Chapter 16
SIMONE
Ilook up at the house Az brought me to, squinting at the odd brightness in this area of Hell. The Lethe also flows through Heaven, so it’s lusher and has a more pronounced day and night cycle.
I’m itching to explore my surroundings, see if I can recognize where we are in relation to Abaddon, but he’s standing right here, watching me. No matter where I turn, I can see him from the corner of my eye.
“Well?” he prompts. “Do you like it?”
“I can’t believe this was built in just a couple of weeks,” I say, looking at the black stone and wood, all covered in embellishments that remind me of a Tim Burton movie. “It looks like it’s been here for hundreds of years.”
Az grins, his eyes glinting. “You can get a lot done with the right amount of subjects.”
I quirk my eyebrow at him. “You seem very influential for a fallen angel. Whose court do you serve in?”
His smile grows wider, an unknowable shadow passing behind his gaze. “No one’s,” he says casually.
What is he hiding? Probably a lot, but something important s?rement.
He elbows me in the ribs, the touch gentle, though still surprising. “You didn’t say if you like it.”
I sniff haughtily, enjoying his uncertainty. “I’ll have to see how it is inside.”
“Well, I hope it meets your expectations, little fairy.” He bows, motioning me forward with a grandiose sweep of his arms. “After you, my lady.”
“There better not be any imps jumping out,” I mutter, climbing the porch stairs. While Az laughs at my grumpiness, I eye the silver knocker on the unsurprisingly black door. Is that an imp? I wouldn’t put it past him.
Why do we even need a knocker? Is he expecting visitors? Neighbors bringing cookies and housewarming gifts?
“It won’t bite,” Az says wickedly, pushing the door open. “Can’t say the same for me, though.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
The foyer is larger than my entire apartment in Marseille had been. Black marble floors gleam beneath a chandelier made of smoky quartz and dark metal, the dangling prisms catching that strange daylight pouring through tall stained-glass windows.
The air smells faintly of wood, old books, and something more alluring—the fallen angel by my side.
A sweeping staircase curves upward to the left, the banister carved with twisting roses and vines.
To the right, double doors stand open to a library so vast it steals my breath. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, crowded with classics, fashion books, sketch collections, and romance novels. Rolling ladders glide along polished rails.
I’m totally having my Belle moment soon.
“You said you missed bookstores,” Az says too casually, noticing my stillness.
I stare at him. “So you made me one?”
He just shrugs, that ever-present wry twist to his lips making me feel things I really shouldn’t be feeling for my captor.
There’s a salon ahead, the room arranged around a huge fireplace carved from black stone. Velvet sofas in deep emerald and wine-red surround low tables covered with fruit, pastries, and fresh flowers.
I didn’t expect the kitchen to be so warm and human. Copper pots hang above a butcher-block island. White ceramic jars line the shelves. And is that freshly baked bread? It doesn’t even look like Hell—I keep expecting an irate grandmother to pop up, scolding us for being in her kitchen.
“I thought you might want to make your own food,” Az says when I look at him.
I purse my lips. “How will I get groceries?”
Az shrugs. “The same way you got food in the cave. It will be here.”
I don’t know how to feel about his thoughtfulness.
As we climb the stairs, I let my fingers trail over the carvings on the banister, eyeing the displayed art—mostly still lifes, some landscapes.
The bedroom is absolutely absurd. The bed could sleep eight people comfortably.
It’s draped in dark silk and gauze and surrounded by carved posts wrapped in what looks like real climbing white roses.
Tall windows overlook the cliffs and river below.
I can only just hear the gurgling of the water.
Then there’s a dressing room larger than most homes, lined with wardrobes and mirrors.
And beyond that… Mère de Dieu!
A studio.
Daylight spills through glass panes onto cutting tables, bolts of fabric, dress forms, drawers of thread, shelves of beads, lace, ribbons, and neatly arranged tools. Sketchbooks wait in tidy stacks beside sharpened pencils.
“I thought you might enjoy bringing your sketches to life,” Az murmurs from my side.
I can’t speak. I’m too stunned by the possibilities and by what this means. It’s like my captor pays more attention to my needs than anyone in my life ever has.
Numbly, I let Az lead me through the rest of the house, showing me the gorgeous bathroom with a giant sunken tub, a room with workout equipment that should feel out of place in a manor, but somehow fits, and even a sauna.
There is also a walled garden in the back, enclosed in black iron and overflowing with white roses, lavender, herbs, citrus trees, and soft green grass that just shouldn’t exist in Hell.
And in the center sits a swinging bench built for two.
“I thought you might want to be outside for a while,” Az says with a shrug.
“You mean after you kept me locked in a cave for over a year. Good thing you can’t get a sunburn in Hell,” I huff. Still, I plant my behind on the seat, taking a deep inhale of the fragrant air.
When Az sits next to me, the bench creaks under the added weight. He swings us for a few minutes, the quiet between us not unpleasant for what feels like the first time.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he finally says after a while. I turn my head to face him. He looks as earnest as he sounds, his pale eyes serious as he peers down at me.
“For abducting me and keeping me locked in a cave like Gollum?” When he gives me a blank look, I roll my eyes. “So many books in the library and you never read Tolkien?”
“I prefer spending my time with pursuits other than reading.”
He bites his lower lip, giving me a lascivious look that would normally have me running away.
When did I start feeling safe around him? Was it when I let him bind me, and he didn’t expect sex as a payment for the orgasms he gave me?
“I bet you do,” is all I say, letting my gaze travel over the flowering garden rather than stay on him. I’m too worried about what my face might reveal, if it would show the revelations I’m quietly having by his side.
Putain. I’m starting to like the bastard.
What in the Stockholm Syndrome is this fuckery?