Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(15)
Author: Gena Showalter

Several seconds passed in silence. Then, he nodded and said, “Very well. You have only yourself to blame.”

A strange sensation coursed through her, chilling her blood another degree and icing over her skin. The tile beneath her vanished. Suddenly she was in the air, seeing room after room whiz past her, then the roof of the building, then the sky, pinpricks of light scattered in every direction.

Oh, my. Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. She had been liberated from what had seemed to be a life of endless torture. She was truly free. And for the first time in years, she had something to look forward to rather than something to dread. A joy like she’d never known flooded her, consumed her. This was…this was…too much.

The sheer splendor of the night overwhelmed her, and the tears splashed onto her cheeks. The most amazing perfumes fragranced the air. Wildflowers and mint, dew and freshly cut grass. Milk and honey, chocolate and cinnamon. The subtlest hint of smoke, curling on a gentle breeze.

“I had forgotten,” she whispered, hair whipping against her cheeks. But even that was a delight. She was free, she was free, she was finally free.

“Forgotten what?” Zacharel asked, and there was something strange about his voice. The first hint of emotion, perhaps.

“How beautiful the world is.” A world her parents had left far too soon. A world her parents would never again enjoy.

Sadness threaded through the joy.

She’d gone from helpless victim to murder suspect to tormented convict far too quickly to mourn the passing of her mother and father. She couldn’t help but wonder how they would have reacted to this moment. No question, Zacharel would have flabbergasted them both. Not just because of what he was, but because they had been an emotional, volatile couple, and had fought as passionately as they’d loved. They would not have known what to make of his coldness. But this…this they would have welcomed. A flight through the glittering stars, breathing air that dripped with emancipation as she glided toward a future now brightened with hope.

Forget the sadness. She would deal with that later. Right now, she would simply enjoy. For the first time in four years, Annabelle threw back her head and laughed.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZACHAREL RELEASED THE GIRL the moment he was able, depositing her in the center of an empty room and stepping away from her tempting warmth, the sweetness of her scent and the gentle caress of her hair against his skin. He’d liked touching her. He shouldn’t have liked it on any level, but no matter how many lectures he’d given himself, the like had only intensified.

During the flight, the changes in her expressive face had entranced him. He’d watched her go from rapture to sorrow, then back to rapture again. He, who had long-ago battled back his emotions until he no longer experienced them, had actually found himself envious of her willingness to reveal all she thought and felt.

She had looked so uninhibited, utterly caught up in the moment. And when she’d laughed…oh, sweet heavens. Her voice had washed over him, enveloping him, embracing him.

She had intrigued him, perplexed him, transfixed him, and he’d marveled about what had brought about those quicksilver changes, but he’d had too much pride to ask.

She was the consort of a demon, his enemy. Not by choice, no, but a consort nonetheless. She was also a human and therefore beneath him; her emotions could not matter to him.

He should not have brought her here, he realized. He should not have accepted the pleasure of having her in his arms.

He should not be looking at her now, wondering if the delight she’d found in the midnight sky would extend to his home. He should not want her delight.

“Why did you laugh?” he asked. So much for his pride. He had to know the reason.

“I’m free, I’m free, I’m finally free,” she replied, with a twirl.

The tumbling length of her hair flew around her, slapping him in the face. He barely curbed the urge to grab on to the strands and rub them between his fingers, just to remind himself of how soft they could be.

Her head tilted to the side as she looked at him. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re frowning at me.”

“I frown at everyone.”

“Good to know. So this is your cloud, huh?” Her brows scrunched in confusion. She studied the walls that looked no more substantial than mist. The floor was as thick as morning fog, clinging to her ankles, and seemingly just as flimsy.

“This is my home, yes.”

“I gotta say, it’s exactly as I predicted.”

Was that derision in her tone? “What do you mean?” he asked, trying not to reveal how insulted he was. Another reaction, now? When they weren’t touching? Truly?

“Mist, mist and more mist. I’m only surprised the foundation is solid.”

“The entire enclosure is solid.”

She extended her arm to the side. Awe consumed her features when her fingers disappeared inside the mist. “Solid…but not. Fascinating.”

You are fascinating.

No. No! She wasn’t.

He’d had females here before. Fellow warriors, and even joy-bringers he considered friends, as well as the once human, now immortal named Sienna, who just happened to be the new queen of the Titan gods—immortals who considered themselves rulers of the entire world. She liked to stop by unannounced, and he liked to kick her out.

Then there was Lysander’s wife, Bianka, a Harpy no one dared deny. She held their leader’s heart in her hands, and her happiness was his, but still Zacharel could never get rid of her fast enough. And yet, seeing Annabelle here affected Zacharel strangely. She was here, surrounded by his walls, ensconced in his world, safe because he had made it so. He, and no other.

The thought should not have filled him with satisfaction, but it did.

Time to leave her, he decided. For real. Distance would do him some good. Put him back on his game and numb him out, the way he preferred.

“I want you to be at ease, Annabelle,” he said. “Demons would not dare try to enter.”

Her relief was tangible. “Good.”

“I have business I must attend to, but I will not be far. Only a few rooms over.” He hadn’t meant to snap, hadn’t known he was capable of doing so, but snap he had. “However, you will remain inside this one.”

Just like that, her countenance changed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. “Are you saying I’m your prisoner? Did I trade one cell for another?”

Forced to tell the truth for thousands of years, he had found ways to misdirect. “How can you consider yourself a prisoner when your every wish will be granted while you are here?”