10. Willow
The thirty-minute drive to Eden’s Crossing is yet again filled with silence. The dominant side of Azrael, which made an appearance in front of his Society brethren, has seemingly gone dormant again, but I know it won’t be long before it resurfaces.
As I watch him in the darkness, his jaw clenched and his thoughts elsewhere, I can’t help but wonder if he’s actually enjoying this or if it’s merely what has to be done. Right now, it feels like I’m just something on a checklist he has to complete before he can go on with his life.
Warmth throbs beneath my freshly inked skin as if to remind me it doesn’t matter how he feels. I’m his now until death parts us.
I choose to remain silent, too, allowing it to swallow the space between us until the car finally rolls to a stop.
It’s dark outside, the moon barely peeking out from behind the clouds to illuminate the Delacroix chateau. From my window, I can see that it looms large over the estate. The gothic-style mansion with what appears to be a wing on each side is imposing, with a hint of classic New Orleans style, but unique in its own way.
Though it’s my first instinct to want to explore the property, it’s late, and I know that’s not even an option right now.
The driver opens the door as Azrael comes around to join me. He’s still quiet as he glances down, watching me take in my new surroundings. I wonder if he wants me to like them—if he’s searching for approval in my eyes, or worse, disdain.
“Come.” He settles his palm against my lower back. “James will bring the rest of your bags.”
Heat licks along my skin just from the warmth of his fingers pressing into my spine, and as much as I don’t want to like it, I have to admit I don’t hate it.
I’ve spent enough time with Azrael tonight to understand three things about him. He’s an asshole, albeit a hot one. It’s his sense of duty to his family that’s driving him, not his own desires. And as much as he’s trying to hide it, he’s in an enormous amount of pain.
I’ve noticed it off and on throughout the evening, the way his jaw tenses, his spine goes rigid, and the vein in his temple throbs like an angry beast. If I had to guess, I’d say he suffers from migraines, along with an unfortunate personality and bloodline.
I shouldn’t care one way or the other, but admittedly, it’s always been my weakness. Despite the armor I’ve crafted so carefully to protect my emotions, I’m an empath at heart. I hate to see anyone suffering, and it’s in my nature to try to fix it somehow.
This is the part of me that tends to get me in trouble. I failed to trust my intuition before, and it didn’t end well for me. I didn’t set boundaries when I should have. My intentions, however pure, can’t protect me from the evils in this world. It’s up to me to do that, which is a lesson I’ve learned the hard way.
I try to keep that in mind as Azrael leads me inside the house, but any thoughts of protecting myself are quickly swept away as a sense of unease creeps over my skin. It’s just a hint of something amiss at first. But as we enter the double doors and I take in my surroundings, it settles over me like a suffocating cloud of smoke.
The first thing I notice is the light and shadows dancing across the hardwood floor in the form of the Delacroix family crest. It takes me a moment to realize it’s being cast from the window above the entryway, the light of the moon illuminating the mosaic glass so that it shines directly on the floor. It would be beautiful if it didn’t feel like a noose around my neck that I can’t escape from.
With a shudder, I glance around the rest of the space. It’s late, and it’s dimly lit, but I can see a corridor ahead leading into the living room. Beyond that, I catch a glimpse of some gardens through the windows. More than anything, I want to go bathe in that moonlight, but I know that’s not part of Azrael’s plans for tonight.
This house is gorgeous, but there’s a dark, somber energy lurking within the walls. It constricts my lungs and makes my heart race, as if it’s wrapping its claws around me and pulling me into a vortex.
Instinctively, I take a step back, but Azrael captures my elbow and shakes his head.
“Come, Little Witch. No more games tonight.”
I want to tell him it isn’t a game, that there isn’t enough sage in the world to cleanse whatever presence it is I’m feeling in this house. He doesn’t give me the opportunity, though, and I doubt he would even care. He seems to carry it with him, I realize, and it’s a part of him too. Perhaps he’s been held hostage by it for so long that he doesn’t even feel it anymore. The way it weighs him down. The way it imprisons him.
I try to get a better sense of exactly what it is I’m feeling, but I can’t. Something is blocking me, and as he leads me upstairs to the far end of the corridor, I know it’s going to be a full-time job keeping whatever energy that is at bay.
A shiver moves over my skin when he opens the door to what I know must be his room. It smells like him– leather and sandalwood. As rattled as I might be by this strange house, I find that scent oddly calming. I barely know him, but there’s something about him that feels familiar already—something that feels much safer than the gloomy atmosphere of this place.
I swallow as he shuts the door and seals us inside. The room is massive, with a high ceiling and arched windows reminiscent of a church. It’s masculine, accented with dark wood and deep green wallpaper and bedding. Above the bed is a strange wooden carving of the Delacroix family crest. There’s a crack down the middle, and I find it odd that he would keep it in such a state.
On the opposite side of the room, there’s a sitting area with leather chairs and the door to what I presume is an attached bathroom.
I want to explore further, but Azrael’s eyes fall on me, the black of his pupils obliterating the gold as he takes a step closer, unbuttoning his suit jacket. Instinctively, my thumb traces over the ring on my right index finger—the cat-shaped ears sharpened into points.
“Thinking of maiming me already?” Azrael arches a brow at me as his thumb skates over my jaw. “I haven’t even gotten started yet, Little Witch. In fact, I believe I owe you a punishment.”
I tilt my chin up, hoping he can’t see my nerves. “For what?”
He offers me a lazy smile as he drags his thumb across my lips, smearing my lipstick. “Playing dumb doesn’t suit you. You know what you did.”
“I did nothing to warrant a punishment—” The words are cut short when he turns me in his arms abruptly, grabbing hold of the corseted mesh on the back of my dress and splitting it in two.
Heat and fear lick along my skin as his hands dip lower, shredding the fabric of my skirt so easily it terrifies me.
I knew he was strong, but this…. this is inhuman. It takes him very little effort and all of three seconds to rip my dress in half and toss it to the floor, revealing my near-naked body. My heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest as I stand there in nothing more than a thong and heels, listening to his breathing increase as his palm grazes the length of my spine.
I can’t see his face, but I can feel his eyes burning a path down my body. His index finger dips below the string of my thong, plucking it until it snaps back against my skin and making me gasp.
I don’t know what to expect, not being able to see him, and it’s setting me on edge. I try to turn, but he halts me by wrapping his arm around me and splaying his palm across my belly.
The edges of his fingers trace the snake tattoo curving around my hip as he hauls me back against his body, his breath tickling my ear. “Where do you think you’re going, Little Witch?”
“Nowhere.” My response comes out strangled, and his dark chuckle grates at my already raw nerves. But I seem to forget them entirely as his palm sweeps up over my breast, grazing my nipple and sending sparks shooting through me.
At that moment, I have the horrifying realization of how much I like that, of how much I want more of it. When I glance down at his muscular forearm imprisoning me, the last thing I want to do is run away.
He drags his nose along the curve of my neck as he gropes my breast, and as I melt against him, I can feel the hard length of his shaft pressing into my spine.
He’s huge.
I’d already suspected it, but my fear reignites as I imagine him trying to ram that inside of me.
I try to pull away, and he releases a low growl before he snatches both my arms and tugs them back, securing my wrists with one of his hands.
“Always so fucking defiant,” he murmurs against me. “You’re going to learn what that gets you in this house.”
The sound of his tie being undone steals the breath from my lungs, and when I feel the material wrapping around my wrists, my bravery flees in a moment of sheer panic.
“Wait!” I choke out, yanking away from his grasp before he can secure a knot.
His eyes are molten hot and downright predatory as they move over my face, and I know I have to get through to him somehow. I have to find a way to humanize him again because right now, whoever’s in the room with me isn’t the same man who kissed me at the altar.
“Azrael.” His name leaves my lips on a whisper as I take a tentative step toward him. “I’m giving myself to you freely. All I’m asking is that you don’t… hurt me.” Despite my best efforts, my voice falters on the last two words. Even though I didn’t intend for him to see this part of me—the wounded part—I can see that he does.
His features darken as he regards me curiously. “You are a virgin.”
I think it’s meant to be a question, but it sounds more like a command—like he can’t fathom the idea that I would ever give myself to anyone else, and if I had, there would be hell to pay.
“I am.” I force the words between my teeth.
He doesn’t look satisfied with my response, and I know it’s because he’s still questioning it. My reaction was too strong to be without a reason, and he wants to understand why. He wants to strip bare this wound, and I can’t let him. I can’t tell him that while I may be a virgin, I am not without damage.
Instead, I reach up on my toes to touch his face, the part of his temple that’s still throbbing, pain lingering beneath the surface. I want him to know that I see his discomfort too. That I feel it. In some ways, despite our differences, we do have something in common.
We both understand pain.
He closes his eyes, shutting himself off from me, but it doesn’t escape my notice that after a moment, he leans into the touch. It catches me off guard, and I’m not the only one. His eyes snap open in confusion before narrowing on my face.
“What are you trying to do to me?” His fingers clamp around my jaw as he pierces me with his gaze.
“Nothing.” The word leaves my lips so quietly that I’m not sure he even hears it.
He’s looking at me in that way again, like he thinks I’m doing some kind of witchcraft on him right now.
We stare at each other like that for what feels like the longest minute of my life before he surprises me again, this time by leaning down and claiming my lips with his once more. The heat of his mouth brands mine as his hand wraps around the length of my hair, holding me there as if to repeat what he’s been telling me all day.
I’m his.
He’s said it in every way imaginable: with his ring on my finger, his brand on my skin, and even the words he uttered to Hildebrand. But this is different than before. This claim sends my pulse skyrocketing, heats my blood, and makes my body sway as I nearly collapse into him.
I feel lightheaded from the rush of endorphins, and I wonder if this is normal. Is this how it’s supposed to feel? Am I drunk off a single kiss?
Against my better judgment, my mouth parts for him again, and this time, his tongue sweeps past my lips, tasting me. He swallows my exhalation, tilting my face back like he wants to devour me. Like he needs to drink from my lips as much as he needs air to breathe.
A groan rumbles from his chest, then he releases me abruptly, glaring down at me again as he drags a hand through his hair. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I blink up at him, still breathless and half-stupefied from that kiss. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head, muttering. “Fucking Wildbloods.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. We stare at each other, the air fraught with tension as his gaze dips down to my nipples, then lower to the small triangle of fabric of my thong.
Slowly, he starts to unbutton his shirt, never taking his eyes off me as he tosses it aside. As he does, I can’t help letting my gaze roam over the broad expanse of his chest, down his muscular torso, then eventually to the ink on his skin. It covers part of his chest, wrapping around his side. The rest is presumably on his back, which is obscured from my view. It’s a large piece, and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.
It’s an angel, his body sculpted as if it were from marble. His face is hidden beneath a hood, cast in shadow, with only his eyes peering out from beneath. The angel–much like Azrael–is a towering figure, dark and powerful, his wings spread wide. His chest, shoulders, and forearms are covered in ornate armor as if he’s ready for battle. At his side, his fist clenches the hilt of the sword—a sword that’s pierced a crescent moon.
I swallow, feeling strangely conflicted by the piece. While it’s arresting in a way that I don’t want to look away from–a beautiful piece of art–it’s impossible to misinterpret. What else could that moon represent but me?
He recognizes the war in my eyes but chooses not to acknowledge it. After all, what is there to say? We are who we are: enemies at heart, now bound by marriage.
His gaze dips briefly to the tattoo on my chest, the phases of the moon inked between my breasts, and his eyes flash with heat. For someone who has a depiction of that very moon conquered by the dark angel on his arm, he doesn’t seem all that disgusted by my artwork. In fact, I think he seems to like it against his own desires.
When his hands move to his trousers, I follow them with my gaze. I’ve been curious about this moment, and I can’t hide it.
He unzips the pants and parts the fabric, tugging them down along with his briefs before he discards those too. Just as I suspected, an enormous, throbbing cock springs free, and terror washes over me.
“Nope.” The word squeaks out as I shake my head, backing away with what is undoubtedly horror written across my face.
Azrael quirks a brow at me. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there’s a problem.” I glare at the offending member. “You’re going to rip me in half. Oh God, please don’t let me die this way.”
I don’t know if I’m praying to him or a deity I’m not even sure exists. I just know I want to run, and the second the thought pops into my head, Azrael laughs. He actually fucking laughs, like this is funny. Jesus, I didn’t even know the man was capable of humor, but this is the furthest thing from funny.
“Azrael—” I start to plead with him, hoping he’ll come to see reason. It’s basic math. That monstrosity is not fitting inside of me.
“Come here,” he orders.
I shake my head again.
He sighs. “Is everything going to be a battle with you?”
I nod.
He comes to me instead, swallowing up the space between us in one stride before he turns me in his arms again and pins my back to the front of his body. Only now, it’s different because I can feel his skin against mine. His cologne lingers in the air, intoxicating in a way I don’t understand, just as the feeling of his kiss remains on my lips. Worst of all, I can hear that voice in my head telling me to give in.
I try to ignore it, but it’s forgotten entirely when Azrael’s fingers slip down beneath the fabric of my thong, stroking between my thighs. A strangled noise gets caught in my throat, and his body stiffens behind me like he’s surprised.
“So wet for me already, Little Witch?”
I don’t have a response for him, but it’s clear he doesn’t want one. His other hand settles against my throat, his fingertips pressing against the delicate flesh just enough to alter my breathing but not to take it away entirely. It feels like a warning, and I’m reminded of my own personal nightmare.
“Relax.” The word caresses my ear as he strokes me between my thighs again.
I’m at war inside my head. Half of me is ready to flee at the memory of being trapped without breath; the other half is giving in to the sensations he’s coaxing from my body as he touches me.
“Azrael.” His name slips from my lips, and I’m not entirely sure what I’m pleading for, but he knows.
He gives it to me. He strokes me to the edge of an abyss, tension coiling every muscle in my body as I chase a high like I’ve never felt. But just as I’m about to fall off that edge, he pulls me back, stopping abruptly.
“Remember how I told you I owe you a punishment?” He brushes his lips against my ear.
A noise of protest exhales from my lips, and I can feel him smiling against me as he inhales me. What an asshole.
I try to yank away again, but he tightens his grip on my throat, chiding me.
“You’re my wife now, Willow,” he growls. “There’s nowhere to run.”
He drags his wet fingers from my thong and grabs a handful of my ass, kneading the flesh before he smacks it… hard.
“What the hell,” I yelp.
Another smack, followed by another. He spanks me so many times I lose count until I can feel nothing but his flaming handprints covering my back side. I don’t have to look to know it’s red, and it’s probably going to remind me of him every time I sit down for the next few days.
Just when I’m about to beg him for mercy, he stops, giving me a much-needed reprieve as his fingers find their way between my legs again. He strokes me gently, a complete contrast to the way he just obliterated my ass cheeks, and I’m having trouble keeping up with him. I don’t know what to expect from one minute to the next. I just know when he stops me from coming again, I want to scream.
He shows no sympathy toward my plight. He continues to torture me, groping my body, teasing my nipples, dragging his teeth along my neck. His fingers tangle in the mass of my hair, wrenching my head back, and he renews his torment between my thighs, driving me to the point of insanity.
I’m on the verge of begging for it—something I swore I’d never do—when he scoops me up and hauls me to the bed. He splays me out across the comforter, pausing to stare down at me like he’s fighting a war inside his own mind.
He wants me. Of that, there can be no doubt.
But I think he’s disgusted with himself for it too. Maybe that will save me.
It’s a fleeting thought, one that disappears a moment later when he leans his body over mine, spreading my thighs apart.
“Wait,” I protest. “I don’t think this is going to work. Seriously, you’re going to kill me.”
Another dark chuckle rumbles from his chest as he caresses my cheek with his thumb. “So fucking innocent, and yet so fucking evil.”
His words sting, but I know they’re nothing in comparison to what’s going to happen next. I’m thinking of all those books I read and how they never mentioned a scenario quite like this. And I’m pretty sure my life is flashing before my eyes as he drags the head of his cock against my slickness.
I don’t want it to feel good because that seems deceptive. Something that can annihilate me shouldn’t feel good. But there isn’t time to entertain such notions because he leans his massive frame over me and starts to push inside.
Slowly. So fucking slowly.
I suck in a breath, meeting his gaze without meaning to. At this moment, neither one of us can seem to look away. I don’t know how it happened or when, but I realize I’m clutching his biceps like a lifeline, like he can save me from himself somehow.
“How does it feel?” he chokes out, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint he has to be gentle with me right now.
Like I have a giant fucking cock wedging its way inside of me. It feels like he’s stretching me apart. There’s a sting, but it’s not as apocalyptic as I imagined it would be. I can’t tell him as much, though, so I just nod at him to continue.
Breathing deeply, I watch him as he closes his eyes and sinks in as far as my body can take him. It’s tender and foreign, and I’m really not entirely sure how to feel about it until he starts to pivot his hips slightly, rolling them back and forth. It’s a small movement, maybe just an inch or two, but it’s enough to feel all of him. My nerves are on fire, my skin is flushed, and my nipples are stabbing the air as he starts to fuck me for real.
I lose myself to the sensations, the power of his body drugging me, pulling me under a spell I didn’t cast and one I don’t know how to protect myself from. But I’m not the only one. It’s written in his eyes when he opens them to meet mine. There’s a fire in him he can’t extinguish, one he’s actively trying to resist, even as he stokes it with every thrust.
He’s staring down at me like I’m the devil incarnate, but his body says otherwise. I can feel it in every twitch of his muscles. The tension coursing through his spine. The clench of his jaw. I watch in fascination as he gives into it, thrusting harder, deeper, claiming me in a way nobody else ever will.
My body arches up into him, tension pulling at my belly, butterflies erupting as my fingers dig into his arms. I’m so freaking close, and I think he’s going to let me have it this time.
But he sees it, and he grips my throat again, a warning echoing from his lips like a thunderbolt. “No.”
My body doesn’t get the memo. Before the word even fully leaves his lips, the orgasm tears through me violently, stealing all of my senses. Seconds pass as starbursts alight behind my eyelids, static fills my ears, and I can do nothing but convulse around him.
It isn’t until I hear the muttered curse that I realize what I’ve done.
“Goddammit,” he groans, thrusting deeply as his own body unleashes.
I blink open my eyes, still half-disoriented, to see his head tilted back, lips parted, as he purges himself inside of me. He’s a beautiful terror, this man. It’s undeniable at the moment. I hate him, but even I can admit this is a sight to behold. The notion that I could have such power over a man—a Delacroix at that—is almost surreal.
But just as I suspected, it doesn’t last.
After a minute, he returns to his senses, opening his eyes to glare down at me. “That makes two,” he says.
“Two what?”
“Two times you’ve disobeyed me already.”
I shrug half-heartedly, not even remotely sorry for it.
He pulls out, his gaze moving over the small amount of virgin blood on his cock with a twisted sense of satisfaction before he drags his attention back to my face.
“Don’t think I’m not keeping score, Little Witch.”