She’d pulled out a glass bottle of milk when a louder scream split the night, and she dropped it. If I hadn’t been so attuned to her, I wouldn’t have been able to catch it in time and set it on the counter.

“What the hell was that?” she asked in a harsh voice.

“The Nephilim. They’re getting closer.”

She turned pale. “They can’t get in, can they?”

“Presumably not. There are all sorts of wards and guards placed on the borders. The only way they could get inside is if someone let them in, and whoever did that would die as well.”

“What if someone would rather die than spend eternity trapped here?” she demanded, rattled.

“You won’t be here an eternity. I’ll find some way to get you out.”

“God, I hope so. I don’t want to live to be one hundred and twenty without falling in love,” she said, and I winced. “But I wasn’t talking about me. What if someone else has a death wish?” She shivered, and I wanted to warm her, calm her. I stayed right where I was.

“There is no one else. The Fallen chose this life. Their mates have chosen the Fallen. No one’s going to sneak out to the walls and let the monsters in.” I could lie about my reaction to her. Lying about the danger we were in was beyond me. “The truth is, I don’t know,” I said. “They’re beating against the walls, frustrated because they can’t break in. There’s no way they can break through the walls that guard this place, no way that anyone can. It’s inviolate.”

She didn’t believe me. I didn’t need to pick up specific words to know that she was filled with distrust. If I knew how to reassure her, I would have. I didn’t even know how to reassure myself.

“I don’t think the milk’s going to do it,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I thought some warm milk was going to calm my nerves, but I don’t think it’ll work as long as that caterwauling is going on. I don’t suppose this place comes equipped with whiskey? No, I forgot—whiskey isn’t white.”

“There’s vodka,” I said.

“Of course there is.” She opened the refrigerator to put the milk back, then emerged with a chilled bottle of Stoli. “You really need to let a little color into your life, Raziel.”

I looked at her in the brightly hued dress I’d given her. Everything about her was vibrant, colorful, disrupting the calm emptiness of my world. She poured two glasses, neat, and pushed one toward me across the marble counter.

It wasn’t a good idea. Keeping my hands off her was requiring every ounce of concentration I had. Even half an ounce of alcohol might be enough to weaken my resolve.

Then again, getting her drunk would be an excellent idea. I found drunken women completely unappealing. And if she passed out, I wouldn’t be tempted to put my hands on either side of her head and draw her face up to mine, to kiss her. . . .

She’d already picked up her glass and drained it, giving a delicate little shudder. “I don’t really like vodka,” she said in a small voice. She looked pointedly at my untouched glass. “Clearly, neither do you.”

I said nothing. She wanted me to put my arms around her. I knew it, and wished I didn’t. The noise of the Nephilim was growing louder, the howls and screams, the roars and grunts deeply disturbing. I knew the horror that lay beneath that sound. I thought I could smell them on the night air, the foul stench of old blood and rotting flesh, but it had to be my imagination. I tried to concentrate on them, but her thoughts pushed them away. She wanted my arms around her; she wanted to press her head against my chest. She wanted my mouth, she wanted my body, and she wasn’t going to tell me.

She didn’t need to tell me. There was a crash outside, followed by a louder roar, and she jumped nervously. “If you don’t like vodka, why do you even have it?” she said, clearly trying to distract herself.

“I like vodka. I just think it might be better if I didn’t let alcohol impair my judgment in case something happens.”

If anything her face turned whiter. “You think they’re going to break through?”

I had to laugh. “No. Worse than that.”

“Worse than flesh-devouring cannibals?”

“Is there any other kind of cannibal?” I pointed out.

“What’s worse than the Nephilim?” she said irritably, some of her panic fading.

“Sleeping with you.”

Shit. And I meant to not even mention it. She stared at me for a long moment, then tried to push past me. “Enough is enough,” she snapped. “If you prefer the Nephilim to me, you can damned well go climb over the fence and fuck them.”

I caught her, of course. My arm snaked around her waist and I spun her around, pushing her back against the wall, trapping her there with my body pressed against hers. “I didn’t say I preferred them,” I whispered in her ear, closing my eyes to inhale the addictive scent of her. “As far as I’m concerned, though, you’re worse trouble.” I kissed the side of her neck, tasting her skin, breathing in the smell of her blood as it rushed through her veins. So easy just to make one small piercing, just take a taste. I moved my mouth behind her ear, fighting it.

She was holding herself very still. “W-w-why?” she stammered.

“I can kill the Nephilim,” I whispered. “I can fight them. But I have too hard a time fighting you.”

She turned her face up to mine, and her hands reached up to touch me. “Then don’t fight,” she said in a tone of such practicality that I wanted to laugh.

“At least I won’t rip out your heart.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said. And like a fool, I kissed her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I KNEW PERFECTLY WELL THAT I WAS an idiot to do this, but right then nothing could have stopped me. His body was pressed up tight against me, and the heat and strength of it calmed my panic—but brought out a whole new raft of fear. His mouth was hot, wet, carnal, as he kissed me, his slow deliberation at odds with the crazed rush of lust that had overwhelmed us last night. He slanted his mouth across mine, tasting, biting, giving me a chance to kiss him back, his tongue a shocking intruder that somehow felt right. In my somewhat limited experience, men didn’t really like to kiss; they simply did it to get to the part they did like.

Raziel clearly enjoyed kissing—he was too good at it not to enjoy it. He was in no hurry to push me into bed, no hurry to do anything more than kiss me.

He lifted his head, and his strange, beautiful eyes with their striated irises stared down at me for a long, breathless moment. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Kissing you. If you haven’t figured that out yet, I must not be doing a very good job of it. I must need practice.” And he kissed me again, a deep, hungry kiss that stole my breath and stole my heart.