Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(16)
Author: Gena Showalter

“That’s not an answer.”

Suspicious, prickly human. She was annoyingly perceptive. “And yet it addressed some of your concerns, I’m sure.”

She stomped her foot, every inch the willful child—but that didn’t annoy him as it should have. “I won’t be held captive. Not ever again.”

Her words, on the other hand… A glint of anger formed inside the fissure, burning in the center of his chest. Too many people had questioned his authority lately, and he’d reached the end of his tolerance. “You would rather die, Annabelle?”

“Yes!”

She blinked at her own vehemence, and so did he.

“Yes,” she said softly.

The claim was false, even though he could not taste a lie. Surely. “You do realize I could crush you in seconds, yes?”

“Believe me, at this point, death would be a mercy. So crush me if you can’t tolerate being told off, because I will never be a cooperative prisoner. I will fight you forever if necessary.”

Death would be a mercy. One other person had uttered those words to him, and death had indeed been a mercy then. For Hadrenial, but not for Zacharel. He would suffer eternally for what had transpired that terrible night.

You must stop comparing Annabelle to your brother.

Right now, he had two choices. Convince the female she was not a prisoner, which would take time he did not have, or let her go. Neither appealed to him. Perhaps there was a third option, though. One he’d never before attempted. Courtesy.

It was worth a shot, he supposed. “I humbly request that you remain here. Whatever you desire, you have only to ask for it, and it will be yours.” The moment he spoke he recalled her liking for Thane. The small flame of anger intensified, and he would have sworn he heard a drip, drip. “Except for a male. You may not summon a male.”

Zacharel had saved her. Zacharel would see to her care.

The light in the room hit her at a different angle, and he saw the bruises marring the soft skin under her eyes, the deep hollows of her cheeks. So breakable, this human. “I don’t understand. Do you have servants who will bring me what I want?”

“No servants. I will show you how it works. What is something you desire? Besides a male,” he hurried to add.

“A shower.” Offered with no hesitation. “Without anyone watching me.”

“A private shower,” he said, then motioned behind her.

Expression set in disbelief, she spun. Mist began to thicken and take shape, until a shower stall stood tall and proud. It was encased by smoked glass, and had multiple knobs and a drain in the floor.

She gasped with equal parts pleasure and disbelief. “Food,” she said next, immeasurable relish in her tone.

Drip, drip. Except…no longer was anger at the center of the flame. He wasn’t sure what was.

A pout curved her mouth downward. “Nothing happened.”

“You must be specific,” he instructed.

Her tongue emerged, swiping over her lips. “I want lobster mac-and-cheese, biscuits and gravy, asparagus risotto, beef enchiladas, chicken-fried steak, brownies with frosting, brownies without frosting, blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream, turkey and dressing, and…and…and…”

Beside him appeared a large, round table, wings intricately carved into its legs. Next came an elegant white tablecloth that perfectly conformed to its size. The requested dishes appeared next, one at a time, until the surface was covered with steaming bowls and perfectly arranged plates.

Shaky limbs brought her forward. She gripped the table’s edge, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, rapture consuming her lovely features. “I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.

“Start at one side and work your way to the other.”

She licked her lips. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything? If so, I’ll need to summon more.”

More? “No, thank you. I will eat on the morrow.” He never ate before battle, and he wasn’t quite done with his assignment. But he would have enjoyed watching her, he thought. Witnessing her delight, her passion and—what are you doing? “No one will disturb you.”

She gave no reply, was reaching for the ice cream.

He turned on his heel and stepped through the mist. When he turned back, that mist blocked her from his view—but as insubstantial as it seemed, it would hold her inside.

He held out his hand and commanded the seams of the door to seal. Only he would be able to unseal them. Only he would be able to enter—or leave. What’s more, Annabelle would hear nothing that happened outside her room.

That done, he stalked down the hall, the floor extending before him with every step. Past his bedroom, his private sanctuary, and into the holding bay, where the five most trusted warriors of his army awaited him. Trusted being a relative term, of course.

Thane, Bjorn and Xerxes stood off to the side, together as always and somehow separate from the others. Unlike most other angels, Xerxes lacked physical perfection. He had long white hair he kept pulled back in a jeweled torque. His skin was without color, as though death had settled beneath the surface, with tiny scars forming patterns of three. Three lines, gap, three lines, gap, three lines. Red eyes watched the world with an intelligence—and anger—matched by few.

Just then, those demonlike eyes were glaring at the minion even now bound by tendrils of cloud that clung to her gnarled wrists and ankles like ivy, holding her in place with no hope of escape.

Beside her stood the equally bound fallen angel Zacharel had brought here months ago. The male refused to behave, causing trouble for the new queen of the Titans, and so Zacharel, who had been told to curry her favor, had to restrain him.

Zacharel’s attention moved to the other angels. In the far corner, Koldo cleaned his hooked sword, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world. He had sun-drenched skin and black eyes as deep and fathomless as a pit of despair. He also possessed a thick black beard and long black hair that hung down his back in multiple braids.

As a child, demons had ripped out his wings. And because of his young age, his regenerative powers had not yet taken hold, so those wings had never grown back and never would. Instead his shoulders, back and legs were tattooed with crimson feathers depicting the wings he must miss with every ounce of his being. Not that he ever complained. Koldo was a man of few words, and those he did utter were deep, hoarse and soul chilling.

Jamila paced in front of the demon. With her dark skin and the long black ringlets cascading down her back and eyes of the sweetest honey, she was one of the original joy-bringers, promoted to warrior only after she had ventured into hell, alone, to rescue one of her pet humans.