He could feel his blood pounding through him. He’d been counting on her refusal, and he would have dealt with it. He’d been a fool not to realize he’d been bringing her to a certain death. Not that he’d had a choice. He’d survived the Truth Breakers, but she was weaker. She would indeed be broken, and Beloch was not big on mercy.

If she’d said no, he would have come up with a plan to get her out of there, though he had no idea how, or whether he even could. He had to remember that the truth was more important than one small female. So he would take her body. Her agreement was reluctant, which helped. She hated and feared him—he’d done his best to foster that. He had no doubt that her seductive nature would emerge, and he simply had to do his best to resist her siren lure. No man could resist her, but he wasn’t a man. He could take her, fuck her, and there’d be no tie, no bond. His body could do what it had to do, and he could take his release as a physical act, nothing more. The Lilith wanted total capitulation, but he would never give her that. It wasn’t in his nature. He refused to accept the prophecy. He would kill her himself before that came to pass.

But it wouldn’t. He rose, went into his bathroom, and took a cold shower, the icy pellets pounding his skin. It did nothing to cool the desire that curled in the pit of his gut. Real triumph would be not to want her. Not to grow hard at the thought of being inside her.

But that triumph was out of reach. He could no more control his physical reaction than he could bring Sarah back. But he could control everything else.

He wasn’t going to dress, but if he went to her naked she’d see his arousal, and it would give her too much of an advantage. He pulled on his jeans, carefully, and went in search of her.

It was time.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I STAYED IN THE SHOWER UNTIL THE skin on my fingers puckered and the steamy water started to turn cold, and even then I considered putting up with it for another half hour rather than face what was waiting for me. I couldn’t remember sex, except for the relatively unsatisfying times with Rolf. Surely I must have enjoyed it at some point in my life, but if I had, those memories were lost. I couldn’t even remember much about Rolf, except that I was always on top. And it didn’t help.

But it was like riding a bicycle, I expected. Once you learned, it was easy enough to go through the motions. Besides, most of it would be up to Azazel.

But I was nervous enough, and the cold water was making me ready to jump out of my skin, so reluctantly I turned off the faucet and stepped from the shower, which was surprisingly modern for a house better suited to the nineteenth century.

There were big, enveloping towels, and I wrapped myself tightly and tried to do something with my ridiculously tangled hair. It was a pain in the butt trying to wash it, especially when the saber cut on my face had started to bleed again under the hot water, seeping across my scalp when I tilted my head back. In Brisbane I’d used half a cup of conditioner in an effort to force it into submission, but the fabulous shower here didn’t come with anything but lavender shampoo. Great. I was going to scare the pants off him. I managed a nervous giggle. That was the point, wasn’t it? And he shouldn’t be surprised if I looked like a crazy woman—he was expecting to bed a demon. At least I could comply as far as looks went.

Unless he did this in total darkness. That would make the entire thing easier. After all, I’d had sex with Rolf and it had been no big whoop. And Rolf’s increasingly limp response was one more sign that I was a far cry from the irresistible siren Azazel believed me to be. In fact, he was going to be pretty disappointed if he expected fireworks and acrobatics. I didn’t know any. I had every intention of simply doing it and getting it over with as quickly as possible.

I walked into my room, planning to find the voluminous nightgown I’d worn the night before. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to take it off—I could just raise it demurely and avert my eyes.

I stopped short. He was lying on my bed, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else. I should have known he’d be gorgeous without a shirt. His skin was luminous white-gold against the colorless sheets, and his black hair was damp, pushed away from his starkly beautiful face. He was watching me intently, and my panic blossomed.

But there was no place to run. I could do this. I’d done this countless times before, hadn’t I? I looked at him. “Could we turn off the lights?”

“No.”

I bit my lip. “Do you know where my nightgown is?”

“You don’t need it. Come.” He gestured to the bed beside him. That blasted command again. I moved a couple steps closer.

“Can’t you do something?” I said nervously. “Say something nice to me? Hold out your hand?”

“So you can pretend this is not what it is? I doubt it. Remove the towel and get on the bed, and stop pretending you haven’t been doing this for tens of thousands of years. You can use your skills—they won’t have any effect on me.”

“I don’t have skills,” I said, frustrated. “And if they won’t make any difference, why should I try?”

“It is not beyond the realm of possibility that they might speed things up, which we would both appreciate. Take off the towel and get on the bed.”

I got on the bed, keeping the towel clamped around me. He lay back against the pillows, the color of him a striking contrast against the drabness of this world. He was waiting for me to do something, to take charge.

Well, I certainly understood the basics. Tab A fit into slot B and all that. I pulled my legs up underneath me and stared at him. “What if I’m not your mythical baby-eating demon?” I said suddenly. “What if you’re wrong, if you scooped up the wrong person?”

“There is no mistake.”

“How do you know?”

“Because of my reaction to you.”

That gave me pause. And then I rallied. “Oh, I bet you hate a lot more people than just me, and you don’t go around thinking they’re Lilith.”

“I have already told you I do not hate you. And that is not the reaction I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?” I demanded, frustrated.

On anyone else, that glimmer might signal amusement. Not on Azazel, of course. But he didn’t answer my question. Instead, he said, “You can stop trying to put this off with meaningless questions.”

“That’s right,” I said, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s over.”

“Exactly. Go ahead.”

Go ahead? Shit, and do what? And why was I getting so upset? I wanted it over and done with as much as he did. Clinging to the knot that held the towel together, I moved over to him, careful to keep my lower half covered, which was no mean feat, given that the towel seemed determined to split apart and flash him.

I reached out and put a tentative hand on his chest, and almost yanked it back again. His skin was warm. For some reason I expected him to feel cool beneath my hand. I let my fingers slide up tentatively to his shoulder. “Shouldn’t angels have wings?” I whispered.

“I have them when I need them.”

“Magic?”

“Miracle,” he said, not moving beneath the gentle explorations. His nipples were dark circles against his pale skin, and I wanted to put my mouth on them. The thought was so random and unexpected that I ignored it, moving my fingers across his collarbone to the other shoulder.

“You know,” he said in a conversational tone, “you’d be better off moving your hand lower down. All the interesting parts are below the waist.”

I yanked my hand back, suddenly embarrassed. I was doing this wrong. Why the hell hadn’t I ever learned to come on to a man?

The answer was simple. I had never wanted to. Sex had been the price I paid for companionship, something men wanted, not me. It was about bringing pleasure to a man, not about my pleasure. But this time was different.