His hands tightened on my hips then, moving me, continuing the rhythm that I had lost, as I myself was lost, and he thrust up into me, hard, again and again. I dug my fingers into his shoulders, wanting to get away, but he wouldn’t let me. “Do not fight it,” he whispered. “Embrace it.” He slid his hand down my stomach, touching where we joined, and a jolt of reaction swept through me.

I heard my own muffled cry, and he surged up into me again, and again, and he touched me once more, hard, and his voice was a growl.

“Come,” he said. And I did.

I shattered into a thousand pieces, splintered darkness all around me, as I felt him climax inside me. I was gone, there was nothing left of me as I went into that dark place, drinking it in, my body frozen. And then I collapsed against him, wanting to weep, and his arms came around me with heartbreaking tenderness, holding me as I slowly returned to my body, to the bed, to the man I was straddling.

I wanted to stay like that forever. I wanted him to kiss me, to tell me he loved me; I wanted all the fairy tales people wove. But instead his arms slid back, his hands caught my body and lifted me off him, setting me down on the bed beside him.

I turned my back on him, curling up in a tight ball, hugging myself. I didn’t want to see his emotionless expression, his wintry blue eyes. I was slowly coming back—if I looked at things calmly, I could admit he’d been kind. He’d held me, stroked me, guided me when I lost my way.

And I hated him for it. He was my enemy, he’d made that clear, and what we’d just done was simple biology to him. What had shattered my soul was simply instinct on his part, and I hated that it didn’t matter. Hated him.

I was acutely aware of him beside me, still propped against the pillows, his jeans shoved down his hips, not moving. Not doing anything. Not reaching out to touch me, hold me. Not saying a word.

I wished I could cry. If I’d been able to burst into tears, maybe some of the conflict would have lessened, the sorrow and power of the last half hour reduced to manageable levels. But my eyes were dry, and I stared into the room, sightless, empty. And then I closed my eyes and slept.

HE DIDN’T MOVE, COULDN’T MOVE. He’d done what he was supposed to do, and he’d survived quite well, thank you. He wasn’t going to turn into a demon simply because he’d fucked one. He wasn’t going to lose his soul, forget about Sarah, fall in love.

It was sex. What astonished him was how honestly bad she was at it. No, that wasn’t quite true. What they’d just shared—no, he didn’t want to think of it that way. They hadn’t shared anything. What they’d just done had had a disturbing erotic power, despite her nervousness. Even the Lilith couldn’t simulate her deep blush when he’d stripped that damned towel off her; even the Lilith couldn’t have made her desire-slick flesh resist his entrance like that. She really didn’t know what she was doing.

Which meant her memory loss was real, and his treatment of her had been beyond cruel. He turned his head to look down at her, curled up in a tight ball. Her eyes were closed and there was no sign of tears, but that was no surprise. Demons couldn’t cry.

He should say something to her, something kind. For all he knew, that might have been the very first orgasm she’d experienced, and he knew that was shattering for a woman. But he couldn’t touch her.

It would be too dangerous if he pulled her into his arms. Too dangerous to murmur soothing words against her tangled hair, to kiss her creamy skin, her breasts, the hot beat of her vein against his mouth. He’d wanted her, wanted everything from her, heat and sex and blood in his mouth, and she wasn’t the one. She would never be the one.

Even if she didn’t remember her power, it didn’t mean she didn’t still wield it. Then again, he’d been celibate for seven years. It was little wonder he was feeling equally … shaken.

He waited until he was certain she was asleep, then slid off the bed, shoving his jeans off as he headed for the bathroom. He cleaned himself, annoyed that he grew hard again as he remembered how her body had felt; when he came back into the room, she hadn’t moved. The sun was just beginning to rise on the Dark City, and he turned off the light as he slipped back into bed beside her. She made a soft sound in her sleep, almost like a muffled sob, and it felt like a blow.

He pulled the covers up around her, settling them over her gently so as not to disturb her. He slid down on the mattress and closed his eyes. He could smell the scent of her skin, the tang of sex, the scent of the ocean that always clung to him. Familiar, comfortable smells. Why should the scent of her skin be familiar?

It didn’t matter. He slept.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN AZAZEL AWOKE HE was lying on his side, his body curled protectively around hers but not quite touching her. She still slept. If she’d known he was so close, his face almost buried in her hair, she would have moved.

Beloch was watching them. He knew it. Azazel inched away, slowly so as not to wake her, slowly so that Beloch wouldn’t sense his anger. He turned and sat up, the covers to his waist, deliberately shielding her from Beloch’s inimical gaze.

He was hovering by the door. Not there in the flesh, of course. Beloch never left the confines of his Dark City stronghold, but he could project himself almost anywhere. Azazel had known the moment Beloch came into the room, even though he’d been asleep. It was small comfort that there had been no eyes watching them in the dark hours of the morning.

He met Beloch’s eyes. “It is done,” he said in a low voice, hoping not to wake her. “And still I feel nothing.”

“So it is,” Beloch murmured in the faintly hollow voice that came when he projected his presence. “Shall I take her, then?”

This had to be played very carefully. If he showed reluctance, Beloch would pounce, and Azazel hadn’t yet come up with an alternative to her certain annihilation. “If you wish,” he said calmly. Beloch had moved to the left, to get a better view of Rachel as she slept, and he shifted, shielding her once more. “If you believe this has been a thorough test, then of course I acquiesce. I am relieved you haven’t asked more of me. I have assured you that I am invulnerable to her lures, and bedding her has failed to change that. I’m pleased you have been convinced so quickly.”

Beloch just watched him. “I cannot decide whether you’re making the very unwise attempt to manipulate me, or you are truly impervious to her. Though she appears to be far removed from the Lilith, she should still retain her erotic power. You insist that you feel nothing? That her powers do not move you?”

“I climaxed inside her. Is that answer enough?”

“So you did,” Beloch murmured. “The cameras were very explicit.”

Azazel froze. He hadn’t bothered to search the room, knowing that Beloch could simply transport himself if he wanted to watch. He should have realized that Beloch would know he would resist.

“You were watching.”

“I was watching,” Beloch murmured. “What I fail to understand is why you had to do all the heavy lifting, so to speak. I would have thought she’d simply shove you down and climb on top of you. It is her way, after all.”

He managed to keep his rage under control. “You underestimate her. She would know I wouldn’t respond well to that, that I would find shyness and uncertainty alluring.”

“And did you? Find her alluring, that is?”

She was awake. He felt the sudden tension in her body, and he wondered how long she’d been listening. He’d been too angry with Beloch to notice.

There was nothing he could do about it. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said in a tight voice. “And I’ve been celibate for too long. Of course I responded to her. It means nothing.”