Wicked Nights

No, he decided. Because Zacharel would have given her up. Planned to do so now, in fact, after his obligation was fulfilled.

Very carefully Zacharel set the urn on his nightstand and stood. He could have hidden the thing in a pocket of air, dragging it with him wherever he went. But other angels would have scented his brother and asked questions he had no wish to answer. Demons would have scented him, as well, and tried to destroy him all over again.

He tugged on a robe before stalking to Annabelle’s door. There he paused, unsure whether or not he should enter. Yesterday he had been angry with himself for agreeing to help her learn to fight demons, and had left her to her own devices.

As promised, he had not locked her in the room. He had expected her to hunt him down, but she had stayed put—and that had made him angrier.

What was she doing to him? Usually he was a man without a temper. For centuries he had been known for his coldness both inside and out, yet around her he felt as though he were teetering at a very sharp ledge of danger. Even now he was tense, his jaw aching from the constant grinding of his teeth.

All night he’d imagined kissing her. Kissing her deeper, harder, better than the man who had come before him, finally giving into temptation that he kept trying to convince himself wasn’t truly temptation. Why? She wasn’t special. She was a nuisance, a burden, existing for only a brief span of time. There were thousands like her.

Were there really?

Yesterday he’d peered down at those lush pink lips and craved. He’d never before craved. Maybe because he’d had another woman’s taste in his mouth, his interest in the act had been pricked, a desire kindling to compare what was forced with what was given. Maybe not.

The report Thane brought him had made Zacharel want Annabelle a thousand times more. She had endured multiple beatings from humans and demons alike, yet they hadn’t diminished her audacity. She had an older brother who’d written her terribly hurtful letters, lashing out at her for her actions, yet she had responded with only kindness and understanding. Doctors had locked her up, overmedicated her, harmed her irrevocably, but she had fought back with every bit of her strength.

No, there weren’t thousands like her.

He should walk away from her now, before he decided to nix his plan, abandon common sense and keep her—and later lose her. Before he caused collateral damage on purpose, simply to avenge her.

Zacharel had only to stay with her a little while longer. A few weeks, perhaps a few months—no longer than a year—and she would be able to fight the evil that hunted her. He would make sure of it. They could then part, and he would never again have to think about her…though he had no idea where he would take her or how he would absolve himself of her responsibility in the Deity’s eyes, but those were details for another day.

Determined, he entered the room.

She sat at the edge of the bed. When she spotted him, she hopped to her feet, her blue-black ponytail swinging back and forth. “I think it will be best if we end our association now” were the first words out of her mouth.

Then you should have worn something else, he thought, dazed as he drank her in. Gone were the tank and soft, flowing pants. Instead, she wore a black leather bustier that revealed more cleavage than it concealed, and scuffed black leather pants that molded to the lithe strength of her.

Suddenly self-conscious, she shifted from one booted foot to the other. “I asked the cloud for battle-ready clothing, and this is what I got. There are slits all over the pants, for easy access to the weapons, I’m guessing. But the bustier has me stumped. Unless, of course, the cloud thinks my cleavage will stun my opponents into stupidity.” Frowning, she anchored her hands on her hips, shook her head. “My outfit doesn’t matter. Take me back to Colorado.”

“No, it doesn’t matter and no, I won’t. I thought we had come to an arrangement.”

“Yes, but…” Her gaze dropped to her feet, only to snap back up and narrow.

“What?”

“You are beyond frustrating,” she grumbled. “Why can’t you do what I ask you to do without issuing a million questions first?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I don’t— Argh.” She raised a fist at him. “So maybe I do ask a lot of questions. So what. Anyone in my position would do the same. Besides, I’m a girl and that’s my job. You’re a boy. You’re supposed to pound your chest with your fists and grunt, then do everything in your power to please me.”

“Hardly. The man you just described is more likely to knock you over the head with a club and drag you away by the hair.”

With his every word, amusement had grown in that blue, blue gaze.

The show of her temper, and the subsequent humor, delighted him. But only a little, he assured himself, and only because he could not guess what she would do or say next. “How are you feeling?” he asked, studying her once more. She still had bruises under her eyes, her lips were chapped from being chewed and her limbs shook. “You are unwell again?”

“I’m still suffering from withdrawal, that’s all.”

Zacharel recalled the long list of medications she had been prescribed. Such withdrawals would be substantial. He could give her the remaining drop of water from the River of Life, but— His jaw clenched. Considering such an option before, while she’d been bedbound, he could justify. He hadn’t known whether she would live or die and that’s exactly what the water was for. Life and death. It was not for relieving a few aches and pains.

“I’ll be fine,” she added, probably to fill the sudden silence. “Now. Will you please take me back? Without asking me any more questions.”

“I might be beyond frustrating—” in fact, he was pretty sure the name Zacharel meant bastard in several languages “—but you are safer with me than with anyone else.”

“Safer with the guy who threatened to kill me?”

Ah. Now he understood. After a good night’s sleep, her head finally clear, she had recalled what he’d said to her—I could kill you now—and wanted to escape him. “I did not threaten you.” Truth. He had merely stated a fact. He could kill her at any moment.

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. But I tell you now, again, that you are safer with me than with anyone else.” Even if he hurt her, even if he did decide to slay her, she was still safer with him. Everyone else would do far worse.

For once taking him at his word, she drew in a deep breath and nodded. “All right, I’ll stay. For now.”

He felt an odd urge to say thank-you but managed to bite the words back. “You are simply too good to me.”

She crossed her arms over her middle. “Is that sarcasm? I think I detect sarcasm.”

“Are you sure I even know what that word means?”

She tsked under her tongue. “Another question from your end.” Her head tilted to the side and she studied him for the first time since he’d entered, the visual perusal a whispering touch over his entire body. “Your wings…”

“Yes?” He stretched out one, then the other, examining their lengths. Snow still trickled from each, but the glistening crystals were smaller than usual.

“They’re more gold than white. Yesterday the opposite was true.”

She was right. The amount of gold had increased yet again. That could only mean…he was evolving into one of the Elite, whether his Deity had spoken to him about it or not.

But…but…that could only mean his Deity was pleased with him and that Zacharel had been chosen to replace Ivar. There was no other explanation that made sense.

But why?

Because Zacharel had saved a human, despite the risk to himself? Because he had finally taken charge of his army, was finally earning the respect of his men? If so, that would mean his Deity had never wanted him to fail, that the promotion was to be his prize.

“Well?” Annabelle prompted. “And don’t think I was complaining. Your wings are very pretty.”