Wicked Nights

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ZACHAREL CONSIDERED HIS options. Demons had found Annabelle in the clouds. They’d found her in the cave. Clearly, keeping her underground wasn’t the answer any more than keeping her in the heavens had been. So that left…what?

Knocking her out? No one had attacked her while she had slept. Or…wait. “How long were you in the institution before the demons found you?”

“A month, maybe.”

A month. Her scent and allure must have been masked by the people surrounding her. People, then. People were not a threat but a key.

With that in mind, he flew her to a busy hotel for humans on the outskirts of New Zealand. Obtaining a room wasn’t difficult. He simply misted her through the walls until spying what he wanted: an unoccupied space, with guests on either side, above and below.

“Shower. Warm up,” he told her, then left to procure food and clothing. More than the impromptu bath, she’d had to deal with his declining temperature.

In the hotel’s kitchen he acquired chicken and rice for her and fruit for himself, and snagged a clean uniform from the stack in back, being sure to leave enough money behind to more than cover the cost of both the food, the clothing and the room itself.

He left the uniform in the bathroom, not liking how harsh it felt against his skin. She would be scratched, and the thought did not settle well. He wished he had another robe tucked away, but he had left the extra one in the cave with her purchases. He could have flown to another location, found her something softer, but he could not bring himself to leave the hotel to acquire something better.

When she emerged on a thick cloud of steam, he saw that the clothing was too short for her. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and to be honest, she looked adorable.

Without a word she placed a dagger under a pillow on the bed and one on the nightstand.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starved.”

They ate in silence, her clean, soapy scent a live wire that connected them. Her hair was wet and slicked back into a tight ponytail, the strands like glistening ebony silk. The style left her face bare, nothing hiding those uptilted, crystalline eyes, those sharp, rose-tinted cheeks or those heart-shaped lips. Actually, adorable was not the right word. She was beauty personified.

What would she look like spread over the bed, her hair a spill of velvet, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks flushed with passion and her lips parted as she breathed him in?

“Thanks for the food,” Annabelle said, at last cutting through the quiet. Her voice held traces of exhaustion, elation and…something else, something he couldn’t identify.

“You are welcome.”

Her gaze met his, steady but glassy. “So what now?”

“Now you relax. Too long has passed since you’ve rested.”

“I managed to sleep a little in Koldo’s cave, as well as during the flight here, and really, I’m not tired.” The claim was disproved by her ensuing yawn. “Okay, so maybe I am. My mind’s too active for any kind of rest, though.”

Understandable. Or…on closer inspection, he could see the shadows blooming under her eyes. It wouldn’t take much to quiet her mind, but perhaps she had no wish for it to be quieted. After such a trying day, nightmares were sure to plague her. He wondered if he would be the star of them.

“What do you usually do to help you relax?”

“I wish I knew. In the institution, I was given drugs.”

And then forced to do whatever her doctors had wished. He could tolerate that knowledge less and less. “Climb into the bed and find something to watch. Distract yourself.” That’s what he’d seen many humans do throughout the years.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Keeping an eye on him, she clambered onto the bed and switched on the TV, frowning, flipping channels. Eventually she gave up and pressed Off, then tossed the remote aside. “What will you do? Because I’m guessing you have something to do, or you wouldn’t be pushing me to distract myself.”

He must remain on alert, guard her…think. “I will be composing instructions for my army.” Yes, that, too.

“You don’t require any sleep?” She snuggled into the covers, fluffed the pillows and peered over at him, the suspicion draining from her. Had she expected him to pounce on her?

“Some,” he said, “but not much.”

“Lucky. I despise the fact that I need to sleep.”

Because she was made vulnerable. “I have told you that you have nothing to fear with me. You know I do not lie.”

A beat of silence. A sigh. “I know.”

“Do you?” he asked, peering at her intently. He now had an idea of what she would look like in bed, underneath him—and it was almost more than he could bear.

He stalked to the desk, blocking her from his peripheral vision, and sat down. The chair proved to be a mistake, the high back smashing his wings…that were no longer snowing, he realized. Why?

“I do,” she finally said. “Really.”

He could still see her out of the corner of his eye. Soft, warm, inviting. “Good.” Up he stood and stalked to the room’s only window, gazing through the gap in the curtains.

The setting sun cast pink, purple and blue rays over the horizon. Below that, he saw arcing trees, lush, green grass and a colorful spread of flowers. He’d been here once before. Had thought to fly past, but had stopped to watch the wedding taking place in the gardens.

Two people, pledging to love each other for the rest of their lives, in sickness and in health. Had Annabelle ever dreamed of doing so? With her high school boyfriend, perhaps? Zacharel pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“So…you lead an entire army of angels,” she said through another yawn.

“Yes. There are three factions of the Deity’s angels. The Elite Seven, who were created rather than born, the warriors and the joy-bringers.”

“You’re a warrior.”

“Yes, but as I told you, I believe I am evolving into one of the Elite.” He wondered if the metamorphosis would stop if he failed to continue to please his Deity.

Yes. Yes, it probably would. Most likely, he would not be given the title of Elite until the end of his year of service—if he survived.

Annabelle’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “How can you be given such a title if you were born?”

“One of the Seven was recently killed, and someone must take his place, whether born or created.” Once Zacharel had considered himself a wise choice. Now? Not so much.

“So you guys, what?” Annabelle asked. “Get together and march into battle, slaying demons?”

“Basically, yes. I receive my orders from the Deity, summon my army, and the soldiers come to my cloud. I relay the orders to them, and off we fly.”

“But you’re not the only army who does this, right?”

“Right. There are many angelic armies under the Deity’s command. Most guard and patrol a certain city, and are sent into a full-fledged battle twice a month. Mine has not been assigned to a particular location, but travels the world. We aid humans, fight demon hordes, and anything else we are told.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he and his soldiers were given their next mission. The thought of leaving Annabelle alone hollowed him out. Not that she would be helpless. The ferocious way she fought had astonished—and impressed—him.

“During the interim,” he added, “we are to heal if need be, to train, to hunt individual demons or, if necessary, to aid other armies who request backup.”

“Why are you and your men given more tasks than the other armies? Because you guys are stronger and more likely to win?”

Or because they had less to lose, he mused. “You would have to ask my Deity. He has not yet revealed the answer to me.”

She released her hair from the ponytail, and combed her fingers through the strands. He shouldn’t have noticed, but he’d angled his body toward her, seeking her unbidden. “Maybe I will,” she said. “So how do you find the demons you hunt individually?”

“We can follow their trails of evil and destruction, but most times, as with you, our Deity points us in the right direction.”

“Why didn’t he send an army to the institution sooner?”

“He did. Many times. But soon after the demons were slain, others found you.”

“Wow. I was being helped all along and had no idea. I’d always assumed I was on my own, that I could count on no one but myself.”

“The Most High, and thereby the Deity, always desires to help you humans.”

“I love knowing that. It’s comforting. But you know, even though others were sent, you were the first angel to ever visit me.”

And he would never be gladder for anything. He hoped she was, too.

The covers rustled as she rolled to her side, and oh, sweet heaven, he would have given anything to join her. “Several times, the word consort has been mentioned but no one has told me exactly what that means. I can guess, but since you’re being so accommodating and informative, and since you owe me big-time, will you finally spell things out for me? Please.”

He turned to her fully. Her hands rested under her cheek and the length of her hair draped over her arm. His desire for her thickened.

No, he could not bear this.

You will act the gentleman. “You are not above manipulation, I see.”

“Not even a little.”

He cut off his smile before it could form.

“A girl’s gotta use whatever weapons she can.”

And he would enjoy the use of those weapons, he thought. “Being a consort is the equivalent of wearing a ring when you marry another human. It means you belong to your partner…that you carry his name.”

She bolted to a sitting position. Those eyes of ice darkened for the first time, fury a starburst of color. “I belong to no one!”

“Not ever?”

“Not ever.”

All amusement lost, he popped his jaw. “Understand something, Annabelle. While we have our…agreement, you do, in fact, belong to me. You will not be with another man. I will not share.” He waited, but she offered no response. “I will now hear you concur.”

She leaned back, propping her weight on her elbows to have a better shot of him. “I’m too busy reeling.”

If she willingly gave herself to another man… No. She wouldn’t. She was to be his, and only his. End of story.

“I’ll pretend like you aren’t a caveman,” she said. “And I’ll promise not to be with another man…as long as you’ll promise not to be with another woman.”

That she demanded his fidelity after everything that had happened delighted him. “So promised. And that is one of the reasons we must find and kill this high lord who thinks to claim you.” He will not have what is mine.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but I will just as soon as I find out who he is.”

“You will. We will.”

He liked her faith in him. “I’m curious as to why he deserted you after marking you.” Zacharel would not have done so. Could not fathom anyone wanting to do so. “Can you remember anything else about him? Something you have yet to tell me?”

She fell back against the pillows, her eyes squeezed closed as though to block images inside her mind. “I’ve told you everything. He came, he conquered, he vanished.”

“And he didn’t try to take you with him?”

“No.”

“Astounding.” Zacharel’s gaze slipped over her, trying to see past the covers to the succulent curves that rested underneath. Do not go there. She is tired, stressed, and it is far too soon.

He hopped to his feet and stalked to the bathroom. There, he drew a hot bath, making sure to pour some of the hotel’s bath soap into the water. Wildflower-scented steam soon curled through the air. She’d already taken a shower, but humans enjoyed baths for more than cleaning themselves, yes? He placed a towel next to the tub and nodded, satisfied everything was in order.

In the room, he was careful not to look too closely at Annabelle. He would mentally strip her, would imagine her luxuriating inside the bath, and then he would pounce, giving life to her earlier worry.

“The bath is ready for you.”

Covers rustled. “For me?”

“Of course. I certainly do not want to smell like flowers.”

“My skin is probably going to peel off me after all this water, but a bath is simply irresistible considering I haven’t had one in four years!” She was on her feet and racing past him in a snap. The door closed and locked behind her. He remained where he was, torturing himself as sounds of falling clothing, splashing water and moans of pleasure blended.

If he’d wanted her before, he really wanted her now. He wanted her naked and wet and pliant and eager. How long before her desire for him returned? How long before she trusted him again? Oh, she trusted him on some level, or she wouldn’t be here with him. But sex, as he was learning, required more.

When at last she emerged, she was more delectably fragrant than before and dressed in the uniform.

“Thank you so much,” she breathed, flinging herself back on the bed. She twisted around to face him, her skin dewy and flushed, alive with health. The otherworldly blue of her eyes glistened like melting ice in the summer sun, an image made all the stronger because of her new morning-meadow scent. “I had no idea how much I needed that.”

Beneath the hunger for her was a satisfaction that his actions had brought her to this point: relaxed, refreshed and delighted.

“Have you been standing there the whole time?” she asked.

A stiff nod.

“But I was in there for over an hour.”

He knew. He’d done nothing but count the seconds. There were three thousand, six hundred seconds in an hour, and she’d spent three thousand, seven hundred and four seconds in there.

She paused, nibbling on her bottom lip as he’d noticed she was prone to do. It was an action that betrayed a sense of nervousness. He couldn’t help but stare. He wanted his own lips on her, soothing whatever wounds she caused.

“Are you thinking about kissing me?” she asked.

“I am, yes,” he said.

She gulped. “I can’t believe I’m even contemplating this, after I told myself—and you!—that I never would. But you’re being such a sweetheart that I can’t seem to help myself.”

Every muscle in his body tensed. “You mean…?”

“Yeah. I mean. I have a question for you first.”

“Ask.” Anything.

“Will you let me…well, tie you up?”

His blood, already heating, went molten. “If you wish, but you should know that no chains can hold me. I would be bound simply to ease your mind.”

“Well, it’s not really easing to know you could bust free!” A moment later, her shoulders slumped against the mound of pillows. “I wouldn’t be able to do it, anyway.”

He barely managed to cut off his roar of denial. “Kiss me?”

“No, bind you.”

“Because you hated being bound yourself.” A statement, not a question. He was learning her.

“Exactly.” There was an eternity of silence before she gave a soft sigh. “But okay, all right. We can try the kissing thing again. But I’m in charge,” she rushed out. “You have to do what I tell you, when I tell you.”

Elation sprang through the fissure still growing in his chest, followed quickly by determination. He would get this right. He had to get this right. She wouldn’t give him another chance. “I will not disappoint you.”

A tremor moved through her.

A tremor of apprehension? Though every cell he possessed screamed to close the distance between them, he rocked back on his heels, staying in place, giving her time to come to grips with what would soon happen. “What convinced you?”

Her gaze lowered and she whispered, “The bath. I was reclining in the tub, loving the warmth of the water, but all I could think about was the fact that I was alone. I imagined what it would be like if you were in there with me, washing my hair, rubbing my shoulders. Just…I don’t know, holding me close.”

The fantasy was admitted with so much longing he could restrain himself no longer.

Zacharel approached the bed. She watched him, licked her lips, flattened her hands on the bed, then on her stomach, then on the bed again, as if she couldn’t decide which was best. He placed one knee on the mattress, leaned forward. Her breathing quickened. Slow and easy. He crawled over her, gently clasped her by the waist and rolled them both, flaring his wings as he placed her on top of him. She gasped at the swiftness of his motions, but she didn’t bolt away. However, she did sit up, refusing to recline against him.

He lay there, waiting, thinking she would relax. Her eyes were closed, the long length of her lashes casting spiky shadows over her cheeks. With every second that passed, however, she tensed a little more.

“Annabelle.”

“Yes.”

“Look at me,” he said.

Those lids squeezed tight. “No.”

“Annabelle. Please.”

“Now you say please?”

“Annabelle.”

“My eyes,” she whispered. “You hate the taint of them.”

He belonged in the depths of hell for saying such a thing. “They are lovely.”

“But you said—”

“A mistake. Difficult as it is to imagine, I make them, too.”

“All right.” A pause, then her lids parted, and those beautiful blues were peering at him.

“Thank you.”

At last she settled against him, and he felt her mouth curl into a grin. “Welcome.”

“I’m going to put my arms around you,” he said. When she offered no protest, he fit action to word.

A delicate sigh left her. “So…what are we doing?”

“Taking a moment to enjoy each other.” He traced his fingers along the ridges of her spine. “At least, I am. Are you?”

“Yes. I— Your heart is pounding,” she said, sounding surprised. Her ear rested directly over the pounding beat.

“Only you have that effect on me.”

“Well, we’re even, then.”

Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Every new second was a rapturous torture. He breathed her in, happily drowning in her heat, and he vowed to stay like this all night if that was what she preferred—but to his delight she began to move against him, urging him to do…something. The tips of her fingers traced the ridge of his navel.

“Zacharel?”

He released her to reach up and grab the headboard. “I will not let go.” Not this time, no matter how badly he wanted to touch her. “You will control everything, just as you wished.”

Still she hesitated.

“I mean it. Even if I break the bed apart, I will not let go of this railing. Not until you tell me otherwise.”

“You are so on your A game right now.” She lifted to her knees, straddled his waist and settled against him. The exquisite pleasure-pain of the sensation had him sucking in a breath.

If only he could will his robe away…

Down, down she leaned.

“Kiss,” she said. Her mouth claimed his, her tongue sliding past his teeth to duel with his tongue. And oh, the sweetness of her taste intoxicated him far more than anything else.

For a long while, she alternated between kissing him and pausing to look at him, as if judging his control. Whatever she saw in his expression always managed to reassure her, because she would dive back in for another helping.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to hide the force of his arousal from her. He felt like a rubber band pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment. What could he do to propel her to that point? Move against her, as she had moved against him?

He shifted slightly, brushing against her—but that wasn’t nearly enough, and merely fueled his desire all the more. But…a groan escaped her, and then, oh, finally, blessedly then, she stopped taking time to look at him, stopped searching his face, and gave him a kiss that seared his soul, her mind seemingly as lost as his was.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, angling his head for deeper, better contact. On and on this new, hotter kiss continued, until they were biting at each other, moaning and groaning and saying incoherent things. He wanted more, so much more, and his muscles bunched and knotted from the strain of holding back.

Then she began to rock against him, her entire body rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against his. He was desperate to get closer to her, as close as a man could be with a woman. Wanted it, needed it so badly.

“Zacharel, I want… I need…”

Exactly want he wanted and needed, he prayed. “Anything. Name it, and I will give it to you.”

“Roll to your side.”

He obeyed in an instant, so that they were face-to-face, body-to-body. His every exhalation blended with her every inhalation, mixing their breath, making them one, even in so small a way.

“Your hands…on me,” she commanded. “But only if you want to. I mean, we can stop if you’d—”

“No stopping,” he rushed out, then forced himself to say more slowly, “I want. I do. More than anything. But I’m not in a hurry.” On some level—probably. “I’ll go nice and easy.” He would force himself.

“Okay, yes. Please. Slow.”

He released only one hand from captivity to lift the hem of her shirt. Her skin was a mesmerizing bronze, and his a lighter gold; it was such a delicious contrast, inflaming the spark of his desire to yet another feverish degree.

“You are so beautiful, Annabelle.”

“Really?”

Yes, oh, yes. “Your mind…”

“Is on you, only you. Or were you trying to tell me how beautiful my mind is?” she asked with a little giggle.

A pleasant blend of relief and satisfaction soared through him. He had made her laugh, in bed. “What do you want me to do?”

“What are you wanting to do?” she breathed.

Strip himself, strip her, touch, taste, consume, learn, know, nothing held back—things she wasn’t ready for. Steady.

“I will put my hands on you, as you demanded.” He cupped her breast, paused, waiting for her reaction. She moaned at the pleasure, thrilling him. His hand began to burn, burn so deliciously, hotter than the rest of him as he kneaded her.

Another moan left her.

Yessss. More.

“Your skin is like fire,” she said on a moan.

“Bad?”

“Wonderful.”

He tightened his grip on her breast, allowed his fingers to trace over the little pink bead in the center again and again.

Until she gasped out, “Zacherel, I can handle the next step. Promise.”

Taking her at her word, he bent his head, lower, lower still, but when his lips hovered directly over her, he paused, again waiting. Though she panted and mewled, she never turned from him, or tried to shove him away.

Steady. His tongue flicked out on an exploratory mission. Such sweet, sweet contact nearly undid him. Having the warmth of her skin on his tongue…the taste of her in his mouth…was there anything greater?

“I’m here with you,” she promised.

He allowed his tongue to play, tracing from one side of her to the other and then back again. Something he learned in the ensuing minutes: the more he played with her, the more broken entreaties he earned from her. Each one pleased him, driving his own need higher still. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

Very carefully, he dragged his hands along the plane of her stomach and untied her pants. Her cries of approval did not cease, so he allowed his fingers to tunnel down…down… She wasn’t wearing any panties.

“Wait,” she said brokenly, her legs squeezing together.

He froze.

Cheeks rosy, she asked, “Are you… Do you know…what to expect?”

She wasn’t expressing concern for what was happening, but concern for his mindset. “I do.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Sweetheart, I am more than okay with that.”

A pause. “You called me sweetheart,” she whispered. Gradually her legs parted. “I like that.”

Then I will do it again. He continued his journey and oh, she was perfect. So utterly perfect. She had liked his kisses and caresses—and she liked what he was doing now, if the short puffs of her breath were any indication.

For a long while he simply learned her, and her reactions taught him what she liked best. He loved when she strained against him, loved when she mumbled inarticulately. Loved knowing he was causing such a strong reaction in her.

“You are the most decadent creature ever created, sweetheart,” he said. He withdrew his hands from her, hands that were still burning in a way he’d never experienced, and she cried out in distress. “I’m here,” he assured her, “and I’m not going anywhere. I just want to lift you, just want to be able to go deeper.”

He placed a pillow under her hips and returned to what he’d been doing. Soon she was gasping, rolling her hips toward him, touching him as intimately as he was touching her…driving him wild…making him hunger for what he didn’t understand….

…hunger so desperately…

He was in pain, but he couldn’t stop this. Need more, have to have more.

The same fog he’d experienced before was trying to roll in, to consume him, but he resisted. Yes, his blood had heated, becoming fire, singeing him all the way to the bone. Yes, his teeth were gnashed together and his muscles knotted more painfully than ever. But he was master of his body, not desire. He would make this special for Annabelle. He would not ruin it.

At least, that’s what he told himself—before she lifted his robe and took his length in hand and he nearly jolted off the bed. She stroked him up and down. He loved it. He hated it. He needed more, more, more, but couldn’t withstand any more. Would die, surely.

The faster she moved her hand on him, the faster he moved his fingers in her. It was…it was…

Happening. Something was happening to him.

As she cried out, arching her body against him, utter pleasure overshadowed every bit of his pain, starting in the middle of his spine and arrowing up and down, affecting every inch of him. His hips bowed toward her, and his own hoarse cry filled the room.

All he could do was hold on to Annabelle, pray she never let go of him and die a thousand little deaths, each one making him rise up again, a different man, someone stronger and better, weaker and worse. Because in those moments of absolute, utter vulnerability, where nothing seemed to matter but the female who had given him such divine bliss, he realized he was already addicted to what she made him feel.

Give her up?

No. Never.