Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark) Page 18

  Except the new position was no longer the blessing he’d thought.

  “Annabelle.” He hurt and needed some kind of relief.

  “Zacharel.”

  Hearing his name on her lips, uttered so breathlessly, filled him with a sense of possession. Mine. “Do…more,” he pleaded.

  “Okay. All right. Yes.”

  But she didn’t, and he had to flatten his hands on her hips to stop himself from trying to caress her everywhere all at once.

  “What kind of more do you want?” she whispered.

  “Whatever you will give.”

  “I don’t…maybe…rock into me.”

  Rock into…yes. As they kissed and kissed and kissed, he arched against her. Forward, back, seeking, retreating. Every point of contact wrung a groan from her and a growl from him. The pleasure blurred with pain, as unbearable as it was necessary.

  How had he gone without this for so long? How had he resisted this? No wonder so many humans were willing to war with their brethren, just to have or even save the one they lusted after. This sense of connection…Zacharel had never before experienced its like. He wasn’t just Zacharel, he was Annabelle’s man and glad for it.

  “Zacharel?”

  Her breasts smashed against his chest, causing a brand-new ache. He had to feel her against him, skin to skin, no barriers. He released her long enough to rip his robe down the middle and jerk his arms free of the fabric, allowing what was left to mend itself and tighten around his waist. Next he ripped the cotton of Annabelle’s top, causing it to gape open and her to inhale sharply.

  He had ripped her bra, too, and she was beautiful. Oh, was she beautiful. He was shaking as he cupped her breasts, marveling that they could be so heavy and yet so soft. Must…taste…

  “Wait,” he thought he heard her say.

  No. No waiting. He would have her now.

  His mind fogged with more of the glorious pleasure as he dipped down and kissed one side of her, then the other. Annabelle arched her back, moving away from him, but he didn’t like that, so he freed one of his hands to shackle her in place.

  “Zacharel!”

  “Annabelle.” The fog in his mind thickened, and he failed to register the dainty hands now pushing at his shoulders, trying to dislodge him. Why had he denied himself this type of contact for so long? he wondered again. And how had he once convinced himself a single taste of this woman would be enough? He would have this, have Annabelle, at least once a day, he decided, until he’d tired of the act.

  He might never tire of this.

  Something sharp scraped down his cheek, once, twice, drawing blood. He released Annabelle to swat that something away, whatever it was. Can’t let it hurt her. The moment he did, she bolted backward, tumbling from his lap. When she hopped to her feet, he jumped to his. His robe remained girded around his waist as he reached for her. But…just before contact, she punched him in the nose with so much force the cartilage snapped. Blood poured down his face.

  He frowned, still reaching for her. Exquisite. “Annabelle. Kiss.”

  “Kiss this, you mangy rat!” She kneed him between the legs with so much force he would probably need his testicles surgically removed from his abdomen.

  Pain zoomed through him, breath left him and he hunched over. The fog in his mind cleared at last, and he looked up, confused by her violence. That’s when she double tapped his cheek, and his knees gave out. He fell to the floor, bright stars winking through his line of sight…but not enough to block her fear-glassed eyes or the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

  “Annabelle,” he said, holding out his arms to prove he meant her no harm.

  “No!” Mistakenly thinking he’d been trying to grab her, she went low and—actually stabbed him in the side. She had changed her clothes, but had not given up the weapons strapped to her thighs. He should have known.

  “Don’t ever touch me again,” she spat.

  He grunted, knowing she’d nicked his kidney.

  She straightened, dropped the bloody knife as if it burned her. With one white-knuckled fist, she held the sides of her shirt together. With the other, she frantically rubbed the spot just above her heart. Trembling, she backed away from him. “Did you hear me? Never again!”

  He had done this to her, he realized. He had reduced her to this.

  Shame filled him as he stood. The cut in his side throbbed, but he paid it no heed. It would soon heal.

  “Annabelle.”

  Her footsteps quickened, and she didn’t stop her backward progress until reaching the far cavern wall. But even that wasn’t enough for her. She extended an arm to ward him off.

  “D-don’t come any closer!” Panic coated her voice, the edges sharp enough to slice through bone. A moment later, she doubled over, a cry of pain springing from her.

  Concerned, Zacharel raced toward her. She sensed him, straightened and scooted to the right, avoiding contact.

  “Stop! I mean it.” She swept her gaze over him, probably searching for the most vulnerable spot to punch him, and gasped. “You really do have a black heart.”

  He stopped as ordered, looked himself over. His chest was bare, the smudge of black just over his heart visible and larger, so much larger, now hemorrhaging into his collarbone and torso.

  More of his spirit had died.

  No wonder Annabelle wanted out of your embrace.

  From the moment he’d realized what the smudge meant, that he finally lived with a ticking clock, that he was dying, bit by bit, he’d been okay with the end result, had even seen it as an insurance policy—but he wasn’t okay with it now. If the impossible happened and he passed on before Annabelle, she would have no one to oversee her protection.

  Hurriedly he righted his robe, the material weaving itself back together to shield his self-inflicted flaw. He held up his hands, palms out, a stance he prayed reassured Annabelle that he currently lacked menace. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. That was not my intention.” Step by measured step, he approached her.

  She shook her head viciously, hair he’d fisted only moments ago now hanging in tangles. All the while, she continued to rub at her chest. “I told you not to come any closer. Stay back!”

  Just then, he would have done anything she asked—except that. If he retreated, she would never again trust him and on some deep level he did not understand, he needed her to trust him. She would build walls between them, walls he could never hope to breach, for they would be fortified by this terror and an ever-growing sense of fury. He discerned this on that same deep level, where instinct swirled with his primal need to protect her. He quickened his step, unwilling to prolong this a minute more.

  The moment he reached her, she erupted, fighting him with every bit of her strength. At least she opted not to use her other blades.

  Took him longer than he would have guessed, but he finally managed to capture her hands and spin her around, and though he despised the need for his next actions, he removed her torn shirt. He pinned her wrists above her with one hand and reached into an air pocket to claim the shirt he’d saved for her. The one he’d removed from its bag because it had been his favorite, a sparkling blue the same shade as her eyes.

  Screaming, she bucked against him and cried, tears splashing as she shook her head. He worked the material over her head, through her arms.

  All the while, he whispered into Annabelle’s ear. “I will not hurt you. You are safe with me. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  She was too entrenched in her terror to hear him.

  He would not be able to reach her this way, either, he realized. Not knowing what else to do, Zacharel flared his wings and flew her to the mouth of the cavern. Twice he nearly dropped her, so wild was her flailing, but in the end he was able to set her feet on the floor. The second he released her, she bolted into motion, sprinting through the tunnel, away from him.

  Only when he rendered himself invisible did he follow after her, flying just overhead. Constantly she threw panicked glances ove
r her shoulder, searching for him. Though she never spotted him, never sensed him, she never slowed. She ran and ran and ran, wheezing and crying. When she caught sight of the bright rays of sunlight pushing through the cave entrance, she increased her speed.

  She burst into the daylight, tripped over a large rock. A mewl of pain escaped her, but she righted herself and kept going. He caught the scent of her blood and knew she’d skinned her knees.

  Squawking birds took flight as she ran, and forest animals skittered away. She splashed through a puddle, then tripped again, over a tree root this time. Her palms took the brunt of the fall, abrading her flesh, and her ankle twisted, but not even that slowed her. Branches slapped at her, cutting her cheeks. Leaves stuck in her hair.

  Soon she would tire. He would let her race wherever she desired until then. When she had nothing left, he would swoop in. She would have to pay attention to him as he did everything in his power to convince her of his remorse, to reassure her that nothing like this would ever happen again.

  Though he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done wrong. She had enjoyed his kisses and his touch. Yes?

  “Just like them,” she sobbed, rubbing, rubbing, still rubbing at her chest. “Why’d he have to be just like them? I told him to slow down, but he wouldn’t and now I… Now I…”

  With her words, understanding dawned. After everything she had endured in the institution, he had pushed her for too much, too fast. He had destroyed her clothing, as the ones who had forced her had probably done. He had not heeded her protests, but had tried to take what he desired.

  She was right—he was just like them. Was there a way to fix this? A way to convince her that he wasn’t the monster she now considered him? In the past, when someone wronged him to such a degree, Zacharel had never been the type to forgive and forget.

  She is not like you. She is softer, better.

  And wasn’t that ironic? He was the angel, she the human, and yet he was the one in need of pardon.

  A cackle of evil laughter sounded up ahead, snaring his interest. Dread and anger consumed him in a single heartbeat. Zacharel quickened his speed, moving in front of Annabelle. She had been found. But where were—then he spotted them. A horde of demons waited up ahead in trees, behind trunks and atop boulders, laughing gleefully and clearly intending to ambush her.

  That quickly, they’d found her, and Zacharel would have to deal with them—but now Annabelle wouldn’t trust him any more than she would trust the demons. She might even fight him as he fought them.

  If he got her out of this alive, it would be a miracle.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” Thane had only just flown himself into Koldo’s underground home in Half Moon Bay when he spied the warrior laid out on the bed, his head shaved and his back slashed to ribbons.

  Eyelashes crusted together with specks of blood broke apart, and dark, glassy eyes struggled to focus on him. “Water of Life” was the grumbled response.

  Should have guessed. Only once had Thane beseeched the Heavenly High Council for permission to approach the river. They had demanded he first live as a mortal, among the humans, for a month. He hadn’t needed to consider his answer. He had refused, and so his request had been denied. To be mortal was to be helpless, and nothing was worth that.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, saying, “They took your hair.” An obvious statement, but his shock was unparalleled.

  “Yes.”

  “And you let them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Koldo closed his eyes. “Why are you here, warrior?”

  Thane wasn’t surprised by the evasion. Koldo wasn’t one to share his problems. None of them were. But he was surprised by the ease with which Koldo was speaking to him. Normally he couldn’t get more than a brusque “yes” or “no” from the angel. “Zacharel commanded me to come.”

  “You just missed him. He was here with the girl.”

  Another surprising fact. Zacharel was willingly carting a human female around the world. Thane could only wonder what would happen next. “They were well?”

  “Yes,” Koldo said again, though this time he hesitated over the word. “He wanted her with him, within his sight. He did not like the fact that I had touched her, even innocently.”

  Such a long string of words. The pain must have abolished his inhibitions.

  But that couldn’t overshadow what he’d said. Zacharel was possessive and jealous, when he’d never displayed the slightest emotion before.

  What other human emotions would their leader unleash? Especially when he lost the girl. And he would lose her. Mortals were delicate, easily crushed; angels were not.

  “Where are your boys?” Koldo asked. “They’re usually not far behind you.”

  “Bjorn is hunting Jamila. She left Zacharel’s cloud a few nights ago and hasn’t been seen since. Xerxes is examining the remains of a demon horde found under that very cloud.”

  “And you are hunting Zacharel to heed his command.”

  “Not exactly.” He had spoken inside Zacharel’s mind, as Zacharel had spoken inside his. He could do so again, could ask where Zacharel was and if he was okay or needed help, but he wouldn’t. That kind of connection to anyone but Bjorn and Xerxes disturbed him as he suspected it disturbed Zacharel. “Did he say where he was going? Or what his plans were?”

  “If he did, I was too busy being unconscious to notice.”

  Thane couldn’t help himself; he grinned. Humor, from the ever-serious Koldo was as baffling as Zacharel’s new obsession with the girl. And it moved Thane to do something he knew he shouldn’t.

  He strode to the kitchen and placed on the counter all the items necessary for making a sandwich. He should be tracking another demon to torture. Unfortunately, the one he’d captured had not given any details, no matter what he’d done, had just stoically borne the pain. He should be alerting the other members of the army to these new developments. But he wanted to ease Koldo somehow, someway.

  “You can’t feed me,” Koldo said from the bed.

  No, he couldn’t, as much as he wished otherwise. Anyone who did would be forced to bear the very pain they’d hoped to assuage—for the rest of eternity. “I’m hungry and in need of a snack. If you want what I leave behind, that’s up to you.” As he was learning, there was always a way around a rule.

  Thane bit into the turkey-and-cheese as he strode back to the bed. He took another bite, and then another, before placing what was left of the sandwich on the nightstand. Then he returned to the kitchen and filled a glass with orange juice. He drained half the contents before the glass, too, found a new home on the nightstand.

  Koldo studied the food for a long, silent moment before shifting his gaze to Thane. “I will tell you why I wanted the Water if you swear never to breathe a word of what you hear.”

  Vows were sacred among their kind. Thane often felt as if he were a man lacking any sort of honor, that there was nothing he wouldn’t do, no line he wouldn’t cross, but that wasn’t exactly true. He never broke his vows, and he never would. “I so swear.”

  A beat of stilted silence, then, “Zacharel was dying. The girl swore to keep him out of the heavens for one month if I healed him. I knew the Water was the only thing that would save him, and so I procured it for him.”

  He absorbed the warrior’s words, trying to reason things out, failing. “Why a month?”

  “I needed time to heal. Time to search…to act.”

  The potency of the warrior’s relish left no doubt that the “act,” whatever it was, would involve bloodshed. “Tell me.”

  “Your oath of secrecy extends to this?”

  Meaning, he would not mention this discussion even to Bjorn or Xerxes. “It does.”

  Koldo gave the slightest of nods. “Everyone thinks a demon removed my wings all those years ago, and I allow them to think this because I do not want to answer any questions about the truth.”

  “But the truth is
…what?” Thane asked, knowing Koldo would answer him. Not because he had given his vow of silence, but because the truth was a poison inside of him, a poison he was desperate to expunge.

  “An angel took my wings, and I plan to kill her.”

  Thane had questioned why the stoic Koldo, the unflappable, unbendable warrior anyone and everyone could rely on, had been assigned to this last-chance army. He’d heard rumors about a supposed beating Koldo had rendered, but he’d never seen the male worked into any kind of temper. Now he fit a few puzzle pieces together. Whether the beating had happened or not, Koldo was a part of Zacharel’s army because of the vengeful purpose in his heart.