She studied him again. The lines of his face felt familiar and yet somehow foreign. The truth was written in his bone structure and features, calling back to an earlier age of humanity.
“The grimoire was missing,” he urged. “Anything else?”
Isela was trying to stay afloat, struggling to keep herself from falling into complete hysteria. The shaking started at her fingertips and worked its way into her shoulders. She gripped her elbows in an effort to keep still.
“I don’t. . . remember.” Isela gulped in air. “I don’t. . . know. Why would someone steal an old book? And kill him for it.”
“You know the answer to the second question,” he said. “It was a distraction. To keep us from seeing what they were after. What she was after.”
“The Queen of Diamonds,” she surmised.
Azrael nodded. “You were right. She was a necromancer, one we thought succumbed to death or madness. Until tonight.”
Her head jerked up.
“You’re reading my mind,” she said.
Azrael inclined his head with a little shrug. “It’s that, or let you bait me into anger, as you did the last time we met. This was much more productive, don’t you think?”
“I make you angry?” she asked in a tiny voice.
Azrael crossed the room to her, murmuring a geas to keep her from moving away. Isela was spent. If she tried to bolt, she would injure herself further. A small, high-pitched sound escaped her as he came within centimeters. He settled his index finger under her chin, drawing her eyes to his.
“I have spent the last thousand years learning to control my emotions,” he admitted. “Yet I have never wanted to break a man so much as I did the first time Gregor put his hand on you. You destroy my quiet.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This time the silver, cat-eye shine in Azrael’s eyes made Isela shiver for an entirely different reason. He lowered his head, his mouth hovering close enough to hers that she could feel the heat of his lips.
“Come,” he murmured. “It’s time to clean off this demon filth.”
The breath left her in a long exhale, taking the last of her defiance with it. Azrael hadn’t always been gentle. That was not his nature. But he trusted her with information and conferred with her to solve the mystery of the necromancer’s murder. Whatever her brain said, the most essential part of her wanted him anyway.
It was hard to believe a few hours ago he had been bleeding profusely from a wound that showed no sign of slowing. Yet she saw the stiffness in his movement as he crossed the room.
She followed him mechanically as her bleary eyes drifted over the subtly masculine palette: grays with touches of cinnamon and chocolate. This was a bedroom, she realized belatedly at the sight of a four-poster affair so tall she might have to hop to get onto the mattress. It was done in tawny sheets and a gold-threaded comforter that picked up the light of the fireplace and sent it dancing. An abundance of pillows clustered at the headboard, encased in a wild variety of textures.
Azrael’s hands cradled her shoulders from behind. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “You expected black satin and cuffs?”
It was too hard to breathe. His fingers squeezed, warm through her wrap.
“Inhale, dancer,” he commanded, shaking her gently. “I’m afraid carrying you might be out of the question tonight.”
The slight edge of rue in his voice brought her back to her body. Azrael was injured. Isela tried to face him, but he kept his hands firm on her shoulders, directing her past the bed to the bath beyond. The enormous, tiled expanse greeted them, the floor warm beneath her toes. She marveled at the pristine counters, the enormous glass-walled shower, and the in-floor bathtub beside the window overlooking the darkness of the garden.
His fingers deftly found the edges of her tattered wrap and tugged it off one shoulder, then the other.
Isela watched herself in the giant mirror over the countertop, as if seeing a stranger being undressed by a sculpture of a man. The flush rose in her chest and neck, under the bruises formed by the seat belt and the collision. Azrael’s brows lowered as his fingertips skimmed the edge of one blooming over her collarbone. He turned her chin gently, as if appraising the damage.
“Your witches are powerful. You should be in much worse condition.”
She opened her mouth to defend her family, but the words stuck at the troubled expression on his face. She shifted her weight and winced when her hip protested. Azrael lifted her off her feet, settling her on the countertop with her back to the mirror. Without taking his eyes from her bruises, he reached left of her hip to a stack of plush white towels.
Water splashed in the sink beside her. He wrung out one of the washcloths and brought it to her temple and her brow. With his scent flooding her and her own body’s thrumming response, she barely felt the sting. It came away red.
“You’re going to ruin. . .” she protested as he rinsed the cloth and began again.
After a third pass, his mouth canted upward. “A shower would be more efficient.”
He left her on the counter, pacing to the glass door. Looking at him now, it was hard to imagine that only a few hours ago she feared for his life. Even with the tattered remains of his shirt revealing the bandage beneath, he looked vital, dangerous and, she admitted, unbelievably sexy.
There was nothing soft about him—from the unforgiving angles of his face, to the tight V of his waist disappearing into the black pants. When he leaned in to adjust the water, his thighs flexed, and his pants grew flatteringly snug.
When he returned, yanking the tails of his shirt over his head, she realized he didn’t intend to leave her alone. “Oh.”
His eyes flickered up, meeting hers. The bright silver eyes, shaded with tousled dark hair, gave an amused challenge.
Isela closed her eyes. She’d been chased by demons and wrecked a car. Sharing a hot shower with a necromancer didn’t seem quite so outrageous.
Oh, what the hell.
She leaned forward, bracing herself to hop off the counter. Azrael caught her weight first, easing her to her feet. The bandage on his chest slid against the broken straps of her leotard, slivers of skin connecting in the gaps. Isela leaned into him, snaking one arm up to hook around the back of his neck. Her lower belly pressed snuggly against the junction of his thighs, and she felt his response to the contact.
Her mouth angled up expectantly. She gasped at the sudden coolness of the air when he drew away. Her brows knit in confusion. He tsked, shaking his head, and she caught sight of the upward curl of his lips as they slid away from her.
“Filthy,” he said, clearly enjoying her surprise at being denied.
His fingernail slid under the remaining straps holding her leotard up, and he made a soft sound of regret at the deep imprints the material left on her skin. Hooking one hand in the top of her leggings, she watched his fingertips begin to glow as he bent his knees, dragging his hand down her leg. The heat on her skin was comfortable, but the fabric smoldered where he touched it, melting away until he was able to shake the remnants to the floor. On one knee, he tugged the ragged dancing slippers loose of her feet one at a time.
Azrael kept his eyes fixed on hers as he rose, sliding his fingertips over bare flesh until he was at his full height. His fingers danced at the edge of her underwear, hot again, and the scrap of fabric fell away with a slight burned smell.
“You know, washing machines,” she murmured, one brow raised.
“Ruined,” he disagreed, shaking his head.
Her fingertips lifted, going to buckle of his belt, but he trapped her hands. “Not yet. ”
He stripped off the rest of his clothes, and the light caught the planes and hard angles of his back and legs. The male form was no mystery to her: she had grown up among the long lines and graceful strength of the male dancers at the Academy. Azrael was something new, or rather, much older. Broad chested and narrow hipped, his was a body built for the labor of survival, honed by two thousand years of life.
>
He returned to her with selfless confidence, as if unaware of his effect on her.
Isela tugged her eyes from the manhood straining upward. Her fingertips brushed the white bandages at his chest. “What about this?”
Azrael huffed and let her go for a long moment to fuss with the edge himself. Whoever had bandaged him had done it well. He struggled with it until she brushed away his hands, finding the tucked edge between his shoulder blades, and began to unravel it. He tried to hurry her, but she growled in response and took her time. Two could play this game. Plus it brought her close enough to admire the bronzed, sun-freckled skin of his chest. Pale, clean flesh appeared at last, and she paused as the bloody packing came off in her hands, revealing a puckered white line, just beginning to scar.
“But you—” she began.
“I heal quickly.” He took the bandages from her.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Some,” he said. “I have an excellent distraction.”
Isela flushed again, taking the hand he offered and limping gingerly into the glass box. The water burned, and she flinched. He blocked the spray with his body and adjusted the temperature.
“I forget how sensitive humans are,” he said absently, chiding himself.
“You forgot?”
Comfortably hot now, he led her under the spray. Before she could let inhibition overtake her, he drew her against his chest, running a hand down the small of her back to the dimples above her hips. His erection throbbed against her, but he seemed to be in no particular hurry to sheathe it.
“It’s been centuries since I’ve met a human extraordinary enough to take as my lover,” he said, as though it had been something of an intellectual pursuit.
The water stung cuts and abrasions she didn’t know she had, plastering her hair to her head and her back. She glimpsed down at the drain and shuddered at the sight of her own muddy toes.
“Sit.” Azrael pushed her hands aside, seating her on the little tile shelf under a hot stream of water that bathed her back and shoulders.
He retreated, filling his palms with a pale yellow liquid. He rubbed them together until the shower was filled with the aroma of chamomile, and he laid his hands on her shoulders. Stroking slow circles, he worked his way down, thumbs tracing the lines of her collarbones, sweeping under her arms and down to her fingertips. His palms circled her breasts but did not linger. He rubbed her ribcage under the arms, slipping his hands along the sides of her waist and the small of her back. He scooped her buttocks into his hands, fingers teasing the crease between her thighs before dropping to one knee to finish her legs and feet.
Isela closed her eyes and let her mind drift as arousal took a backseat to relaxation. She lost track of time and her own body, surrendering completely to the sensation.
He pulled her under the torrent of hot water and chased the last of the suds with his palms, occasionally brushing her body with his own.
When she opened her eyes, something in his made her lips part, a soft sigh escaping.
“Good,” he smiled, satisfied. “Now your hair.”
Isela protested, “It tangles—”
“Show me this time.”
This time. Isela bit her lip, but he retreated into that immovable stillness that promised the water would run cold before he changed his mind.
“Conditioner?”
She kept her eyes on the tile at her feet as she worked, shy at first. From the thick waves near her face to deep-spiraled curls at the back of her neck, her hair had always confounded her lovers.
Azrael was so quiet she forgot about him as she parted it into sections and carefully worked the tangles free with her fingers. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with the focus of a cat at a bird feeder.
“I have seen mermaids perch on rocks to sun themselves, combing the lengths of their hair like so and singing love songs,” he said. “They drive sailors into the sea, mad with desire.”
“Lucky for you, I can’t sing.” She breathed.
“You don’t need to,” he said, bracing his hands on either side of her hips and leaning in to brush her ear with his mouth. “Whisper my name and I’d leap.”
Arousal kicked hard against her ribs, robbing her of breath. She focused on finishing the last section and winding the length into a knot at the back of her head.
From her perch, she could watch him attend to himself with businesslike efficiency, soaping and rinsing, shampooing and rinsing again until he was finished. He turned his face up and let the water run down his body, and she forgot entirely how to breathe.
When he opened his eyes to find her staring, there was a little shine of pride in his gaze.
“Stay.” He turned off the water.
“I am not a dog,” she said, surprised by the husky timbre of her own voice.
“I know,” he remarked casually as he dried himself and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Dogs obey. You have the blood of wolves in your veins. I should have known it from the moment I met you.”
Isela bridled a little until Azrael tucked a soft towel around her. He offered a second towel for her hair, but she grimaced. “Too rough.”
She squeezed her hair out, trying to decide what to do with it now. She dreaded what it would look like after sex if she left it down.
After.
The one word was a cold splash on her libido. There were plenty of good reasons dancers did not get involved with their patrons. The fact that hers happened to be an immortal capable of controlling death was the best one of all.
His brows rose, but he nodded. “Come.”
She pattered after him, ignoring the little voice that protested being bossed around. The bed had been made, and on it was a platter piled high with fruit and sweet delicacies. While she was admiring the way the strawberries had been carved into little stars, he returned with a butter-soft navy T-shirt that looked barely worn.
The towel wrapped around his waist revealed enough chest to make her pause midbite, the pooch of chewed food in one cheek as she stared. He helped her onto the bed. The scent of him, clean and no longer tainted with death, warred with her hesitations.
“What is this?” she asked finally.
“In my day,” he began, “the first time a woman came to the man she chose, she spent the day among her sisters.” He squeezed the length of her hair through the shirt. “Like so?”
She nodded, dumbly.
“They bathed and dressed her,” he murmured. “Perfumed her and rubbed her with oils.”
His fingers brushed her hairline, and she trembled. “I guess being covered in demon blood and smelling like wolf isn’t exactly the same?”
His unchecked laughter startled her.
She turned her head to him, braving his shining eyes. “I thought—”
“That I wanted to have my way with a battered woman who can barely stand on her own two feet and still resists me at every turn?” he finished, parting the damp mass of hair.
He leaned in and inhaled close enough to her ear to drive shivers into the most feminine part of her.
“In my world, words are power, and vows are law,” he said, plating the long strands into a loose braid at her back. “Have you forgotten my promise?”
When she was done eating, Azrael removed the platter. Isela yawned, ducking her head as she tried to hide it from him.
She didn’t resist when he splayed her on the bed face down, pillowing her cheek comfortably, but he felt the tension creep into her body. He slid a finger behind her ear, enjoying the way her body responded to a single touch with a long uncurling stretch.
He shook his head, sighing. So new to a world that had spun for so long before her.
Time had taught him many things. Patience had its gifts; intensifying gratification being one of the most satisfying. He savored the torment of her—skin damp and sweet smelling. The taut lines of her body, all muscle and tone and delicious curves. He had always been attracted to women who understood and used their bodie
s intentionally—warriors, courtesans, acrobats.
The thought of days to follow intensified the slow burn building in his own body. He could smell her now that the musk of wolf and the stench of demon had gone. Beneath the clean and the lightly scented oils, her natural aroma reached him. He knew without touching her that she was damp between the legs. So responsive, and he had barely begun the seduction.
Azrael’s curiosity at what kind of lover Isela might be filled him with excitement. Already he suspected a few days would not be enough to satisfy his desire for her. A subtle melancholy drifted over him as he swept the velvet skin of her back with his fingers, feeling it warm beneath his touch. A beginning only meant the inevitable end. It had not troubled him before, and he wasn’t sure why it bothered him now.
Brooding, he filled a palm with oil, warming it. She murmured when his hands settled on her shoulders, kneading the long muscles connecting to her neck with even pressure. He combined techniques he’d learned from another Amazon for soothing muscles after battle with the pressure and relaxation points taught by a Thai madam that had taken a shine to him as a young necromancer. He worked toward her hip, circling the surrounding muscles until they eased in his palms before plying his fingers to the tender area. She sighed when he reached the source of the discomfort.
Azrael worked her muscles at the base of her spine, listening to her breath slow and grow even. She knew how to breathe with his strokes, and he worked with the steady rhythm until, at last, her mind surrendered to the still, silent place of sleep.
The ache in his own side was a memory by the time he felt the night retreating in his bones, but the drain it took to heal himself and the expense of his power in battle had taken its toll. The din of a city full of waking minds pressing against his own with their urges and fears was simply too much to bear.
Isela didn’t stir when he dragged the comforter over them both and slid her body into the curve of his own. Azrael pillowed his head on his arm, buried his nose in the hair at the base of her neck, and closed his eyes. Sleep came on him as a thief, consciousness stolen like a forgotten coin from his pocket.
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