Hellishly Ever After (Infernal Covenant Book 1)

by Nadine Mutas

  Whatever distracting effect he might have been hoping for with his question was completely lost on my frazzled brain. All it did was remind me of how I had—yet again—disobeyed his orders earlier, how I kept riling him up, naively unaware that I was poking at a creature who was ostentatiously capable of dismembering those who crossed him and keeping the body parts for funsies.

  I’d been so comfortable around him, relaxed enough to let him pleasure me, let him kiss me… Good God, I’d begun to see him as human, hadn’t I? And all this time, I had no idea of the extent of his otherness, that he really, truly could snap me in two with a twist of his hands.

  How naive. How dewy-eyed of me.

  I should have just stayed locked in my rooms.

  Run, run, run, my gecko brain chanted. All I knew, in that moment, was that I needed to put space between me and him. My instincts screamed at me to flee, and for once, my frontal cortex didn’t object.

  Azazel took a slow step closer, his features harsh and drawn. “Don’t.”

  With my breath stuck in my lungs, I whirled around and ran.

  A muttered curse behind me. My pulse roared in my ears, almost drowning out the swish of movement as he gave chase.

  I didn’t make it two steps before he caught me.

  Arms like steel closed around my upper body as he pulled me back against his chest. My breath left me on a gasp, my heart stuttering.

  “Stop,” he said in my ear, his voice still at that pitch used to soothe and coax an animal about to bolt.

  I was more animal than human right now. I couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, couldn’t reason. I was all instinct, no sense left, and so I struggled against his hold like something wild and feral willing to gnaw off my own limb to break free.

  “All right, then.” Azazel clutched me tighter with one arm around my middle. He laid his other hand on my forehead and whispered, “Sleep.”

  A push and pop in my mind, then velveteen darkness closed in around my frantic consciousness, as if someone turned off the lights in my head...and my mind along with them.

  I fell, and sleep caught me.

  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 ca
re?”

  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…?”