Wicked Nights. Gena ShowalterЧитать онлайн книгу.
the sadness. She would deal with that later. Right now, she would simply enjoy. For the first time in four years, Annabelle threw back her head and laughed.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZACHAREL RELEASED THE GIRL the moment he was able, depositing her in the center of an empty room and stepping away from her tempting warmth, the sweetness of her scent and the gentle caress of her hair against his skin. He’d liked touching her. He shouldn’t have liked it on any level, but no matter how many lectures he’d given himself, the like had only intensified.
During the flight, the changes in her expressive face had entranced him. He’d watched her go from rapture to sorrow, then back to rapture again. He, who had long-ago battled back his emotions until he no longer experienced them, had actually found himself envious of her willingness to reveal all she thought and felt.
She had looked so uninhibited, utterly caught up in the moment. And when she’d laughed… oh, sweet heavens. Her voice had washed over him, enveloping him, embracing him.
She had intrigued him, perplexed him, transfixed him, and he’d marveled about what had brought about those quicksilver changes, but he’d had too much pride to ask.
She was the consort of a demon, his enemy. Not by choice, no, but a consort nonetheless. She was also a human and therefore beneath him; her emotions could not matter to him.
He should not have brought her here, he realized. He should not have accepted the pleasure of having her in his arms.
He should not be looking at her now, wondering if the delight she’d found in the midnight sky would extend to his home. He should not want her delight.
“Why did you laugh?” he asked. So much for his pride. He had to know the reason.
“I’m free, I’m free, I’m finally free,” she replied, with a twirl.
The tumbling length of her hair flew around her, slapping him in the face. He barely curbed the urge to grab on to the strands and rub them between his fingers, just to remind himself of how soft they could be.
Her head tilted to the side as she looked at him. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“You’re frowning at me.”
“I frown at everyone.”
“Good to know. So this is your cloud, huh?” Her brows scrunched in confusion. She studied the walls that looked no more substantial than mist. The floor was as thick as morning fog, clinging to her ankles, and seemingly just as flimsy.
“This is my home, yes.”
“I gotta say, it’s exactly as I predicted.”
Was that derision in her tone? “What do you mean?” he asked, trying not to reveal how insulted he was. Another reaction, now? When they weren’t touching? Truly?
“Mist, mist and more mist. I’m only surprised the foundation is solid.”
“The entire enclosure is solid.”
She extended her arm to the side. Awe consumed her features when her fingers disappeared inside the mist. “Solid… but not. Fascinating.”
You are fascinating.
No. No! She wasn’t.
He’d had females here before. Fellow warriors, and even joy-bringers he considered friends, as well as the once human, now immortal named Sienna, who just happened to be the new queen of the Titan gods—immortals who considered themselves rulers of the entire world. She liked to stop by unannounced, and he liked to kick her out.
Then there was Lysander’s wife, Bianka, a Harpy no one dared deny. She held their leader’s heart in her hands, and her happiness was his, but still Zacharel could never get rid of her fast enough. And yet, seeing Annabelle here affected Zacharel strangely. She was here, surrounded by his walls, ensconced in his world, safe because he had made it so. He, and no other.
The thought should not have filled him with satisfaction, but it did.
Time to leave her, he decided. For real. Distance would do him some good. Put him back on his game and numb him out, the way he preferred.
“I want you to be at ease, Annabelle,” he said. “Demons would not dare try to enter.”
Her relief was tangible. “Good.”
“I have business I must attend to, but I will not be far. Only a few rooms over.” He hadn’t meant to snap, hadn’t known he was capable of doing so, but snap he had. “However, you will remain inside this one.”
Just like that, her countenance changed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. “Are you saying I’m your prisoner? Did I trade one cell for another?”
Forced to tell the truth for thousands of years, he had found ways to misdirect. “How can you consider yourself a prisoner when your every wish will be granted while you are here?”
“That’s not an answer.”
Suspicious, prickly human. She was annoyingly perceptive. “And yet it addressed some of your concerns, I’m sure.”
She stomped her foot, every inch the willful child—but that didn’t annoy him as it should have. “I won’t be held captive. Not ever again.”
Her words, on the other hand… A glint of anger formed inside the fissure, burning in the center of his chest. Too many people had questioned his authority lately, and he’d reached the end of his tolerance. “You would rather die, Annabelle?”
“Yes!”
She blinked at her own vehemence, and so did he.
“Yes,” she said softly.
The claim was false, even though he could not taste a lie. Surely. “You do realize I could crush you in seconds, yes?”
“Believe me, at this point, death would be a mercy. So crush me if you can’t tolerate being told off, because I will never be a cooperative prisoner. I will fight you forever if necessary.”
Death would be a mercy. One other person had uttered those words to him, and death had indeed been a mercy then. For Hadrenial, but not for Zacharel. He would suffer eternally for what had transpired that terrible night.
You must stop comparing Annabelle to your brother.
Right now, he had two choices. Convince the female she was not a prisoner, which would take time he did not have, or let her go. Neither appealed to him. Perhaps there was a third option, though. One he’d never before attempted. Courtesy.
It was worth a shot, he supposed. “I humbly request that you remain here. Whatever you desire, you have only to ask for it, and it will be yours.” The moment he spoke he recalled her liking for Thane. The small flame of anger intensified, and he would have sworn he heard a drip, drip. “Except for a male. You may not summon a male.”
Zacharel had saved her. Zacharel would see to her care.
The light in the room hit her at a different angle, and he saw the bruises marring the soft skin under her eyes, the deep hollows of her cheeks. So breakable, this human. “I don’t understand. Do you have servants who will bring me what I want?”
“No servants. I will show you how it works. What is something you desire? Besides a male,” he hurried to add.
“A shower.” Offered with no hesitation. “Without anyone watching me.”
“A private shower,” he said, then motioned behind her.
Expression set in disbelief, she spun. Mist began to thicken and take shape, until a shower stall stood tall and proud. It was encased by smoked glass, and had multiple knobs and a drain in the floor.
She