Demon Angel

not gluttony."
    "If it had been, it would be the least of the sins I have committed against you."
    Her eyes widened, and a laugh broke from her. "You're overcome by guilt… because of Seattle?"
    His mouth compressed. "You are not free; and you are still afraid. I should have found another way."
    "Hugh, I couldn't tolerate the idea of your Fall. I would have slain you had you not me first. Like this."
    Quick as thought, she was back in his arms, her lips raised to his. His body was taut and hard, and he drew in a sharp breath.
    She shivered, resisted the urge to rub against him like a cat. "Your sword, here." She called the broadsword in, placed it in his hand.
    He looked down at the weapon, and his gaze flew back to hers. "Lilith," he said softly. "How did—"
    "And mine."
    He stiffened as the cold length of her blade pressed against his back. She drew the point up his spine, slicing his shirt but careful not to cut his flesh. With her free hand, she circled around his chest, smoothed her palm over the plane of his shoulder blade. "Your wings were here," she said. Her fingertips found the edge of the tear, and she pulled. The shirt ripped as easily as tissue. Bare, warm skin beneath. She slid her forefinger across his back, felt the shape of the bones under the sheet of muscle. "And this would have been the entry point for my sword. Between your ribs, through your heart."
    She pressed on the spot, then raked her nails gently over it. The swords vanished, and he shuddered as if she'd released him from an invisible hold. "That does not absolve my—"
    "I would not have regretted it." The words fell between them like drops of ice. "You have nightmares, do you not?" She knew he did, even without the confirmation in his tight nod. Impossible to have that level of guilt without it manifesting in some way. "I don't."
    A wry smile touched his lips. "You don't sleep."
    "I wouldn't have them even if I did. By that time, you were not worth the regret. There was nothing left of the man who'd once fascinated me, who'd ruled emotions I'd rather not have acknowledged. Yet you were still my tyrant."
    His face whitened. His throat worked, and she dropped her gaze to the buttons at his collar. The top two were undone, and she began unfastening the rest.
    "Will be easier for you to fulfill your bargain."
    His voice was hoarse, thick. It took a moment for her to realize what he meant. She looked up from the smooth expanse of his chest. "No. That was then. Now, I would regret. Why else would Lucifer have waited so long? No reason, but for you to shed the skin of frost you wore as a Guardian, and to become Hugh again."
    She pressed her hand over his heart, and he captured her wrist, held it still. "What do you need from me?" He searched her face, and she wondered what he saw there. "Do you need me to be as I was when I was a Guardian?"
    She shook her head, laughing. "You cannot save me." Pushing the shirt from his shoulders, she vanished it before it hit the floor. Oh, but he was beautiful. Golden flesh, sculpted by his inner demons, and more perfect than any illusion he'd been able to create as a Guardian.
    He lifted her chin. "I can try."
    "I hate martyrs," she said, smiling. Her hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers dipped in, stroked the hot, silken tip of him.
    A broken, unraveling breath escaped from between his teeth, and the muscles of his abdomen stood out in sharp relief. "What is this?"
    "Pride." She cupped her hand, slid down his thick length. She could have eased her way by unzipping, unbuttoning— eased the tight fit of her fist and his cock within the clothing. His groan made her glad she didn't.
    "Mine?"
    "No, it is mine," she said, and squeezed. Heat gathered low in her belly as he shuddered again. "Though you have reason enough to be proud."
    He laughed, but it held a desperate edge, and she could feel his need to move within her grip. "Vanity." He choked on the word as she pulled upward, pumped her hand at the crown.
    "Aye, vanity."
    He closed his eyes, and his hips jerked once, as if he had to thrust or expire. "The book."
    "Mmm, the book," she agreed, her tone teasing. She spread a bead of moisture over the head of his shaft with her thumb. Her nipples were tight, and the slow heat had become a burning ache.
    She ignored it.
    "You don't like the translation?" he said, and his head bowed as she circled the crown again.
    Her lips pursed. "Couldn't you have reprinted it? It's humiliating. But the