She collapsed against his chest when he finished, and his arms came up, his palms warm and strong as he gently began to massage her lower back. “Please tell me there’s good news,” she said into his neck.
“I was fired.” His solemn announcement surprised a burst of laughter from her. “Though it was not put so harshly as that. The university has kindly given me as much time off as I need during the investigation, but they don’t think I will be needed in the fall or beyond that term.”
“That cannot be legal,” Lilith protested. “One of Lucifer’s demons must be president of the university.”
He grinned. “I actually think it was the result of the media attention. There are several news vans parked outside.”
“You put this in the ‘good’ category?”
“Yes. It will be difficult for the nosferatu to attack us if we are under constant public surveillance—and if anything happens to one of my students, we’ll likely know right away. And without my presence at the university, there will be less danger of my students there being targeted, though there is still a core group of DemonSlayer players.”
“DemonSlayer—Lucifer focuses on them not just because of your relationship to the players, but because he finds the game offensive,” she realized. “Its source bears my name instead of his.” Lifting her head, she moved forward slightly and nipped at his earlobe. “Now: real good news. I want it.”
He shifted beneath her, ran his hands up the length of her spine. She heard the smile in his voice. “Taylor and Preston are aware Smith and the nosferatu are corrupting the investigations in some way and may even be responsible for the murders.”
“But they have little evidence,” Lilith guessed.
“Very little.”
She waited, then planted her elbows on either side of his head and rose up to look at him. Her hair fell forward like a curtain in front of her eyes, and she impatiently pushed it away. “That’s it?”
“I was waiting for your contribution,” he said. Gathering her hair at her nape, he traced his fingertips over the bare skin beneath.
She desperately tried to think of something. His lips were so close to hers. “I still have my job.”
“With Beelzebub as your superior, that is indeed an advantage,” he said dryly.
“This is what we have?” She lowered her forehead to his and smiled when she felt his breath quicken. “We are lost.”
“And neither of us has ever proved a successful guide for the other,” he said with self-deprecating humor. She brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth; his body tightened beneath hers, and his hands moved to her shoulders. “Shall we simply try to hack our way through the nest?”
“We lack swords, and I’m no martyr.”
“We could throw books; I have plenty.”
“Now who’s delving into absurdities?” She licked his jaw; his unshaven skin was rough beneath her tongue.
“I’ve never thought clearly with you sitting atop me.” In a smooth movement, he rolled and pinned her beneath him, his hips wedged between her thighs.
Laughing, she hooked her ankle behind his knee, pulled with her leg and twisted her torso. She straddled him again, but her laughter died. His eyes were arrested on her face, and the wealth of emotion in his expression made her chest ache.
“You are still strong, Lilith.” She looked away, but he captured her chin, brought her gaze back to his. “Not as you once were, perhaps, but still strong. Not as fast, but quick enough. You have not lost the skills behind the demon’s powers. And your psychic abilities are gone, but you have two millennia’s experience reading faces, body language.”
She dipped her head, but couldn’t contain her sad smile. Though his Fall had been voluntary, he must know exactly how she felt. “And my cache?”
His mouth twisted with wry humor. “Pockets are a wonderful invention.” His knee rose, nudged her back as if to draw attention to his olive cargo pants.
“Which are appallingly empty; I would kill for a rubber,” she said, and meant it. Smoothing her hands against his chest, she absorbed his deep rumbling laugh through her skin, and felt an echoing rumble in her stomach. “I’m hungry,” she realized, with a touch of wonder.
His gaze dropped to the spread of her thighs over his abdomen. “I am, too,” he said gruffly, and heat shot through her.
“I’m more than willing to wait—” Her stomach growled again, loudly.
He gave a shout of laughter, and laced his fingers through hers. His muscles flexed beneath her legs as he sat up, the motion bringing his face close to hers, her bottom seated firmly over his erection. “You haven’t eaten in two thousand years; I’ll feed you first.”
“Hugh—” she moaned softly as he scooted forward to the edge of the bed, her sex tight against the hardness of his cock, sliding over his thick length with each movement.
“I cannot think when you are on me,” he repeated, his laughter strained now.
She caught his laugh in her mouth; it was a promise, this kiss, though it remained unspoken—all of her promises and bargains and wagers had been made with her tongue, but with tricks and lies attached to them. If only this time, it would be pure; and she lingered over it, tracing the contour of his lips with hers, feeling his response as he tasted and explored the shape of her. There was an answer on his lips and tongue, but she did not allow herself to hear it; she had little worth giving but a promise, and would not take more than she offered. She pulled away—and already, the mischievous smile on her lips was a lie, and her words had different meaning below the surface of them. “Then you should not carry me.”
Should she be sorry that he read the truth? It was impossible, when he echoed what she’d just promised him in silence. “Then I must be fated to remain an imbecile, for I will not let you go.”
CHAPTER 27
Over the years, he’d used Truth in an attempt to tear down Lilith’s defenses; never had he thought he’d use it to rebuild them. Hugh prowled the length of the living room, debating the wisdom of forcing honesty upon her when she clearly wanted to hide behind lies. Her vulnerability had torn at him, and perhaps he should have allowed her that false defense—yet he could not. Had they the luxury of time, he could have waited until she recovered from the transformation. Waited for her to erect emotional shields to replace those she had depended on her demon physiology to provide.
But he knew—as she did—the nosferatu would come for them in four days, no matter the outcome of the bargain. If her shields were brittle and false, they could be easily penetrated. If they found a way to fight the nosferatu, to defeat Lucifer’s bargain, she needed to be confident—not just in herself, but know he would support her, wouldn’t fail her. And so he had forced her to acknowledge the emotional intimacy between them, as surely as he had forced the physical intimacy two nights before.
Manipulation, yet again. He’d become a master of it.
Books lay scattered from the police search, but he made no effort to set them to rights. He paced instead, listening to the sounds she made as she showered and dressed, wanting to help her, but knowing that, did he offer too much now, she would not shed the certainty that she had become a burden to him. Ridiculous, that—how could she not recognize how much he needed her; not just to fight the nosferatu, but in every way possible? His body still ached from the frustration of wanting her, having her so close—but she was far too vulnerable to press that physical advantage. She would have used sex to forget what Lucifer had done, used it to conceal her emotions in yet another way. Another false defense she’d been trying to build, but that he couldn’t allow. Despite her declaration that she was herself again . . . she hadn’t been.
And he needed Lilith; needed the woman who’d survived as a demon, when no other human had. The woman who made him laugh without trying. The woman who was devious, and mischievous, and relentless. Whose vulnerabilities stemmed from her capacity for softer emotions, not her fear of them—
He tensed as he heard her on the
stairs from Savi’s apartment. Though the hellhound had been stretched out lazily in the pool of sunlight that streamed in over the kitchen sink, Sir Pup perked his ears at her approach, his tongue lolling in anticipation. With a wry grin, Hugh realized his expression must be a human reflection of the hellhound’s.
Lilith wasn’t the only one who’d exposed her vulnerabilities.
She strode into the room with the long, loose-hipped gait of a warrior, strength in the set of her shoulders. Her dark eyes were intense as she surveyed him, and his body hardened in response to the piercing, claiming expression within them.
No shyness in that gaze, nothing coy or hidden. He stared at her in return, letting his gaze drift down the length of her. She’d raided Savi’s closet, and the small black T-shirt with SIN CITY emblazoned across her chest made his lips quirk into a smile, even as the cling of material to her firm breasts, the outline of her taut nipples sent heat spiraling to his cock. His khakis—with pockets lining the pant legs—hung low on her hips, and the bare skin between the hem of the shirt and the waistband almost brought him to his knees, so that he could kiss that pale strip, bury his face against her abdomen and worship her as she deserved.
There was a wicked tilt to her lips as she finally turned to glance at the hellhound. “Don’t eat his pussy.” She sauntered into the kitchen; Hugh followed her, unable to tear his eyes from the dip of her spine, the sway of her hips. The ends of her midnight hair brushed against the small of her back with each step, and the rhythm seemed to echo the heavy pulse of his blood.
He swallowed, and gestured to the cat, lounging on the top shelf of the empty bookcase. “I believe he and Emilia have called a truce; she will take the upper regions of the house, and he will reign over the lower.”
The condoms had been an excuse; no reason he couldn’t withdraw before spilling his seed. He had that much control, didn’t he? A medieval method of contraception, certainly, but—
“We need weapons.” She slipped into the stool at the breakfast bar, brought one knee up against her chest, her heel at the edge of the seat. Not a perch, but close.
“I don’t think we will be able to access your apartment or Colin’s house without drawing attention to ourselves.” Grateful that the granite counter concealed his erection—now he was hiding, he realized with chagrin—he began unloading plastic takeout containers from a paper bag. “Unless attention is what we want.”
She shook her head. “Beelzebub must know I am here, but—” Breaking off, she looked at Sir Pup. “Are there any near to hear us?” When the hound flapped his ears, she continued, “I prefer they think I’m going to kill you. What is this?”
A bit of eagerness in her voice that she couldn’t hide; Hugh smiled and began loading dolmathes on a plate. “Greek. I ordered when you were in the shower.” He raised a brow. “You were in there quite some time.”
“Masturbating,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, and the container he’d been holding skidded across the counter. It was a lie, but the image the words conjured—Lilith, dripping with warm water, her hand between her thighs—was as powerful as if it’d been truth.
“Lilith,” he said, and he couldn’t contain his laughter, nor the harshness arousal lent to his words. “Have pity.”
In a slow, deliberate movement, she unzipped one of the pockets at her thigh. Slapped a handful of square foil packages onto the granite. His breath stopped. “I have pity. Seven pities. I remember seeing them when I searched the upstairs apartment last time, and despite her rebellion, she has not used them since then. But you said food first.”
“I am an idiot.”
“I am hungry.”
She bit her lip, as if to ward off the grin he could see pulling at the corners of her mouth. His cock ached. He made a mess of the lamb moussaka, in such a hurry was he to scoop it onto the plate.
Her gaze fell to the dish, and her smile faded. “I can’t eat anything that has bled.”
He froze and looked up. Seeing the fleeting shame, the horror, he took out a clean plate and began filling it with more dolmathes, horiatiki, and then poured lentil soup into a bowl. “Does it bother you if I do?”
She shook her head, but he set the first plate on the floor, along with the remaining moussaka. Sir Pup rose immediately, devoured it within moments. She pursed her lips, watching the hellhound. “I didn’t lie.”
“I don’t eat meat with Savi or Auntie, either,” he said with a shrug. He passed her the food and began piling his plate high. Deciding it would be easier to get through the meal without her pity staring him in the face, he slid the condoms off the breakfast bar, stuffed them into his pocket.
She watched him, laughing with her eyes. A flush rose over his neck, and he turned to the utensil drawer. “Fork?” When she answered him by scooping up feta cheese and olives with her fingers, he collected glasses from another cupboard and a bottle of wine from the icebox.
“I was right; you have been completely domesticated.” But there was appreciation in her voice as he opened the bottle, filled her glass with the pale golden liquid. She took a bite of a dolma, closed her eyes. “Oh, these are good.”
“Aye,” he agreed, tearing his gaze from her mouth. His own food didn’t appeal to him nearly as much, though he hadn’t eaten since the previous evening.
She didn’t notice his distraction; she was examining the grape leaf and its contents. “My favorite treat when I was a girl was something very similar to this.”
Silence fell as she took another bite. Standing with the counter between them, he stared at her, unwilling to ask, though curiosity burned within him—he had forced enough from her.
Lifting her wineglass, she took a sip and looked over the rim at him, her eyes dark and amused. “I’ve been married twice.”
His fingers clenched; aside from that small betrayal, he waited, motionless.
“The first when I was fifteen, to a general in my father’s army. The second, six years later—a Roman senator, who was assassinated within three years of our union.” She grinned when he raised a brow. “I didn’t do it; though I would have, had I the opportunity.”
His unreasonable jealousy faded. He choked on a laugh, gulped his wine to clear his throat. “Why?”
She shrugged. “The marriage was a political alliance, but despite his promises to smooth relations between Rome and Carthage, he helped implement the plan to destroy us without mercy.”
“You were illegitimate?” he guessed.
“Yes,” she said with an ironic smile. “But still useful as a pawn.”
From her tone, he understood she was also speaking of Lucifer. “Is that why you were transformed? You were a pawn?”
She nodded, and she said without inflection, “Immediately after my husband was killed, I returned to Carthage. It was just before the siege began, and my father had been convinced that a sacrifice would be needed to save his city. Rome would descend upon us like a dragon, but with a human sacrifice—but not just any human, one of the ruler’s progeny—to the right gods, we would be spared. And I was . . . expendable.”
“Lucifer convinced him?” His voice was hoarse.
“Yes.”
Her simple answer kindled fury within his chest. “Where were the Guardians?”
“There were none,” she said. “And Michael arrived too late—delayed by a creature Lucifer had created and let loose near the city. And once the ritual was complete, Lucifer offered me power, beauty, and immortality, and I took them.” A hard smile curved her mouth. “And he offered revenge; had I been a better daughter, I would’ve died willingly for my father and my kingdom in that ritual. But I wasn’t, and I relished the chance to revenge myself upon him.”
“Did you get that chance?”
She shook her head. “No. Not on my father; Rome destroyed him before I could.”
He reached across the counter, cupped her cheek in his palm. She raised her eyes to his, and her expression was entirely without self-pity, without bitterness. How could it
be?
“How can you not want to revenge yourself upon me?”
“You would let me?”
His eyes darkened. “Aye.”
“Martyr,” she muttered, but her smile warmed. “I was willing to die that night; that’s the difference.”
“Are you willing now?” He couldn’t allow her to sacrifice herself; it would be his death, as well.
“No.” She grinned. “I intend to wipe the Earth clean of nosferatu and demons, then salt the ground in Hell. Are you willing?”
To die for her, aye. But he only said, “We’ll need more salt.” Her grin widened, and she popped an olive into her mouth. Withdrawing his hand, he took another drink and calculated in his head. “You were twenty-four?”
“It’s fitting, isn’t it? Like Faustus.” She grimaced. “Only my twenty-four years were free of demons.”
He laughed. “Mephistopheles would have cowered before you. So you are almost two thousand one hundred eighty years old.”
“With either four days remaining, or sixty years. Either way, I’m the oldest woman on Earth. Of my few accomplishments, it’s one I can take pride in,” she said, her eyes shining with amusement. She lifted the soup to her mouth.
“And I the oldest man.” He rubbed his chin, felt the stubble there; he should have shaved. It would not do to scrape her skin. “It may be more than sixty years,” he said absently.
She lowered her bowl, wiped her upper lip with her thumb and licked the tip. “Sixty-five? A significant difference, indeed,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Most likely twice that.” He frowned slightly, realizing that if no demon halfling had been transformed back into human before, she would not know the consequences of it. “Lilith—” he paused, unsure how to explain it. He did not know the reason behind it, only that it was true of every Guardian who had Fallen. “You’ll age relatively slowly. Look at me—really look. I am, in human years, thirty-three.”
Her gaze traveled over his face. “You do look younger than that, but modern nutrition and medic—”
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