In Bonds of the Earth (Book of the Watchers 2)

by Janine Ashbless

  So when Azazel lovingly touches my breast, when the dusky point of my nipple rises stiff and swollen under the play of his fingers as he sighs in my ear, I don’t fight him. Even when he pushes my bra-straps all the way down my shoulders to bare me and cups both my orbs, soft and quivering in the rough heft of his hands, to present me to my audience, my only protest is the squirm of my hips and the press of my ass against his body. My face is averted, my lips soft with submission.

  “She has beautiful breasts, hasn’t she?” Azazel asks. I can hear the sounds of throats being cleared, of uncomfortable shifting in chairs. But no one answers or stands up to my defense. It’s all been so fast they’ve gone into shock.

  “You know, I hate these ugly clothes she wears,” he muses. He means my white lacy bra, my button-down blouse, my respectable A-line skirt. “I would have her naked, all day, so that I might see her beauty any time I choose. But she persists in defying me.”

  He abandons my breasts to unhook the catch at the back of my skirt and draw down the zipper. My skirt slithers down my thighs and hits the floor at my feet, baring my legs. Suddenly the rest of me is on display too—my white thong panties, my narrow hips, my vulnerable thighs, creamy in contrast to the fabric. I know the dark shadow of my fleece is visible through the white lace. All four men are staring at me. I lift my gaze and see, through the glass beyond, that fellow-workers in the office have started to notice. Some have stopped in their tracks.

  “Forward over the table, Milja,” Azazel orders.

  I obey. My bare breasts squash against the varnished wood as I press my forehead to the hard surface, surrendering the right to see my audience for the moment. I sneak my hands back and grip the edge of the table by my hips, holding tight.

  Azazel slaps my ass cheeks, right then left, once each. His hand is heavy, yet I know he’s not doing this to admonish me, but merely for the pleasure of seeing my ass bounce. It’s sharp enough to make me gasp out loud, nonetheless. Then, as if in compensation, the sting and burn is followed at once by the stroke of fingers along the edge of my panties. A broad strip of lace runs down the cleft between my cheeks and he explores this, his fingertip playing with the sensitive dimple of my ass. I didn’t think I could feel any more shame than already burns my veins—but now I do, and my skin glosses suddenly with sweat.

  Azazel chuckles. Then his fingers slip lower, teasing the pip of my clit, pressing the narrow gusset of my panties. “These are soaked,” he observes. “Are you so wanton, Milja?”

  He’s got an odd turn of phrase sometimes. I mean, English isn’t my own mother-tongue either, so I can’t criticize, and it’s been five thousand years since the last time he was free so I guess the subtler points of modern American can be forgiven him. Especially in comparison to his next move, which is to take the lace of my shameful garment between two hands, first over one hip and then the other, and snap it.

  He’s really strong. I’ve learned not to get too fond of my items of underwear.

  “Here,” he says, dragging the ruined piece of clothing deliciously over my pubis and my pussy and up the valley of my ass before drawing it out from between my cheeks. “Sodden. Am I right?” He tosses the scrap of lace straight at Mr. Ellis, who manages to catch it before it slaps him in the face.

  Ellis doesn’t throw the garment from him in disgust. He just sort of holds it. His middle-aged face is beet-red.

  “Soaked, isn’t it?” says Azazel.

  Ellis nods. His pupils are dilated.

  My sight mists. If I could cry with shame I would, but the ability to cry is one of the things Azazel took from me when I freed him. I only sob and quiver as my lover fingers me.

  “Divest yourselves of any concern that Milja is not enjoying this, gentlemen. She is wetter than you could possibly imagine.” I hear the rasp of his zipper. “But you will have to take my word for that, I think.”

  Oh Jesus, he’s going to shaft me in front of them all.

  I brace myself. But there is no steeling oneself against the descent of a Son of God. And besides, he’s right: I’m so wet and so turned on that I’m practically a gravity-well drawing him into me. I ache with needing him to fill me. I burn for his fire.

  The first huge thrust is enough to make me cry out: enough to push me over into orgasm.

  Enough to wake me up.

  Crap crap crap crap!

  I jerked awake in my own bed, wrapped in twisted sweaty sheets and twitching with the contracting spasms of my climax.

  Just a dream. Another dirty dream. The relief was almost as great as the disappointment. Open-mouthed, I flopped back onto my hot pillows. I’d been stressing about that presentation to the Senior Design Team way too much.

  I was alone. Azazel hadn’t been to see me in over a week, which was a long time for him. I didn’t know where he was, and to be honest I was getting fretful. I had zero idea where he went or what he did when he wasn’t with me, slaking his ravenous carnal appetite. He just turned up when he wanted, banged me senseless, and then vanished into the dark without explanation.

  And he visited me in my dreams.

  Like I said, it wasn’t the most modern or egalitarian of relationships. Look, I’m not stupid. I knew that this relationship wasn’t healthy by any normal human standards. But here’s the thing: he wasn’t human. How could it make sense to judge him by our standards, any more than I ought to be able to pronounce on the morality of monkeys?

  That night the hot humid summer still had Chicago in its grip, despite the October date on the calendar. I staggered through to my shower cubicle, ran cool water down my back, and pressed myself to the damp tiles as I fingered myself again and again. I missed him. I wanted him. I ached inside and out for his ungentle touch.

  For decades I’d watched over him, dreamed of him, longed for him, wept for him. Now he was mine…kind of.

  Well, I was his. Whenever he chose to indulge himself. His bit of human tail. His concubine. His sex-toy.

  His food.

  You’re letting yourself get too negative, Milja. You know that the moment he shows up, it’ll be all sunshine and bluebirds and valentines. You want him just as much as he wants you.

  Less than eight hours later, I was giving my long-dreaded presentation on the anniversary footbridge to Misters Ellis, Singh, Constanzo and Mackenzie…when Azazel walked in.

  Oh hell.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said loudly, lurching around from behind my desk, grabbing Azazel’s arm and spinning him back to face the door. “Not here, come on, please,” I implored through clenched teeth.

  If there was one thing I’d learned by then, it was to not ignore warning dreams. If I’d paid them more attention from the start, things between me and Egan might have gone very differently back in Montenegro…

  No, better not to think of Egan, not when Azazel was around. One guy at a time was quite enough to wrap my head around. Especially this guy.

  He humored me though, this time, letting me pull him out of the meeting room and through the open plan office without resistance. We attracted a lot of stares, but there was nothing I could do about that except hold my head high.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Out. Anywhere.”

  “You’re so impetuous.”

  I didn’t need to glance up at his wicked smirk. I could feel it burning its way into my breast.

  Bryce, the beardy guy in my new team who’d shown me the ropes of the job and seemed just a tiny bit too eager to talk every morning, stood up from his cubicle to intercept us. “Milja, is everything okay?”

  “It’s just fine,” I rasped, towing Azazel faster.

  “She’s insatiable,” my demon lover confided with a helpless shrug to my colleague as we swept past.

  Bryce stared, mouth open.

  “Goddamnit,” I muttered, and Azazel chuckled.

  Sometimes it was hard to remember that he’d risked everything to save me.

  We reached the doors at the end of the room and I p
ushed through, past the lobby with the elevators and into the concrete stairwell of the emergency stairs beyond. The only people who came here were smokers on their way to the roof, and it looked empty for now. My panicky momentum fizzled away and I swung to face him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think?” he countered, taking my face in his hands.

  “Azazel—” But he cut off my protests with his hungry kiss; a kiss that lanced through me all the way to my core. I gave up resisting, and speaking, and almost breathing, as his lust rolled over me in a hot wet wave. I slid my hands around his neck and tangled my fingers in his messy hair, pulling myself into his embrace. His body was hard as rock, his hands heavy on my waist and hips. The yearning for his touch that smoldered in my flesh day and night woke to a roaring heat.

  I’d missed him. His skin, his smile, the peppery scent and salt taste of him. The sweetness of his lips and the harsh rasp of his stubbled chin. I’d missed him so much. Like an addict missing her hit.

  I knew there was no point in resisting him, and there was no will in me for it either. When he plucked me from my feet and parked my bum on the angled curve of the handrail, pulling my thighs apart, he took from me all responsibility, and that was a huge relief. I didn’t have to take care of my career, I didn’t have to worry about the aborted presentation, I didn’t have to stress about what my colleagues and superiors thought of me, about making a good impression, about being an adult in a cold corporate world. It was way too late for all that.

  I was Azazel’s alone.

  “Oh,” I whimpered as he pushed up my skirt and pulled down my panties, flicking them to the cold concrete. I knew his moods and right now it was impatience. His silver eyes glinted inches from my own, his breath hot and sweet on my lips as he worked the buttons of his fly.

  This was going to be swift and fierce. Azazel was ravenous, and he intended to bolt his repast. As he pushed forward between my open thighs, he caught me tight around the waist and covered my mouth with his own, swallowing the reflex cry jerked from my lips as he entered me.

  So big. So hard. So unbearably good.

  I think I flailed in his grasp, but my own movements made little difference. He was taking what he wanted and my body could only yield, back arched, legs kicking for purchase around his thighs. I was tight and slippery-hot, and that was exactly what he needed. His urgency drove him on, impaling me.

  My shoes fell off, clattering on the cement floor. My groans ran up and down the stairwell.

  “Yes,” he grunted, catching the lobe of my ear in his teeth.

  I cried out, straining my thighs.

  He knew what I liked. He knew that only too well. Knotting his hand at the nape of my neck, he pulled the neat plait of my long dark hair cruelly tight, drawing my head back and stretching my throat. I clawed at his back and flanks, all I could reach. The little pain made him thrust harder—faster—deeper.

  “Bad girl,” he growled into my throat.

  Bad? Oh yes. That was the understatement of the century. I’d freed an angel from captivity, one—it had turned out—with absolutely no compunction about killing mere humans. I’d betrayed my family, my Serbian Orthodox faith and my God. I’d gotten Egan brutally tortured trying to keep my secrets, and almost fatally shot trying to defend me. I’d brought about my father’s death at the hands of the Church. I’d been the occasion for other murders too, when Azazel took vengeance on those who tried to mistreat me and recapture him. How many men had died for my sake? I couldn’t even be sure of the number.

  Oh, I was bad alright—guilty as charged. Cast out. Damned for eternity.

  And all for this—this lust; this aching need to be with him, to feel his mastery, to have him inside me. To feel the hot joy he took in my body and in my adoration. To know he was free. To see him, just for a moment, uncomplicatedly happy.

  All for love.

  A love that might yet bring about another war in Heaven, and destroy us all.

  Bad girl. The guilt swelled within me, a slick black wave that rose to a tsunami and then swept all before it, tumbling pride and propriety to ruins, making me cry out over and over, my voice echoing up the concrete stairwell from the basement depths to the heights. Orgasmic spasms racked my frame—and Azazel knew, Azazel felt it and heard it and joined his pleasure to mine, fire in my darkness.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh,” I whimpered as the tide receded in a sucking backwash from my soul, managing to choke back the Oh God that came automatically to my lips for my lover’s sake. Such sexual blasphemy would be as crass and cruel in this situation as calling out the name of his Ex.

  “Milja,” he whispered, cradling my name on his tongue as he wrapped his arms about me. “Oh, my love.”

  My love, my dark god, my torment. I let my head droop against his neck, unable to tell the pounding of our entwined pulses apart. Into the space left by the roaring retreat of orgasm surged all the pent-up emotions I’d been struggling with for days.

  “I have ached for you,” he growled, tilting my face up so he could kiss me again, lips and throat. Something brushed my brow and I looked up into a whirling scarlet cloud.

  Is it snowing? In a stairwell?

  But no, it wasn’t snow. It was petals, velvety red rose petals, tumbling down the central shaft, touching my upturned face like kisses, filling the gray space with glory.

  He brought me flowers. A groan thrust its way out of my throat and became a sob.

  “What?” He cupped my face, stroking his thumb across my cheek. There were no tears there, but he knew something was up. “What’s wrong?”

  “I… Uh.” I couldn’t meet his gaze. I pushed against his chest, creating space between us as he yielded. “Oh crap, you’ve gone and ruined it.”

  His black eyebrows shot up. “Ruined what?”

  “My job. You’ve just lost me my job.” It was the only pain I could put into words.

  He huffed out air, then curled his lip. “So?”

  He doesn’t get it. Why should he?

  “Oh for… Azazel, I needed this job! I have to eat when you’re not around—remember?”

  “Are you hu—”

  “I’d only just started here! It pays really well and it’s an amazing company and I’ve just ruined it all by walking out of a top meeting with my scuzzy boyfriend for a quickie in the public stairwell!”

  “Scuzzy?” He almost never blinked, but he did then.

  “You’re not even wearing shoes!” I knew it sounded completely stupid but there was no way I could info-dump modern cultural standards onto someone who didn’t even see the point of dressing. Or corporate authority. Or restraint of any kind.

  And yes, he laughed. “I will fix your job problem. Come on.”

  “Where?” I asked, alarmed, as he stepped back and tidied his length back into his pants. I slid off the banister, my legs as wobbly as wet cardboard.

  “I will take you out to dinner. That’s what a boyfriend does, no? Even a scuzzy one?” He laid hands on my shoulders even as I stooped to smooth down my skirt and brush away the petals.

  “Wait,” I said. “Hold on, my—”

  He pulled me with him as space tore open at his back and we fell through into the nothingness beyond.

  2

  EGRIGOROI

  —Panties,” I spluttered, as light burst around me and air filled my lungs once more. Then I glimpsed through streaming eyes where we were standing and I yelped “Aaaah!” and grabbed for Azazel’s solid frame, gripping him so hard that I’d have left bruises on a lesser man.

  We were outdoors. I knew that from the ruddy sunset light. We were high up, on a tower or something, pale stone beneath my bare feet and below that a terrifying drop to an arid building site, all foundation walls and rows of stone blocks. I tried to cram down the instantaneous vertigo, telling myself You won’t fall, he won’t let you, ohmygodohmygod.

  He’d always had a preference for heights: rooftops, mountains, balconies. I used to think it was beca
use he’d spent so many years imprisoned underground, but it had turned out that Uriel did it too, so maybe it’s just an angel thing. I guess it’s the way they’re used to looking at the world.

  I forced my eyes open. The sunset was pouring into a bowl of land between dusty hills. We were standing on a hilltop, a great knurl of rock, with a modern low-rise city spread at its feet. The air was warm and stank of the traffic fumes that spread an orange haze in the low light. I dared another glance down and realized that it wasn’t a construction site below us—in fact, quite the opposite, more like a demolition site. The low walls were ruinous. This high wall on which we balanced was only a few feet wide, and seemed to be part of a huge rectangular lintel frame supported by fluted pillars.

  I recognized it almost at once, though I’d never been there before. I knew it from pictures. Everyone did. I’d seen it depicted in my Child’s Encyclopedia, years back.

  “Athens?” I squeaked. “We’re on top of the Parthenon?”

  Casually, Azazel spun me in his arms until I was facing over the center of the building, my back to his chest, my toes actually sticking over the edge into the interior of the roofless enclosure. It was truly exhilarating, in a dizzying fear sort of way.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “The temple to Athena,” I gasped. It was a stunning sight, and I was trying hard to empathize with his enthusiasm for human construction and creation, one of his more endearing traits—although I couldn’t help feeling I’d appreciate it a whole lot more from ground level.

  “No,” he said flatly. “That’s what you’ve been told it is. What do you see?”

  I saw ancient blocks set aside for conservation and big yellow wheeled machinery for lifting them. I saw tourists wandering about, none of whom seemed to have spotted us yet, high over their heads. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  I obeyed, gratefully, in the hope that it would quell the flips going on in my stomach. Azazel slid a hand up to the nape of my neck—and slowly my senses bloomed. Not my sight, but my hearing—a bird flapping overhead, the tinny ululation of a distant radio, voices, footfalls on grit, a dog scratching its ear, something pattering in a burrow…then these too faded away and I heard something else beneath all the cacophony: breathing, slow and labored, but seeming resonant enough to fill the world. At the end of every inhalation came a tiny whimper. It was the sound of someone so exhausted by pain that they could not cry out.