Wicked Nights. Gena Showalter

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      No. No! She wasn’t.

      He’d had females here before. Fellow warriors, and even joy-bringers he considered friends, as well as the once human, now immortal named Sienna, who just happened to be the new queen of the Titan gods—immortals who considered themselves rulers of the entire world. She liked to stop by unannounced, and he liked to kick her out.

      Then there was Lysander’s wife, Bianka, a Harpy no one dared deny. She held their leader’s heart in her hands, and her happiness was his, but still Zacharel could never get rid of her fast enough. And yet, seeing Annabelle here affected Zacharel strangely. She was here, surrounded by his walls, ensconced in his world, safe because he had made it so. He, and no other.

      The thought should not have filled him with satisfaction, but it did.

      Time to leave her, he decided. For real. Distance would do him some good. Put him back on his game and numb him out, the way he preferred.

      “I want you to be at ease, Annabelle,” he said. “Demons would not dare try to enter.”

      Her relief was tangible. “Good.”

      “I have business I must attend to, but I will not be far. Only a few rooms over.” He hadn’t meant to snap, hadn’t known he was capable of doing so, but snap he had. “However, you will remain inside this one.”

      Just like that, her countenance changed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. “Are you saying I’m your prisoner? Did I trade one cell for another?”

      Forced to tell the truth for thousands of years, he had found ways to misdirect. “How can you consider yourself a prisoner when your every wish will be granted while you are here?”

      “That’s not an answer.”

      Suspicious, prickly human. She was annoyingly perceptive. “And yet it addressed some of your concerns, I’m sure.”

      She stomped her foot, every inch the willful child—but that didn’t annoy him as it should have. “I won’t be held captive. Not ever again.”

      Her words, on the other hand… A glint of anger formed inside the fissure, burning in the center of his chest. Too many people had questioned his authority lately, and he’d reached the end of his tolerance. “You would rather die, Annabelle?”

      “Yes!”

      She blinked at her own vehemence, and so did he.

      “Yes,” she said softly.

      The claim was false, even though he could not taste a lie. Surely. “You do realize I could crush you in seconds, yes?”

      “Believe me, at this point, death would be a mercy. So crush me if you can’t tolerate being told off, because I will never be a cooperative prisoner. I will fight you forever if necessary.”

      Death would be a mercy. One other person had uttered those words to him, and death had indeed been a mercy then. For Hadrenial, but not for Zacharel. He would suffer eternally for what had transpired that terrible night.

      You must stop comparing Annabelle to your brother.

      Right now, he had two choices. Convince the female she was not a prisoner, which would take time he did not have, or let her go. Neither appealed to him. Perhaps there was a third option, though. One he’d never before attempted. Courtesy.

      It was worth a shot, he supposed. “I humbly request that you remain here. Whatever you desire, you have only to ask for it, and it will be yours.” The moment he spoke he recalled her liking for Thane. The small flame of anger intensified, and he would have sworn he heard a drip, drip. “Except for a male. You may not summon a male.”

      Zacharel had saved her. Zacharel would see to her care.

      The light in the room hit her at a different angle, and he saw the bruises marring the soft skin under her eyes, the deep hollows of her cheeks. So breakable, this human. “I don’t understand. Do you have servants who will bring me what I want?”

      “No servants. I will show you how it works. What is something you desire? Besides a male,” he hurried to add.

      “A shower.” Offered with no hesitation. “Without anyone watching me.”

      “A private shower,” he said, then motioned behind her.

      Expression set in disbelief, she spun. Mist began to thicken and take shape, until a shower stall stood tall and proud. It was encased by smoked glass, and had multiple knobs and a drain in the floor.

      She gasped with equal parts pleasure and disbelief. “Food,” she said next, immeasurable relish in her tone.

      Drip, drip. Except… no longer was anger at the center of the flame. He wasn’t sure what was.

      A pout curved her mouth downward. “Nothing happened.”

      “You must be specific,” he instructed.

      Her tongue emerged, swiping over her lips. “I want lobster mac-and-cheese, biscuits and gravy, asparagus risotto, beef enchiladas, chicken-fried steak, brownies with frosting, brownies without frosting, blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream, turkey and dressing, and… and… and…”

      Beside him appeared a large, round table, wings intricately carved into its legs. Next came an elegant white tablecloth that perfectly conformed to its size. The requested dishes appeared next, one at a time, until the surface was covered with steaming bowls and perfectly arranged plates.

      Shaky limbs brought her forward. She gripped the table’s edge, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, rapture consuming her lovely features. “I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.

      “Start at one side and work your way to the other.”

      She licked her lips. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything? If so, I’ll need to summon more.”

      More? “No, thank you. I will eat on the morrow.” He never ate before battle, and he wasn’t quite done with his assignment. But he would have enjoyed watching her, he thought. Witnessing her delight, her passion and—what are you doing? “No one will disturb you.”

      She gave no reply, was reaching for the ice cream.

      He turned on his heel and stepped through the mist. When he turned back, that mist blocked her from his view—but as insubstantial as it seemed, it would hold her inside.

      He held out his hand and commanded the seams of the door to seal. Only he would be able to unseal them. Only he would be able to enter—or leave. What’s more, Annabelle would hear nothing that happened outside her room.

      That done, he stalked down the hall, the floor extending before him with every step. Past his bedroom, his private sanctuary, and into the holding bay, where the five most trusted warriors of his army awaited him. Trusted being a relative term, of course.

      Thane, Bjorn and Xerxes stood off to the side, together as always and somehow separate from the others. Unlike most other angels, Xerxes lacked physical perfection. He had long white hair he kept СКАЧАТЬ