Demon Angel

from a defensible position, and he'd claimed it for his own.
    "Coward," he said softly.
    Gathering herself, she looked over her shoulder and slanted him a wry smile. "Self-preservation is not completely divorced from cowardice, as you well know."
    "Aye."
    The guttural assent sent a tremor through her stomach. He'd discarded his accent, the language of his birth hundreds of years before, but it bled through when he was deeply affected or harassed.
    Or aroused.
    The memory of the feel of him, his hard length, lingered on her palm; she flexed her fingers against it. She refused to glance down, to see the physical evidence of that assent. Did not need to see it: he projected it as clearly as a child.
    She stood still, silent as he approached and stopped a breath away.
    "It was the first name you called me: coward." A gentle smile curved his mouth as he touched a curl above her ear, but the softness of his expression, his action, did not deceive her: she could feel the heat within him. "For not making sport of Mandeville. For caring more of a comfortable situation than obtaining power over him."
    "Yes, and look what it got you: a freezing post on the allure and a sword through the heart." Her tone mocked him, but he only raised his gaze to hers, a hint of triumph rolling through his psychic scent.
    "You offered me a bargain that night on the wall walk, my lady—a bargain I was a fool to have rejected. I will accept it now."
    She shook her head. "It is not still—"
    He halted her denial by placing her hand against his skin, drawn tight by cold and rain. "You can burn me with hellfire. What has changed that you would withdraw the offer? Are you so different you cannot sit on a man's lap without it being a kindness?"
    It was a challenge—a trap, though she couldn't see his purpose. She withdrew her hand. "I am as I always have been," she said, and it took all of her control to keep the trembling inside her from manifesting outwardly. He would kill her with this; did he not see that?
    He lowered his head. "I see your lie," he whispered against her lips. No part of him touched her, yet she felt enveloped by him, surrounded. Under siege.
    Did he seek her surrender or her resistance?
    "You cannot. You're no longer Gifted—" She wasn't making sense, couldn't think as his mouth skimmed down the side of her neck, still not touching her but for the warmth of his breath.
    He straightened. His gaze was cold, hard. "I see your lie," he repeated.
    He pivoted and strode toward her table; shaken, she stared as he sifted through the items there. Perhaps he could still see Truth, perhaps eight hundred years as a Guardian had left its mark on him in ways not entirely human—
    A pair of handcuffs dangled from his fingers as he turned back.
    She laughed. "What do you think to do with those?"
    "I think to obtain the power I once denied myself," he said, and though the reply sent prickles of unease down her spine, she let him slip them over her wrists, click them tight. She could break them if she desired. "Surely even your father would approve of it, for I intend to help you along in your bargain with him."
    Was he mad? But, no, the purpose emanating from him wasn't tinged by insanity, only arousal. Curiosity and excitement—worse, anticipation—made her question breathless, "How?"
    He scanned the apartment; his gaze lit on something behind her, and he began pushing her in that direction. A devilish grin creased his cheeks, flashed white teeth. "I get to play the demon. To tempt someone who has strayed from the path."
    Her back hit the open closet door, the hinges squealing as her weight forced it as wide as it could go. He raised her hands, snagged the handcuff chain over the coat hook screwed to the top of the door.
    "You jest," she laughed again. "And will you torture me now? Perhaps if you do so, I will be able to hate you and won't need to pretend to look forward to fulfilling Lucifer's bargain."
    Her laughter faded as she caught sight of his face. He closed his eyes, as if against terrible pain—but when he opened them they were filled with determination.
    The wild tousle of his hair should have softened his appearance, but his features were stark, edged with desperation. His gaze pierced her like blue steel: steady, resolute. He traced the line of her jaw with his forefinger. "Now we bargain, Lilith."
    Too late, she realized his humor a moment ago had been a ruse, designed to lower her guard, to allow him to position her just so.