Chapter 16
RAPHAEL
The taste of her lingers on my tongue like an intoxicating poison, a toxin with the most addicting flavor that has me begging for another taste, even if it kills me.
My brain screams at me to go back, my body even more so. I have to force one foot in front of the other to take me to my own chambers, rather than heed my impulses and head straight back to her bed so I can finally bury myself inside her.
Only two things keep me from turning around.
First, there’s her hesitation to give me any information about this so-called lover, coupled with the look of uncertainty on her face.
When I truly claim her—and I will—I want her to be wholly invested in me.
I will not compete with her yearning for a phantom of a man, so that is why I will find him and delight in her choosing me while we stand side by side.
The other thing, and perhaps the more concerning of the two, is how she tasted on my tongue. Exquisite, sure, and entirely all-consuming, but that’s not what halted my descent between her legs.
The recognition that shot through me when I licked her arousal from my fingers was akin to a dagger through my heart. It was as though the muscle tried to claw its way from the cage of bone, desperate to make my brain understand why it is so hellbent on claiming her.
Licking my lips and tasting her once more brings a confirmation I can no longer deny: I know this woman. My body certainly knows her, even if my brain cannot fathom how.
The trouble is, I have no one to confide in.
Baal wasn’t lying when we spoke earlier about being accompanied to broker the deal with Hades, and Isadora would sure as Hell keep the truth from me.
I could torture it out of her, but I’d rather spend my time learning what makes Liv—I fucking hate that name—writhe with pleasure.
Other than my fingers, of course.
No, it is the sorceress who will tell me the truth eventually. I’ll see to that.
I open the door to my chambers, releasing a relieved breath that no one, not even Baal, awaits within them My stomach sinks as I realize I should visit Isa tomorrow night at some point to keep up appearances.
The thought of staying in her room fills me with dread, but I know her father is already suspicious we haven’t set a wedding date.
He made it a point to tell me so, not just publicly at the dinner, but the day I nearly ripped his heart out for touching Li—the sorceress.
Lord Argos also thought it odd I never visit Isadora in her chambers but always require she come to mine, hence why it is important I visit her tomorrow evening.
I toss my shirt over my head and roll it in a tight ball, pressing it between my palms. Gritting my teeth, I chuck it roughly in the corner, letting out an aggravated huff.
“Trouble in paradise?” a deadly voice croons.
Splintered ice rains down upon back, that unsettling voice both seductive and pernicious. What is he doing here?
I turn to face the intruder sitting comfortably in one of the chairs Baal often occupies.
His face is as captivating as a solar eclipse—blinding to observe but too enchanting to turn from.
Cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds lend to his ethereal beauty, with full lips perpetually curved in an all-knowing smirk.
His hair appears washed in moonlight, pale and glimmering, but it’s his eyes that are the most shocking and unnerving.
Every color of the rainbow, they shimmer and swiftly switch, changing from blue to lavender to pale gold to bright red, never settling on one hue.
It is a conscious effort to pay attention to him when he speaks, which is extremely important, considering he wields words like weapons.
“Only one of us is familiar with paradise, Azrael.” I narrow my eyes. “And I am not the Angel of us two.”
His smile is as sharp as his cheekbones.
“Oh, but there are so many analogies for paradise, are there not?” He draws in a breath.
“The first bite of a delicious meal, the moment of sweet victory against one’s enemy…
” He pauses, his smile taking on a decidedly sinister curve.
“Being between a beautiful woman’s thighs… ”
His rapidly changing eyes study me carefully, yet I remain impassive.
I must.
“Is that not where you just came from?” He raises a pale brow suggestively.
“You are the Angel of Death, Azrael. Unless you are here to deliver a soul or two, what business is it of yours?”
Azrael rises with a feline grace and approaches me. He is cloaked from head to toe in onyx, a color I’m sure his ensemble never strays far from.
There’s a reason most lore includes the Grim Reaper dressed in a black cloak with a scythe.
Though Azrael is an Angel, he brings with him the touch of death, escorting souls to either eternal salvation or damnation.
Somewhere along the way, the Grim Reaper became a separate entity from the deadly Angel who stands before me when, in fact, they are one and the same.
Azrael needs no weapon, however. His mere touch is lethal if he so wills it, as is his mouth.
He and I have a business partnership, one I inherited from my father. He visits often, though he rarely meets with me, unless there is an issue with a soul or souls he corrals into my realm. Baal usually intercepts him, and I am spared from having to look upon his beautiful yet unnerving face.
“My business is the woman I smell all over you,” he says, now standing inches from me.
I resist the urge to clench my fists and jaw. “Why?”
He again arches a brow. “She is not your wife.”
At that, I laugh. “Since when do you concern yourself with infidelity? Besides,” I step into him, “Isadora is not my wife.”
A devious slant tilts his mouth, and he shrugs. The action is so mundane yet feels malicious. “Your infatuation with this woman intrigues me.”
“She is a means to an end, nothing more.”
Oh, does that lie taste bitter.
Azrael chuckles, mouth widening. “She is your broodmare then? The way your mother served your father?”
That black rage engulfs me again, both at the vile mention of my sorceress and the insult against my mother. I blink to clear it, wondering why anything concerning my mother would bother me, considering I have no idea who she is.
“What she is to me is of no concern to you. Unless your business concerns a soul you’ve managed to lose on your way here, go back to haunting cemeteries, Reaper.”
“Ouch.” His eyes, now a sickly yellow, glisten with malice. “As it happens, there is a particular soul that concerns me. Two, if I am being honest.”
I freeze, the implication of his words icing my blood. “You know who he is.”
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific.” A taunting venom laces every word.
“Her lover. You know who he is.”
Azrael finally kills the remaining distance between us, his grin now impossibly wide and his eyes wholly black. “Yes.”
“Tell me,” I demand.
“Where is the fun in that?”
I’m glad the bastard finds this comical. However, his teasing must mask something more urgent, something important he does not wish to divulge. Whatever his infatuation is with the sorceress and her lover can’t be good.
It never bodes well to be the object of Death’s obsession.
Before I can comment, Azrael cups my cheek with his hand, his touch like a frigid wind whipping my skin. He runs his thumb over my lips, pulling my bottom lip down with deliberate leisure.
“You are so beautiful, Raphael. I thought the stars themselves must have wept when you were born, but then, they made her.”
He fingers roughly dig into my chin, and the normally emotionally blank Angel of Death simmers with something I have never before seen on him.
Jealousy.
Azrael’s lips draw closer to mine, and I’m rooted to the spot, mesmerized by Death’s embrace. I release a low chuckle. “Trying to kill me, Azrael? You know I cannot die.”
He smiles against my lips. “You already have.”
The Angel of Death claims my mouth with a lethal vigor.
I would expect nothing less from the one who serves as executioner.
He feeds off the memories in my mind, as he does when he delivers his Kiss of Death to mortals, and it is then I realize the true reason for his lips on mine: Every. Single One. of my thoughts are of her.
Growling, I shove him back. Azrael’s eyes are wide and now the color of a melancholy blue, but the glimmer of malice lingers.
“She’s mine,” I snarl, bearing rows of monstrous fangs. My claws scrape the floor, my voice low and thunderous.
This is the first time the beast beneath my skin has shown its face. There hasn’t been an incident yet that brought it forth. Even the situations at the ball and with Lord Argos hadn’t riled it from slumber.
But this. Him thinking of her, claiming her? I should smite him where he stands.
The aftermath of paperwork would be such a nuisance, not to mention a definite war of realms between Heaven and Hell, but what’s another apocalypse? Isn’t the mortal world already on its way there?
“Is she?” The Angel smirks. “What about this lover you mentioned? Does she not belong to him?”
She told me, I want to say, but at the risk of sounding like a querulous toddler, I refrain. Besides, the sorceress may have simply uttered words I longed to hear. Whether or not she meant them is an entirely different matter.
Regardless, Azrael simply cannot have her.
“Stay the fuck away from her, Azrael, or I will see to it that your god grants you an expedited sabbatical.”
“I taste her on your lips,” he taunts, licking his own pointedly. “I can see why your obsession runs deep.”
I stalk towards him. The two of us are an even match for height, but where I am broad shouldered, he has a slimmer frame. Still, I relish the shadows that dance across his fair skin as I curve my shoulders toward him.
“That’s as close to tasting her as you’ll get, Azrael.”
His answering laugh skates down my spine like an evil chill. “Oh, Raphael. With all the power you command, darkness still clouds your vision. Imagine that? The Devil himself blind to what is staring him right in the face.”
“Enough with your fucking riddles. What is your point?”
Azrael leans in, mouth curled in another nefarious smirk. “My point, Raphael, is perhaps you should just look in the mirror.”