Demon Angel

gathering her close against him. He pressed his lips to hers; they tasted of sea water. Her eyes opened.
    "I'm really… fucking… cold." Her teeth chattered together, and realization and panic struck him at the same time. He lifted her; her head lolled back against his shoulder.
    Human.
    His eyes burned as he carried her down the hall toward the bathroom, as he set her down on the toilet seat, holding her up with one hand as he turned on the taps to fill the bath with the other. Working quickly, he unlaced the corset, stripped it off. The wet pants clung to her legs; weakly, she tried to help him, and with a final yank he ended sprawled against the opposite wall.
    "Stupid… leather," she said, and whether she shook with laughter or cold he couldn't tell.
    "I like them," he said simply, and slid her shivering form into the lukewarm bath.
    Her breath hissed from between her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut. "I hate this. I can't be this."
    His heart seemed to tear from his chest. Kneeling beside the tub, he pushed tendrils of hair from her forehead. "I know."
    She slept. Eventually dreams felt like madness, and she clawed her way out of them. Two thousand years without sleep, and she had forgotten how to tell dream from reality, forgotten how easily they fell away on waking.
    She was still tired—exhausted—but it was a pleasure to open her eyes. A pleasure to see the wash of midmorning light across the room. A pleasure to see Hugh, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his long body absolutely still. It was a protective stance, yet unguarded in its focus: as if he'd been content to watch her for an eternity, and had settled into the watching with his entire being.
    Strange, that a man could do nothing but be, and it was a pleasure.
    She grinned suddenly, rolling over onto her side and propping her head on her hand. One day as a human, and she'd descended into maudlin sentimentality.
    Her movement seemed to spur his, and he sat down on the bed next to her, laying his hand across her forehead. The mattress was soft beneath her, the blankets a comfortable weight. At some point, he'd put a sweatshirt on her, and she felt loose fleece sweatpants against her legs.
    "I have to kill you." Her voice was light, but she regarded him intently, searching for his reaction. "If a fever takes me first, Lucifer will be furious—though it would be his fault. Even a demon should know that a human body cannot easily withstand the frigid water in the bay."
    His brows rose, and a smile seemed to flirt with his lips. His gaze touched everywhere his hands had not, as if looking for signs of sickness or injury. "Are you well?"
    Weak, tired, with aches that she couldn't remember if they were normal or not. But she nodded. "I'm fortunate that Sir Pup swims very quickly."
    He looked at her for a moment more, then said, "Very fortunate. I fed him a few small children as reward."
    A few moments later, she held her belly and groaned, "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."
    That smile that had appeared with her laughter immediately failed. His throat worked before he said, "Why are you not angry?" At her sigh, he continued, "Have you resigned yourself to this so easily then?"
    She stiffened, then saw the brief flash of humor in his eyes and realized he was trying to provoke a heated response. Unwilling to give in, she relaxed back into the pillows, and pulled the comforter up to her chin. "I'm building up to it; within ten minutes, I'll be myself again."
    He stretched out on his side next to her, crooking his elbow and looking down at her face. "Who are you now?"
    According to the symbol over her heart, still Lilith. But she did not want to think of that at this moment; beneath the blanket, she ran her hand down her torso. "Do you want to come in and find out?"
    His gaze fell to her mouth, but he shook his head.
    She hid her smile, rounding her lips in an O of surprise. "What is this I've found? Round and"—she gasped exaggeratedly, and tented the blanket over her chest—"no longer sharp? There are two!"
    "Not that large, certainly," he said, pushing the blanket back down. His brows drew together, and he studied her as if he'd seen something new in her features. "And so you delve into absurdities when you wish to avoid a truth, whereas I brood and overanalyze myself into permanent inaction."
    "I hate that you know me so well," she said mildly, and then narrowed her eyes. "How are you resisting me? Is this your