Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(47)
Author: Gena Showalter

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ZACHAREL CONSIDERED HIS options. Demons had found Annabelle in the clouds. They’d found her in the cave. Clearly, keeping her underground wasn’t the answer any more than keeping her in the heavens had been. So that left…what?

Knocking her out? No one had attacked her while she had slept. Or…wait. “How long were you in the institution before the demons found you?”

“A month, maybe.”

A month. Her scent and allure must have been masked by the people surrounding her. People, then. People were not a threat but a key.

With that in mind, he flew her to a busy hotel for humans on the outskirts of New Zealand. Obtaining a room wasn’t difficult. He simply misted her through the walls until spying what he wanted: an unoccupied space, with guests on either side, above and below.

“Shower. Warm up,” he told her, then left to procure food and clothing. More than the impromptu bath, she’d had to deal with his declining temperature.

In the hotel’s kitchen he acquired chicken and rice for her and fruit for himself, and snagged a clean uniform from the stack in back, being sure to leave enough money behind to more than cover the cost of both the food, the clothing and the room itself.

He left the uniform in the bathroom, not liking how harsh it felt against his skin. She would be scratched, and the thought did not settle well. He wished he had another robe tucked away, but he had left the extra one in the cave with her purchases. He could have flown to another location, found her something softer, but he could not bring himself to leave the hotel to acquire something better.

When she emerged on a thick cloud of steam, he saw that the clothing was too short for her. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and to be honest, she looked adorable.

Without a word she placed a dagger under a pillow on the bed and one on the nightstand.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starved.”

They ate in silence, her clean, soapy scent a live wire that connected them. Her hair was wet and slicked back into a tight ponytail, the strands like glistening ebony silk. The style left her face bare, nothing hiding those uptilted, crystalline eyes, those sharp, rose-tinted cheeks or those heart-shaped lips. Actually, adorable was not the right word. She was beauty personified.

What would she look like spread over the bed, her hair a spill of velvet, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks flushed with passion and her lips parted as she breathed him in?

“Thanks for the food,” Annabelle said, at last cutting through the quiet. Her voice held traces of exhaustion, elation and…something else, something he couldn’t identify.

“You are welcome.”

Her gaze met his, steady but glassy. “So what now?”

“Now you relax. Too long has passed since you’ve rested.”

“I managed to sleep a little in Koldo’s cave, as well as during the flight here, and really, I’m not tired.” The claim was disproved by her ensuing yawn. “Okay, so maybe I am. My mind’s too active for any kind of rest, though.”

Understandable. Or…on closer inspection, he could see the shadows blooming under her eyes. It wouldn’t take much to quiet her mind, but perhaps she had no wish for it to be quieted. After such a trying day, nightmares were sure to plague her. He wondered if he would be the star of them.

“What do you usually do to help you relax?”

“I wish I knew. In the institution, I was given drugs.”

And then forced to do whatever her doctors had wished. He could tolerate that knowledge less and less. “Climb into the bed and find something to watch. Distract yourself.” That’s what he’d seen many humans do throughout the years.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Keeping an eye on him, she clambered onto the bed and switched on the TV, frowning, flipping channels. Eventually she gave up and pressed Off, then tossed the remote aside. “What will you do? Because I’m guessing you have something to do, or you wouldn’t be pushing me to distract myself.”

He must remain on alert, guard her…think. “I will be composing instructions for my army.” Yes, that, too.

“You don’t require any sleep?” She snuggled into the covers, fluffed the pillows and peered over at him, the suspicion draining from her. Had she expected him to pounce on her?

“Some,” he said, “but not much.”

“Lucky. I despise the fact that I need to sleep.”

Because she was made vulnerable. “I have told you that you have nothing to fear with me. You know I do not lie.”

A beat of silence. A sigh. “I know.”

“Do you?” he asked, peering at her intently. He now had an idea of what she would look like in bed, underneath him—and it was almost more than he could bear.

He stalked to the desk, blocking her from his peripheral vision, and sat down. The chair proved to be a mistake, the high back smashing his wings…that were no longer snowing, he realized. Why?

“I do,” she finally said. “Really.”

He could still see her out of the corner of his eye. Soft, warm, inviting. “Good.” Up he stood and stalked to the room’s only window, gazing through the gap in the curtains.

The setting sun cast pink, purple and blue rays over the horizon. Below that, he saw arcing trees, lush, green grass and a colorful spread of flowers. He’d been here once before. Had thought to fly past, but had stopped to watch the wedding taking place in the gardens.

Two people, pledging to love each other for the rest of their lives, in sickness and in health. Had Annabelle ever dreamed of doing so? With her high school boyfriend, perhaps? Zacharel pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“So…you lead an entire army of angels,” she said through another yawn.

“Yes. There are three factions of the Deity’s angels. The Elite Seven, who were created rather than born, the warriors and the joy-bringers.”

“You’re a warrior.”

“Yes, but as I told you, I believe I am evolving into one of the Elite.” He wondered if the metamorphosis would stop if he failed to continue to please his Deity.

Yes. Yes, it probably would. Most likely, he would not be given the title of Elite until the end of his year of service—if he survived.

Annabelle’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “How can you be given such a title if you were born?”

“One of the Seven was recently killed, and someone must take his place, whether born or created.” Once Zacharel had considered himself a wise choice. Now? Not so much.