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As I draw the chemise lower, I let my knuckle brush the stiff peak of her nipple and when I do, I feel a hunger so raw, so feral, that when I turn my gaze back to hers, she gasps audibly. I am certain it takes all her strength to not step backward. To not try to run from me.
But it doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere for her to go.
Because I am the beast in the stained-glass window of the library.
I am the monster who will loom over her when I’ve taken what I must. When she’s paid what she must.
She is the sacrifice.
And she is mine.
7
WILLOW
The ride to Saint Trinity’s Cathedral in the Garden District of New Orleans is tainted with silence. After an emotional goodbye with my family, I’d been ushered into a Rolls Royce with Azrael while another driver delivered my belongings and Fiona to his house where I will live for whatever remainder of time I have left upon this earth.
Azrael sits beside me in the back seat, his presence looming almost larger than life. The car is roomy and comfortable, but it’s dwarfed by his imposing frame. He takes up so much space that it feels like his energy might suck me into an abyss I’ll never escape from.
He’s quiet, his gaze unfocused out the window, as we travel together toward our inevitable doom. I don’t know why the silence throws me off balance, but it does. In my mind, I had conjured up many different expectations of this man, but none of them could prepare me for the reality.
His strange gold eyes were the first thing to grab hold of me, like they didn’t want to let me go. The moment our gazes had clashed, I felt like I was drowning, yet I couldn’t look away. There was an ache in my chest I didn’t recognize, a sense of agony so profound it paralyzed me at that moment.
I knew without question it was his, something he carried with him. Something unsettling. The longer I watched him, the more I realized it wasn’t any of the things I’d been warned about.
His spirit is restless, his energy dark and mercurial. He’s tormented in a way I didn’t expect. I wonder if anyone else can see it or if it’s just me—something I feel, in the same way I’ve felt things long before others can see them.
Nanna always told me intuition was my gift, and I can feel it now, caressing the nape of my neck like a presence I can’t shake. If I stop to listen closely, I can hear a familiar voice whispering through my mind. It’s the same voice that has haunted my dreams and waking moments from the time I was a young girl.
A voice from the past. An ancestor I never met but whose blood still runs through my veins.
Right now, Elizabeth is telling me something about Azrael.
The chosen one.
The words rattle around my brain like an echo chamber, setting me on edge. I don’t know what she means, but I seldom do. Her words often come in riddles, forcing me to seek the answers myself. As I glance at the man beside me, I wonder what he’d think if he knew what was happening inside my head.
My mind supplies an answer readily. He’d probably wish they could still hang witches freely.
But that thought is at odds with what I feel when I look at him. Despite what I had predicted, he doesn’t seem to be savoring this moment as I was assured he would. After all, the Delacroixes are known for their sadistic enjoyment of claiming the Wildblood women. As he sits beside me like a statue, though, unnaturally still and quiet, I can’t help but feel a sense of conflict from him.
Or maybe that’s just what I want to believe.
The car pulls to a stop, and I swallow as I wait for him to look at me again. It takes him three full seconds, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I saw him drag in a ragged breath before he does.
“It’s time,” he utters the words without emotion as the driver opens the door for us.
I don’t reply. What is there to say? I’m about to marry my family’s sworn enemy and live beneath his rule until tragedy inevitably snatches me away. It’s the die that’s been cast for me. The history between our families has dictated as much, and there is no altering that.
Azrael unfolds his large body from the car and stands up, spine rigid as he holds his hand out for me. It isn’t a gesture of kindness. It feels more like an ingrained habit, as if he were raised to be respectful of women, which is almost laughable.
Despite the somber mood, I find myself quietly amused by the idea as I reluctantly settle my hand in his. This time, I know I’m not imagining the shock that travels through my body. My lips part in a silent gasp, and when I’m pulled from the car and our eyes meet again, his narrow on me. He’s casting an accusatory glance as if I’m responsible for this strange, chaotic energy between us. As if my witchy senses conjured it up just to trick him.
