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He shakes his head, muttering. “Fucking Wildbloods.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. We stare at each other, the air fraught with tension as his gaze dips down to my nipples, then lower to the small triangle of fabric of my thong.
Slowly, he starts to unbutton his shirt, never taking his eyes off me as he tosses it aside. As he does, I can’t help letting my gaze roam over the broad expanse of his chest, down his muscular torso, then eventually to the ink on his skin. It covers part of his chest, wrapping around his side. The rest is presumably on his back, which is obscured from my view. It’s a large piece, and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.
It’s an angel, his body sculpted as if it were from marble. His face is hidden beneath a hood, cast in shadow, with only his eyes peering out from beneath. The angel–much like Azrael–is a towering figure, dark and powerful, his wings spread wide. His chest, shoulders, and forearms are covered in ornate armor as if he’s ready for battle. At his side, his fist clenches the hilt of the sword—a sword that’s pierced a crescent moon.
I swallow, feeling strangely conflicted by the piece. While it’s arresting in a way that I don’t want to look away from–a beautiful piece of art–it’s impossible to misinterpret. What else could that moon represent but me?
He recognizes the war in my eyes but chooses not to acknowledge it. After all, what is there to say? We are who we are: enemies at heart, now bound by marriage.
His gaze dips briefly to the tattoo on my chest, the phases of the moon inked between my breasts, and his eyes flash with heat. For someone who has a depiction of that very moon conquered by the dark angel on his arm, he doesn’t seem all that disgusted by my artwork. In fact, I think he seems to like it against his own desires.
When his hands move to his trousers, I follow them with my gaze. I’ve been curious about this moment, and I can’t hide it.
He unzips the pants and parts the fabric, tugging them down along with his briefs before he discards those too. Just as I suspected, an enormous, throbbing cock springs free, and terror washes over me.
“Nope.” The word squeaks out as I shake my head, backing away with what is undoubtedly horror written across my face.
Azrael quirks a brow at me. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there’s a problem.” I glare at the offending member. “You’re going to rip me in half. Oh God, please don’t let me die this way.”
I don’t know if I’m praying to him or a deity I’m not even sure exists. I just know I want to run, and the second the thought pops into my head, Azrael laughs. He actually fucking laughs, like this is funny. Jesus, I didn’t even know the man was capable of humor, but this is the furthest thing from funny.
“Azrael—” I start to plead with him, hoping he’ll come to see reason. It’s basic math. That monstrosity is not fitting inside of me.
“Come here,” he orders.
I shake my head again.
He sighs. “Is everything going to be a battle with you?”
I nod.
He comes to me instead, swallowing up the space between us in one stride before he turns me in his arms again and pins my back to the front of his body. Only now, it’s different because I can feel his skin against mine. His cologne lingers in the air, intoxicating in a way I don’t understand, just as the feeling of his kiss remains on my lips. Worst of all, I can hear that voice in my head telling me to give in.
I try to ignore it, but it’s forgotten entirely when Azrael’s fingers slip down beneath the fabric of my thong, stroking between my thighs. A strangled noise gets caught in my throat, and his body stiffens behind me like he’s surprised.
“So wet for me already, Little Witch?”
I don’t have a response for him, but it’s clear he doesn’t want one. His other hand settles against my throat, his fingertips pressing against the delicate flesh just enough to alter my breathing but not to take it away entirely. It feels like a warning, and I’m reminded of my own personal nightmare.
“Relax.” The word caresses my ear as he strokes me between my thighs again.
I’m at war inside my head. Half of me is ready to flee at the memory of being trapped without breath; the other half is giving in to the sensations he’s coaxing from my body as he touches me.
“Azrael.” His name slips from my lips, and I’m not entirely sure what I’m pleading for, but he knows.
He gives it to me. He strokes me to the edge of an abyss, tension coiling every muscle in my body as I chase a high like I’ve never felt. But just as I’m about to fall off that edge, he pulls me back, stopping abruptly.
