Wicked Nights. Gena ShowalterЧитать онлайн книгу.
like a dark, seductive dream meant to lure a female straight into midnight temptations.
Dangerous… Yes, this man is dangerous….
The words were a soft, erotic whisper against her flesh. A whisper she’d heard and felt since the moment he’d entered the room.
Still she said, “I… choose to go.” Staying with him any longer than necessary was another story, however. He might remind her of the dark fairy-tale prince she’d dreamed about so long ago, the night before her birthday, but this man was no charmer.
Trembling, she wrapped her fingers around his. At the moment of contact, he sucked in a breath as if she’d somehow burned him and she nearly jerked away. Steady.
Zacharel called himself an angel, but she had no idea what that meant or what it entailed other than the standard “good and right” stuff. More, she had no idea where he was taking her—a cloud? really?—or what he planned to do with her when he got her there.
“Are you okay?”
“I… need a moment to adjust,” he said, a strain in his voice.
Good, because she needed a moment, too. “Take all the time you need, Captain Modesty.”
“I am Winged Wonder, and I will. Do not move.”
“Uh, that might be a problem.” As cold as she was, his skin proved to be colder. Soon the shivers would overtake her.
He offered no reply. Just peered down at her through narrowed lids, as if he blamed her for something catastrophic.
Could she trust him? Maybe, maybe not. But she wanted her freedom and he could give her that. And yeah, she also wanted to be on her own, relying only on herself. One day, she would be. For right now, escape would suffice.
If he tried to hurt her when they got to… wherever he was taking her, she would fight the way she’d always fought—dirty—whether he was an angel or not.
“This contact,” Zacharel said. He frowned, the downward curve of his lips surely a default expression he couldn’t control. Not once had she seen him smile.
Was there anything that would amuse him, or even rattle him?
“What about it?” she forced herself to ask.
“I expected certain sensations to fade, but they still have not.” His grip tightened on her hand, as if he sensed she verged on pulling away. He tugged her closer, closer, until her body was flush against his. “This is not what I imagined.”
As he wrapped his free arm around her waist, he peered down at her with those eyes the color of emeralds. Her birthstone. Once her favorite stone, in fact, but her birthday had become synonymous with death and destruction and, well, she’d decided emeralds sucked.
But she couldn’t deny his eyes were gorgeous. Long, thick lashes framed those jewel-toned irises that lacked any hint of emotion, softening his features from impossibly cruel to maybe-I’ll-only-make-you-scream-a-little-before-I-slay-you.
He had silky hair that reminded her of a starless night. And oh, how long since she’d stared up at the sky? His forehead was neither too long nor too wide, his cheekbones hollowed as though chiseled by a master sculptor. His lips so lush and red a woman needed only a single glance to fantasize for the rest of eternity.
If only he’d been short. But, no. He was tall, at least six foot five, with wide shoulders and the most superb muscle mass she’d ever seen. And his wings? A-maz-ing. They arched over his shoulders and cascaded all the way to the floor. Feathers of the purest white glistened with the essence of the purest rainbow, thick threads of gold forming a hypnotic pattern that led into patches of down.
The other guy, the blond, had been visually delicious as well, but despite the depraved gleam in his cerulean eyes, she’d thought she could handle him. At least better than she could handle this one.
Too late for that. And maybe that was for the best, she decided then. She was filled with so much hate, anger, desperation and helplessness—each, apparently, an aphrodisiac for the demons—Zacharel’s coldness would be a refreshing change.
“So, uh, what did you imagine?” she finally asked.
“Nothing I will tell you. Now, put your arms around my neck,” Zacharel commanded, his voice rough with expectation.
Had anyone ever told him no? she wondered as she linked her fingers at his nape.
“Good. Now close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“You and your questions.” He sighed. “I plan to whisk you through the walls and into the sky. The view might disconcert you.”
“I’ll be fine.” Closing her eyes would make her far more vulnerable than she already was.
If he was impressed by her bravery, he didn’t show it. His lips, those gorgeous red lips, pursed, even as his wings burst from his back to glide up and down, slow and easy. Mesmerizing. “Also,” he added, “I do not wish to look into your eyes and see the taint of the demon.”
She had a demon’s eyes? That’s why her irises had turned blue? “But I can’t be a demon,” she gasped out. “I just can’t be.”
“You are not. You are tainted by one. As I said.”
Gradually she calmed—despite the fact that his tone shouted, If you had listened, you would have realized that. “What’s the difference?”
“Humans can be influenced, claimed or possessed by demons, but they cannot become one. You have been claimed.”
“By who?” The one who had killed her parents? If so, she would… what? What could she really do?
“I do not know.”
If he didn’t know, there was no hope for her. “Well, I don’t care if you find my eyes repellant.” She so cared. She disliked the fact that a part of her appeared demonic. “You can deal.”
Several seconds passed in silence. Then, he nodded and said, “Very well. You have only yourself to blame.”
A strange sensation coursed through her, chilling her blood another degree and icing over her skin. The tile beneath her vanished. Suddenly she was in the air, seeing room after room whiz past her, then the roof of the building, then the sky, pinpricks of light scattered in every direction.
Oh, my. Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. She had been liberated from what had seemed to be a life of endless torture. She was truly free. And for the first time in years, she had something to look forward to rather than something to dread. A joy like she’d never known flooded her, consumed her. This was… this was… too much.
The sheer splendor of the night overwhelmed her, and the tears splashed onto her cheeks. The most amazing perfumes fragranced the air. Wildflowers and mint, dew and freshly cut grass. Milk and honey, chocolate and cinnamon. The subtlest hint of smoke, curling on a gentle breeze.
“I had forgotten,” she whispered, hair whipping against her cheeks. But even that was a delight. She was free, she was free, she was finally free.
“Forgotten what?” Zacharel asked, and there was something strange about his voice. The first hint of emotion, perhaps.
“How beautiful the world is.” A world her parents had left far too soon. A world her parents would never again enjoy.
Sadness threaded through the joy.
She’d gone from helpless victim to murder suspect to tormented convict far too quickly to mourn the passing of her mother and father. She couldn’t help but wonder how they would have reacted to this moment. No question, Zacharel would have flabbergasted them both. Not just because of what he was, but because they had been an emotional, volatile couple, and had fought as passionately as they’d loved. They would not have known what to make of his coldness. But this… this