting on my now mostly naked thighs.

I inhaled harshly, grabbed his shoulders to balance myself on wobbly legs. I studied the skin where he’d just singed away my jeans, and wouldn’t you know it—not a single burn, the skin not even reddened.

“How?” I pressed out, my chest tight, the skin where he touched me aflame in a completely different way.

“The bond.” His fingers stroked up and down on my thighs, just a few inches below the line where my legs met my hips. Shivers raced up from his touch. He looked up then, and the sight of him crouching before me, molten lightning in his eyes as he caught my gaze, caused my stomach to tighten, my breasts growing heavy. “Some of my powers may have transferred to you.”

It was hard to remember how to form a sentence, what with my blood eagerly pumping in other places than my brain right now. “Will I sprout wings?”

“No. Only full-blood demons have them. You may—” he leaned in and kissed the inside of my thigh, and I all but liquefied “—be somewhat close to a half-blood in powers.”

“Half-blood?” I breathed, my fingers curling into his shoulders.

“The offspring of a demon and a human. They don’t have wings and are weaker than demons, but they have abilities that humans lack.”

It was unfair how articulate he was compared to my whut-R-werds trouble, courtesy of the fact he was a few inches away from burying his face in my crotch. I didn’t have to press my thighs together or wiggle to feel the slick wetness drenching my panties.

He inhaled deeply and his fingers tightened on my legs. Achingly slow, he leaned forward again and placed another kiss on my other thigh, then rose to his feet in a fluid motion. His expression looked almost pained, and I’d lie if I said it wasn’t gratifying to see him affected like that.

His voice was a bit roughened when he spoke. “I’m going to take a shower and change—” he tapped the collar of his shirt where his blood stained the dark gray fabric “—and then I’ll take you to the kennels.” He paused, leaned in and sniffed at my neck. Straightening again, he added, “In fact, you’ll need to wash up too. They won’t be friendly if they smell blood on you.”

He brushed a finger over my collarbone and showed me the tiny red smear on his fingertip. Apparently some of his blood had sprayed me when I accidentally slit his throat.

I grimaced at the reminder, then shook my head to clear it. “Wait—kennels?”

He was already through the door to the next room. “We’re going to visit the hounds.”

“Why?”

I hurried to catch up as he crossed the sitting room and entered his bedroom—where I stopped short at the sight of him shrugging out of his shirt. I’d never get used to that visual. Rippling muscles, corded sinews, strength poured into a frame of pure power. It was enough to render a girl temporarily stunned and frozen.

Or rather, molten on the inside and barely held together by skin that was rapidly catching fire.

I must have uttered a sound of helpless appreciation because Azazel glanced at me as he threw his shirt in a corner, his eyes sparking.

“You’re welcome to join me in the shower,” he said with a purr that echoed the pulsing need between my legs.

I just stared. Words fled me.

His hands went to the fastening of his pants, popped open the top button.

My breath got stuck in my lungs.

The next button gave. The trail of dark hair became more visible. I remembered, all too vividly, that he didn’t wear anything underneath these pants.

Sweat broke out on my skin. I licked my suddenly dry lips.

Another button. More bronzed skin, dusted with black hair.

I grabbed the doorjamb to steady myself. I could have left—my legs would still work well enough to let me wobble out—but I stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away from the provocative display in front of me.

No more buttons left, only the flaps of his pants as he pushed them down…and freed the hard length of his cock.

I made an undignified sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. I’d never found dicks to be especially aesthetically pleasing, but this piece of hardware right there might just change my mind.

More than that, though, the sight of his erection jutting up from the patch of close-cropped black hair caused shivers of primal lust to course through me. Instinctive, reflexive, like the unconscious, uncontrollable response of saliva pooling in your mouth when you saw and smelled your favorite treat, raw craving pulsed low in my core as I stared at his cock, and my inner muscles clenched as if in anticipation.

Azazel stepped out of his pants, but made no move toward me. “Whenever you want to do something about that look on your face,” he said, grasping his length and squeezing hard, “come find me.”

And with that he turned and prowled into the bathroom, giving me a breathtaking view of his taut ass in motion.

I exhaled roughly, my chest heaving, and slid down the doorjamb until my butt hit the floor. The movement made the firm material of my jeans press against my swollen, throbbing, intimate flesh, and I gasped at the tingles of need shooting outward from that oversensitive spot.

The sound of running water came from behind the closed door to the bathroom.

Rubbing my face with both hands, I tried to sort my thoughts. Or, you know, have any thoughts at all instead of just primitive urges.

The desire wreaking havoc on my system and insistently pulsing in my clit demanded relief, and it would be oh-so-easy to get up and walk through that door and let that hunk of demon take care of my need.

But I also knew that if I did join him, I’d have him inside me in a matter of minutes. I pursed my lips and squinted. Okay, more like seconds.

And as much as I was thirsting right now, I wasn’t sure I was ready. There was that pertinacious part of my mind reminding me that only a few hours ago, I’d been ready to strangle the fuck out of him…because he’d consistently treated me as negligible.

But now he’d apparently changed his mind, and I didn’t quite know what to do with his sudden attention. What to think of his overt interest, how to handle that much…Azazel.

Not to mention that crossing this line with him had quite a few implications. This wasn’t the same as scratching an itch with a guy I’d swiped right on and could walk away from the next morning. Things could get really, really messy here.

All this, and more, kept me sitting on the floor with unfulfilled need and the desperate wish to be able to summon objects like my confounding demon husband could. I’d have had my trusted electric friend in hand minutes ago and taken the edge off in no time.

I startled at the sound of the door opening. Azazel strolled out of the bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel, steam fogging the air behind him. He was still gloriously, temptingly naked, and I averted my eyes as I scrambled to a stand, lest the sinfully seductive visual test my resolve.

I made to hurry past him when he blocked my path with one arm against the doorway to the bathroom. My breath came out as half wheeze, half choked-off groan. His body heat hummed against my skin even with a few inches separating us.

“I think you might need this,” he said silkily, and pressed something in my hand.

I recognized it before glancing down—I’d held this many a time, after all, my palm and fingers intimately familiar with its shape and size.

“Just how far,” I managed to get out, “does the range of my ‘stray thoughts’ go?”

“A few feet. Not far enough for me to pick them up from the bathroom.” Leaning down, he brushed his lips over my ear and muttered, “But I’m quite pleased I guessed right.”

He removed his arm blockade and walked past me. Face aflame, I fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My hand tightened around the vibrator.

Welp, I wasn’t one to waste an opportunity.

That thing was waterproof for a reason.