Demon Angel

beneath his fingers.
    The rain beaded on the material, the drops glistening beneath the streetlamp.
    She'd kept it sixteen years . Unease filled him at the realization, though he couldn't pinpoint why. Suddenly still, he examined the rough weave for stains. It had been cleaned, and he would have been glad for it had he not the sinking certainty where the blood had gone.
    He let it fall back onto the canvas, wiped away the water from his face. He could not wear it again. Foolish to have worn ever worn it, when it stood for a humility he had not truly felt. An illusion, as false as her demon skin—a denial of his will to a greater purpose, a denial he'd resented, but not resisted.
    And when he'd finally resisted it, he'd destroyed the one person he'd most wanted to save. Had destroyed himself.
    It would have made more sense for Lucifer to have forced her into the bargain earlier, when his soul had been hard but for the cracks Savi and Auntie had—
    He rose slowly to his feet, his heart thundering.
    Sixteen years.
    Had Lucifer been interested in obtaining Hugh's soul, he would have acted earlier. But it was not Hugh's damnation the demon lord truly sought.
    It was Lilith's pain.
    Lilith knew that. The Morningstar spoke with doubled tongue; he forced Lilith to purge any humanity out of hate for its source, but wanted the pain it brought her when she could not. He'd waited sixteen years to call in the bargain as a Punishment.
    But if she could convince Lucifer the bargain was not a Punishment, that she was eager to destroy Hugh, wouldn't Lucifer choose that which gave her greater pain? Would he not choose the real Punishment?
    Instinct—sharp, predatory—led him back inside. She had expected him to leave, and he had; but sixteen years had not turned him into the boy he'd been before, the knight who lived for the chivalric code. Nor was he the Guardian who'd lost faith.
    He was a man who needed to make certain she could not hide what she felt for him from Lucifer. When she returned from Below, he'd deal with the consequences then.
    But she had to return first.
    He moved with slow deliberation up the stairs, preparing. Giving himself completely over, losing himself in the memories of her—teasing, arousing—so that she would not feel the intent behind the action. He knew how to approach her, how to start, but to fully convince her… he had to feel his way through, find a vulnerability and exploit it.
    She would hear him; and, indeed, she opened the door before he could reach for the knob—no longer in the shape she would use Below, but the form in between. The form she'd been so many nights: in the castle tower, his bedroom the night previous… Seattle. The black corset hugged her torso, the leather pants her legs to just below her knees. She was barefoot, and it would have made her seem vulnerable but for the sword in her hand.
    He leaned against the door frame, hooked his thumb in his pocket and smiled lazily. "Shall we bargain?"
----

CHAPTER 21
    Previous Top Next
    No . The answer hovered on Lilith's tongue, but she couldn't force it past her lips. A demon had no choice but to consider a bargain, to hear the terms before rejecting it as unsatisfactory. He knew that. She eyed him warily, distrusting his stance, his smile, the impenetrable psychic block around his thoughts. And she distrusted herself, for the skip of her heart when she'd heard him returning. Would that she'd had more time, to banish the pain of his leaving, the lingering arousal.
    As if he felt her probe, his blocks disappeared, leaving her mind awash with images of heat and raw sexual congress.
    Her breath sped from her lungs, and the heavy, liquid melting she had suppressed weakened her knees, leeched the strength from the limbs she'd determined would be as steel.
    "You have nothing to interest me," she said, but her eyes made her a liar. She couldn't look away from him, from the dark hair wet and tousled, as if he'd run his hand through it to shake off the rain. The drops that clung to his cheeks, ran in rivulets down his shoulders and chest, beside the bronze nipples puckered by the cold; she wanted to follow that trail with her fingers, her lips, her tongue.
    Vanishing her sword, she turned away. And immediately realized it was a mistake when he stepped into the room, set his bag down, and shut the door. Locked it.
    He had not taken her response as acquiescence, but had taken advantage of her reluctance to fight, to argue. She had retreated