Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(51)
Author: Gena Showalter

Happening. Something was happening to him.

As she cried out, arching her body against him, utter pleasure overshadowed every bit of his pain, starting in the middle of his spine and arrowing up and down, affecting every inch of him. His hips bowed toward her, and his own hoarse cry filled the room.

All he could do was hold on to Annabelle, pray she never let go of him and die a thousand little deaths, each one making him rise up again, a different man, someone stronger and better, weaker and worse. Because in those moments of absolute, utter vulnerability, where nothing seemed to matter but the female who had given him such divine bliss, he realized he was already addicted to what she made him feel.

Give her up?

No. Never.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ANNABELLE HAD NEVER BEFORE spent an entire night in a man’s arms, had never thought to, since Heath had always had to jump out the window of her bedroom so that her parents wouldn’t catch him. But last night, she had remained snuggled into Zacharel’s side. Warm and strong, he held her, soothing her back to sleep when bad dreams dared to intrude.

She woke well rested, drug free and ready for whatever came. Or so she thought. By the time she’d brushed her teeth and showered, she had to face Zacharel and nerves nearly got the better of her.

The things he’d done to her… He was a man who had given her more pleasure than anyone else ever had, burning away the terrors of the past, leaving new, amazing memories to sigh over for years to come. She wanted that again. But…did he?

Probably not, she thought when she emerged from the bathroom once again wearing the maid’s uniform, because he did not look happy to see her. Although, if she were honest, his unhappy look pretty much matched all his other looks. Except for his smile, when those gorgeous dimples made an appearance.

I really want to see those dimples again.

He stood in front of the bed, his white robe pristine, unwrinkled, and his muscled arms crossed over his chest. He smelled of morning sky and sunshine, his hair brushed to a glossy shine.

“What’s got you in such an irritated mood? No demons attacked us last night,” she said, going for bravado rather than timid insecurity. “And notice I used the word irritated and not irritating, even though that’s what I was thinking.”

“I am not in a mood,” he replied. “Perhaps I am just overcome by my first sexual experience.”

Oh…well. Okay, then. Blood rushed into her cheeks, heating her skin. “You sure didn’t seem like a beginner,” she admitted.

“Thank you. Also,” he continued blithely, “I am content. I was right. You are harder to find when other humans surround you, which means I now know how to protect you.”

“Subject change accepted,” she muttered.

“That was not my intention.” He frowned, his emerald gaze moving just over her shoulder, as if someone had intruded.

She twisted, looking, but found nothing out of the ordinary. When she turned back, he was frowning at her.

“Your glow is more pronounced,” he said, “and the cause is not the lamp. I left my mark on your skin. My essentia.”

Heart drumming in her chest, she held an arm up to the light, turned it left, then right. “I don’t see anything.”

“You have glowed since the first day I met you, but the fact that the glow is now more pronounced tells me it was and is not natural.”

“I wasn’t touched by another angel, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not. No two essentias are the same, and you definitely carry mine. I wonder…could you have been born with mine, meant for me and only me? I have never heard of such a thing happening, of a mark appearing before a claiming, but…anything is possible, I suppose.” As he spoke, he shook out his wings. “I will check…”

She lost track of his words, her mind ensnared by the beauty of those wings…so strong, so majestic, so wonderfully gold.

“I have already given you permission to touch my wings, Annabelle.”

Now he sounded irritated. “I know.”

“Then why are your hands fisted at your sides, rather than on me?”

“Because you look so enthused by the idea.”

He opened his mouth, snapped it closed. “Sarcasm?”

“Good call.”

His put-upon sigh echoed between them.

Her fingers uncurled and stroked over the arch of those golden wings. They were as hard as iron and ridged—until you encountered the feathers. Oh, baby, those feathers were softer than goose down. She caressed the tips, marveling when one of the longer ones loosened and fell into her palm.

Zacharel latched on to her wrist, but didn’t toss her hand away or claim the golden feather as his property. All hint of amusement gone, he said, “Look at me, Annabelle.”

A wave of trepidation swept over her as she obeyed. Had she done something wrong?

“You may never do this with another angel. Do you understand?”

Her brow furrowed with her confusion. “Is it against the rules?” But…sex wasn’t. Obviously. So touching shouldn’t have been, either.

“Those who have not experienced sexual desire do not like to be handled in any way, especially by humans. Those who have experienced desire will view your attention as a request for a bedding.”

And thereby ruin whatever good mood she’d managed to attain. “I won’t touch anyone but you, I promise.”

There was a heavy beat of silence. “That man, Dr. Fitzherbert, touched you without permission. In the ways I touched you last night?”

Just like that, a dark, sticky cloud tried to envelop her. Her shoulders curled in as every emotion she’d experienced inside the institution barraged her. Fear, shame, hatred, guilt, helplessness, sorrow, grief. But as quickly as they hit, they vanished. She absolutely refused to dwell on them, and shot each one with a mental bullet, killing it dead. Those things acted like a dinner bell for demons, and she refused to supply a buffet.

“Yes,” she said.

“Perhaps it is time he reaps what he has sown,” Zacharel said.

“Meaning…what?”

“I will force something terrible on him.”

Rather than thrill her, the vow worried her. She wanted Fitzpervert out of a position of authority and unable to hurt anyone else, but she wanted Zacharel safe far more. She’d brought enough trouble to his door already.

“Is that your job?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“No.” A grumble.