Slowly, slowly, I lifted my legs to wrap them around his narrow hips. Slowly, slowly, I put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer as I let go, let go of the ancient need born out of stubbornness and transformed into a vicious curse, let go of the memory of the thousand demons who had taken me this way, night after night, tearing me, hurting me, destroying me. Gone, it was all gone, and there was only Azazel, the smell of his skin, the cool ocean scent of him, the warm flesh, the taste of him in my mouth as I licked his shoulder, the steady thrust of him, touching someplace inside me that made me wild. And I was the one who kissed him, arching up to meet him, joining him in this mad dance of lust and love; and it wasn’t about him controlling me, conquering me, it wasn’t about who was on top and who was on the bottom, it was just the two of us, the joining, thick and hot and wonderful; and my climax, more powerful than ever, was coming closer, and even though I wanted to hold back to prolong it, the feelings were too shattering, and I let go of the need to control, let go and simply existed in a sea of pleasure.

I could feel his own need rise, his cock swelling inside me when I would have thought that was impossible, the slamming speed of his thrusts that shook me, shook the bed, and I cried out for more, for what I wanted, needed; and as I hovered on the crest, as I felt him begin to spurt inside me, his teeth clamped down on my neck, his teeth piercing my skin, and I shattered. The pull of his mouth at my neck, sucking, drinking, lost in my taste, the sweet hot rush as he filled me were too much. I was dying, and I didn’t care. We would die together, destroyed by a desire that was elementally wrong; they had warned us, and neither of us had cared. I was dying, and I was in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

There were feathers, feathers closing around me, soft and blessed, drawing in the darkness, and as I tumbled back to earth I let myself rest in their gentleness, at peace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I OPENED MY EYES SLOWLY, NOT AT all certain what I expected to see. The flames of hell? Beloch’s—no, Uriel’s triumphant face? The total darkness of nothing at all? What did one see in the afterlife? I was afraid to look.

He was lying beside me on the white sheet, his black hair obscuring his face, though I didn’t have any doubt as to who he was. He slept like the dead, lying on his stomach, but I could see the rise and fall of his breathing, and I knew he’d survived.

I touched my neck gingerly. There was nothing there, no mark or pain, yet a frisson of remembered reaction washed over me as I let my fingers trail against my flesh. I seemed to have developed a new and entirely unexpected erogenous zone at the base of my neck, and as I remembered the pull of his mouth, I let out a quiet moan of remembered pleasure.

I sat up, very carefully so as not to wake him. The room was filled with the odd half-light that I knew was dawn, and I stared out the French doors into the private garden with astonishment. It had been late afternoon when I entered this room. Late afternoon when Azazel and I had made love, if that’s what you could call it. I doubted that was the operative word on his part, but I wasn’t going to go searching for others. Yet now it was morning, and I remembered nothing after the blackness had closed around me. Except hadn’t there been feathers?

He was watching me. I should have known he’d sleep like a cat, instantly alert. He rolled over onto his back, before I remembered that I’d wanted to look for signs of the wings I knew he must have. His gaze was heavy-lidded, and I looked for signs of my blood on his mouth, wondering if it would disgust me. Would he taste like blood?

“We’re alive,” I said, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Did you have any doubts?”

“Of course I did.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “And you agreed anyway?”

“Yes.” I could be monosyllabic as well. I wasn’t going to explain myself. Explain that wanting him was a fever in my blood, driving through me, and I would have faced the Truth Breakers once more just for the chance of sharing a bed with him.

He pushed himself to a sitting position beside me, for all the world like a husband about to read the Sunday paper, and stretched, a slow, sinuous movement that made my mouth go dry. I had the top sheet pulled up to primly cover my breasts, though as far as I could remember we’d started on top of the silk coverlet that was now on the floor. The sheet was draped loosely around his hips as well, for all the world like a PG-rated romantic comedy. I wondered what would happen if I jumped him.

“We slept,” I said. Another scintillating bit of conversation.

“It is to be expected. The first bonding is a powerful experience for both partners. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

There it was again, another apology. But never for the right thing, for the real betrayal. “You didn’t frighten me.”

He gave me a disbelieving glance, but then, he’d felt my panic when he’d pushed inside me, face-to-face. I could deny it all I wanted, but my fear had been real. It was gone now, another part of my curse broken. A part I hadn’t even known remained.

But he’d known, and been prepared for my reaction. He knew too much about me.

He was still watching me, and I was suddenly unwilling to meet his gaze. I slid down in the bed once more, turning my back to him. I was unwilling to get up and go in search of clothing, but his steady gaze made me desperately uncomfortable. “I’m going to sleep some more,” I mumbled.

I hoped he’d take the hint and leave the bed, leave me; for a minute he didn’t move. And then he did, sliding down, turning and curving his body around mine in a gesture I might have thought was protective if it weren’t for the hard ridge of flesh at my back.

His arms went around me, pulling me back against him, his hands sliding up to cover my breasts. I made a hissing noise, only squirming for an instant, and then settling back against his protective warmth. I don’t know why I felt I needed protection—he had proven to be my greatest danger. But for some reason he felt like my greatest safety, and I closed my eyes and slept.

LYING IN BED WITH RACHEL wrapped in his arms was pure hell, and it was only the beginning of his penance. If he could bring her at least a small portion of peace, then he would, no matter what the price. A raging hard-on was minor torment, right?

How had he come to such a place in his limitless existence? He’d prided himself on being cold and controlled with everyone but Sarah, and her loss had scoured away the last bit of gentleness he owned. It had taken too long to realize he’d become a monster, what he despised most. He might not have been Uriel’s bitch, but he’d come close enough, and it had taken Rachel’s near death to make him realize it.

He could still taste her—the sweetness of her desire, the richness of her blood—and he wanted to groan. He didn’t dare fall asleep; he’d probably end up with a wet dream, thoroughly horrifying her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it: how she’d finally accepted him, wrapping her legs around him and drawing him in tighter; the soft sounds of need that came from her throat when he thrust; the way she’d thrown her head back and arched her neck into the pulling of his mouth as he’d sucked the nourishing, strengthening blood from her.

Hell, who was he kidding? The taking of blood was ritual, deliberate, a holy act and one of healing and strength. It was also the most erotic thing the Fallen were capable of doing, and it had sealed him to her.

God, he thought, shaken. And yet he’d known. Known that it would come to this, that they were bound together whether she hated him or not. She knew it too, even if she refused to admit it. He expected she’d keep fighting it. And he would let her, up to a point. He would have given her more time if he’d had the option, but Uriel was getting too close. Azazel had had no choice but to throw his own doubts and hesitation to the wind. He’d allow her to keep hers for as long as feasible. One more thing he owed her.