Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The bathroom mirror was completely fogged over, but Clara didn’t need to see her reflection to know she looked like a ghost.
She stood beneath the spraying water, scrubbed raw, trying to wash away the scent of rubbing alcohol, hospital sheets, and despair. But as the hot water rushed over her shoulders, her mind wasn’t on the sterile oncology ward anymore. It was on the living room. It was on him.
He saved her.
The bond was a physical thing now, Clara could feel it anchored deep in her chest, a heavy hum of dark power that assured her Lily’s lungs were expanding, that her blood was clearing, that the monster inside her sister was dead.
But the price of that miracle was waiting just beyond the bathroom door.
Clara wrapped herself in a simple, soft emerald-green silk robe.
Her hands shook so violently she could barely tie the sash around her waist. She was terrified.
She was a witch, raised on stories of the old laws, but nothing in her mother’s journals had prepared her for giving her virginity to an entity of the underworld.
When she finally pushed the door open and stepped into her bedroom, the air was already freezing.
Azrael was standing by the window, staring out into the night.
The moonlight caught the sharp, devastating angles of his face, making him look like a statue carved from marble and shadow.
When he turned his silver eyes toward her, the sheer intensity of his gaze made Clara’s breath catch in her throat.
"You look beautiful, Clara," his velvety voice echoed softly in the quiet room.
"I..." She swallowed hard, gripping the edges of her robe. "I'm ready. Let's just... get it over with."
A faint, sympathetic smile touched his lips, but there was a dangerous flare of heat in his silver eyes. He crossed the room with a silent, feline grace, stopping just inches from her. The cold radiating from him should have made her shiver, but instead, an electric spark jumped between them.
"I told you," he murmured, his hand rising to gently cup her jaw. His fingers were cool, but where they touched her skin, a sudden, shocking warmth bloomed. "We are not rushing. I am going to cherish every piece of you."
Before she could protest, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.
Clara gasped against his mouth, expecting the kiss to feel like ice, like the grave.
Instead, it was an intoxication she had never known.
He started incredibly slow, his lips soft and demanding nothing but her presence.
He tasted like winter air and dark honey.
His tongue swept over her lower lip, coaxing her mouth open, and when she parted for him, a jolt of raw energy shot straight down her spine.
She whimpered, her hands automatically coming up to rest against his chest. The fabric of his coat was soft, and beneath it, she could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his immortal heart.
Azrael groaned softly, the sound vibrating against her lips as his hands moved down to her waist. He pulled her flush against his body, and Clara’s head spun. The fear that had paralyzed her moments ago began to melt away, replaced by something thick, and dizzying.
He pulled back just an inch, his breath hot against her skin as his lips trailed down her jawline, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He bit gently at the sensitive skin there, and Clara arched into him, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered against her pulse point. "The magic."
She did. It was terrifying, but it was magnificent.
Every place his hands touched, sliding beneath the silk of her robe, pressing against the bare skin of her waist. She felt alive.
More alive than she had ever felt in her life.
The magic in her veins, usually a quiet stream, was suddenly roaring like a river during a spring thaw.
Azrael guided her backward until the edge of the mattress hit the back of her knees. He brought her down onto the sheets, hovering over her like a blanket of midnight.
His hands were no longer just soothing, they were exploring, mapping the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts.
The contrast of his cool touch against her burning, sensitized skin was driving her mad.
Clara found herself writhing beneath him, her hips lifting instinctively toward his touch, her fingers tangling into his thick, dark hair.
"Azrael," she breathed, his name tasting like a spell on her tongue.
"Look at me, little doe," he commanded softly.
She opened her heavy eyes, her vision swimming.
His silver eyes were glowing in the dim light of the bedroom, wide with a hunger that was terrifyingly beautiful.
He pinned her hands above her head, his fingers interlocking with hers, and as he pressed his weight fully against her, Clara knew there was no turning back.
She didn't want to. The dark had welcomed her, and it was warmer than she could have ever dreamed.