Fallen Angel (Hqn) (7 page)

He hadn’t visited her in a number of days, and she hadn’t called him. She was half-afraid to at this point. She knew he would be angry with her. There was so much she wanted to ask him, but she didn’t dare. And she felt a strange sense of freedom without him, as much as she did the fear. Uncertainty. She didn’t know how to go about learning about her new life, taking in all the strange and wonderful things: television, the way her bed moved up and down simply by pressing a button. More important things like talking with Ruth, with Liz and the other nurses. Getting to know people, truly, for the first time, in some real way, rather than by reading books about them. And most of all, knowing Declan, which was wonderful and a little frightening at the same time. But of course, she could never ask Asmodeus about him. He would be too angry. Too…jealous of Declan. Strange to think of the nearly omnipotent demon as envious of anything, but she knew it to be true.

Declan had replaced Asmodeus in her fantasies. Her body craved him now, instead of her demon lover. Most of the time. And even when she yearned for Asmodeus’s hard and burning touch, her mind immediately turned to Declan.

She turned her head to watch his profile as he drove. He was so masculine. She knew already every angle and plane of his face. Every expression. And every line, every look, was beautiful to her.

He felt
right.
Asmodeus never had. Of course, she’d always known he was temporary, that his job was to prepare her. She just hadn’t known what it was he would prepare her for. She understood and accepted now that it was not to be the Dark One. But she no longer felt sad. Because now she had Declan. He was her destiny, she was certain of it. All her training, her dedication and effort, were to prepare her for
him.

He appeared not to know it, and she understood he would be resistant. But that seemed to be an organic part of this dynamic. She knew it would be a process. She was prepared to wait.

The truck rolled down the highway, and despite her fascination with all she saw, her eyelids soon grew heavy. She slept.

Asmodeus came to her almost as soon as her mind was enveloped by the darkness.

“I heard you call to me, girl.”

She was naked, as always, the wind sweeping over her bare skin, twisting her hair into long, floating coils. They were nowhere, in the falling, weightless dark, as they most often were. It used to feel like a cocoon to her, womblike. Now it simply felt empty. Even Asmodeus could no longer fill up that empty space.

“I did not call you, Asmodeus.”

“You said my name. That is enough.”

“Only in my head.”

“Do you think I am not there, little one? I am in your every thought. I always have been.”

“Is that true?”

“Think on it.”

“I…I don’t know.”

“You begin to question me. I do not care for it.” His eyes blazed, a pair of black-and-red coals in his flawless face.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, remorseful. Afraid.

“Do you not still love me?”

“Of course. Once loved, always loved. You yourself taught me that. I believe it to be so.”

“Do you still desire me?”

His skin glowed, that lovely, burnished gold, his erect cock standing tall and strong. Her body surged with need, as it always had.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He moved closer, stroking his shaft with long, slow sweeps of his hand. The head swelled, glistened at the tip.

“Tell me you want me, my beauty.”

Her nipples were stiffening, her sex filling with desire.

“I want you,” she said quietly. “As always, Asmodeus.”

He fisted his long-fingered hand and pumped into it. Desire pooled deep in her belly, even as her mind shied away, trying to reject the sensation. Still, she was unable to deny it was there.

“Tell me again.”

“I want you.”

“Show me how you want me. Show me how you would have me touch you.”

She started to raise her hands to her breasts, but they stilled, as if of their own accord.

“Show me how you would have me suckle your breasts. Spread your thighs for me and show me the honey of your wet desire.”

She could not move. Despite the hunger gnawing at her belly, her breasts, her sex. She was swollen with it, yet immobilized. She could not do as he asked.

She could not do it.

“Asmodeus, I—”

“You deny me?” he roared, his hand giving his hard flesh another savage yank. “You reject me, girl?”

“No.”

“Your body will not obey me. I can smell your desire, yet you are still as a statue.”

“I’m sorry.”

She was shivering now. With unmet need, with fear. Goose bumps lined her skin.

“Go to your human male, then.” Asmodeus spit the words out.

“I… How do you know about him?”

“I see it all, little one. You cannot hide. I see your need for him. Your desire to please. Your attentions are diverted from me, and you do not fight it.”

“Asmodeus, it feels right. He feels right.”

“You are mistaken.”

She raised her chin, looked into the scorching black depths of his eyes. “I am not.”

“Foolish girl.”

He began to stroke himself again, growing thicker, longer. His nipples swelled into two dark, luscious pads of flesh as he fingered them with his other hand. Her body responded, her sex growing wet. But her heart was not with him any longer.

She shook her head. “No.”

His brows drew together in his golden face. She felt his fury like heat on her naked skin, searing her. His lush mouth set into a grim line as he stroked himself faster and faster.

“You will want me.”

Tears blurred her vision. “No, Asmodeus.”

He stroked faster, his fist a savage, driving motion, the tip of his rigid flesh beginning to glow with brilliant blue light. His gaze was hard on hers, his flawless face intent. His mouth pulled into a grimace and she knew he was close to his peak. And for the first time she did not want it, did not want anything to do with it.

“I said no, Asmodeus. No!”

She came awake, Declan’s hand on her shoulder. The truck was stopped and he was leaning over the seat toward her. On her other side, Liam’s big face was close to hers; she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He whimpered, and she reached up to smooth her palm over his head.

“Angel, are you okay?”

“I… Yes. I’m well.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Yes.”

She drew in a breath, forced her racing pulse to calm. She was here with Declan now. Asmodeus could not reach her on this plane. She was safe.

She hadn’t talked with Declan—or anyone—about Asmodeus. She wasn’t ready to bring him into this new life. She didn’t know how he would fit in this place, outside of her life with The Grandmother. She didn’t know yet how
she
would fit. All she knew was that Declan would help her.

“We’re here,” Declan said. “At my house.”

“Oh.”

She turned to look out the window, shaking off the edges of the dream, getting her body, her mind, to settle.

Oh, it was lovely. The house looked like something out of a book she’d read when she was very young. It was all made of wood, with a stone chimney and a peaked roof. The green shutters made the windows look happy somehow, and the red door was a welcome in itself. Trees towered on either side, and as Declan opened her door, calling Liam out before helping her from the truck, she could hear the chirping murmur of birds, the soft sigh of wind in the boughs. The outdoor sounds she had missed so much during her time in the hospital.

“This is your place? This is to be my place? It’s beautiful.”

“Well, I don’t know about beautiful, but it’s comfortable and quiet.”

“It
is
beautiful,” she insisted.

Declan grabbed her crutches from the back of the truck and handed them to her. “They showed you how to use these?”

“I’m not very good at it yet.”

“You won’t be on them forever. I can help you get up the stairs.”

She smiled her thanks and began the arduous task of making her way the few yards from the truck to the small flagstone path, Liam trailing along beside her. It was exhausting, with her heavy cast on her leg and her shoulders burning with the healing wounds there, but she was proud of herself when she made it to the foot of the steps. “I think I can go up the stairs myself.”

“I don’t know, Angel. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can do it.”

She placed her good foot on the bottom stair, shifted her weight on the crutches and brought them up, tried to swing her cast up, and tumbled backward, into Declan’s arms. The crutches fell to the ground.

“I’ve got you.”

He did. His arms were strong and solid around her. Her body heated, going soft and warm all over: her legs, her belly, even her shoulders, her chest. Her heart thumped an unsteady beat as she looked up into his iris-blue eyes. He stared back silently, his lips parted.

She took in a breath. So did he. And she felt as though they breathed together for several moments. Then his features went dark. She felt him shutting down, pulling back, even though he still held her.

“I shouldn’t have let you try the stairs,” he said, his voice gruff.

“No, I was being stubborn.”

He smiled then, a small tilting at the corners of his lush mouth. “Yes, you were.”

“Will you help me, Declan?”

“Hold on,” he said before lifting her in his arms and carrying her up the four stairs to the door.

It was as much physical contact as she’d ever had with a man, and it made her dizzy. With desire. With a breathless wanting that went beyond desire.

He sat her down on a wooden bench on the porch, went down to collect her crutches, brought them back to her and unlocked the door, held it for her while she hobbled in.

He made a gesture with one hand that she thought was a little self-conscious. “This is it.”

She looked around at the house. Declan’s house.

The floors were smooth wood, covered with a few worn area rugs. There was a couch in a dark green fabric, a big brown leather chair by the enormous stone fireplace. The mantel was a solid beam of rough-hewn wood, flanked on either side by shelves filled to overflowing with books, making her smile in anticipation. And scattered among the books was a collection of small, wooden figures, animals and birds and trees, each one carved in exquisite detail. Everything in the room was clean and neat, the colors warm and earthy, the colors of the outside: trees and earth, moss and ferns, wood and sunlight. It was larger than The Grandmother’s house, and didn’t have the same clutter. Yet somehow it was warmer.

“Are you tired, Angel? Do you want to go to bed and rest? Or would you rather see the rest of the house? There’s not much to it.”

“I’m not too tired. I would like to see your house.”

Declan nodded. “Through here is the kitchen. You still okay on the crutches?”

“Yes, I can do it. It’s easier inside.”

He led the way through an open doorway to the right. The kitchen was smaller than the one she was used to, but had a large, old white stove with a griddle in the middle, like the one she had always cooked with. The cabinets were knotted pine, and a pine table with two chairs sat beneath a window. Again, it was simple but felt like home. Maybe because this was Declan’s home. Because she knew it would be hers.

“It’s not much,” Declan repeated, “but I can cook a few things in here. I make a good spaghetti sauce.”

“I don’t know spaghetti sauce,” she said, carefully pronouncing the unfamiliar word, “but I look forward to trying it. But, Declan, I can cook myself. The Grandmother found my cooking to be pleasing.”

“You let that leg heal first. All you have to do right now is lie around here and get better. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I have rested quite a lot already, in the hospital.”

“And you’re not done just because they let you go home.”

There was a scolding tone in his voice, but she knew it was nothing serious. And he had called this place “home,” which made her happy.

“I will rest, then.”

“Let me show you your room. It’s just down the hall.”

She followed him back across the living room, watching the easy swing of his narrow hips, his broad shoulders. She’d had the opportunity to see a number of other men at the hospital—doctors, nurses, orderlies, visitors—and she still thought Declan the most beautiful, the most finely built of all.

There was a door on either side of the hallway.

“This one is my room,” he said. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall. The one on the left is yours.”

He held the door open and let her pass through.

The room had one low window hung with white curtains, a big bed covered in a light blue-and-white quilt. On the night table was a lamp, a tiny deer carved from wood, made with the same great care and attention to detail as the figures she’d seen in the living room, and a small vase filled with wildflowers in pink and purple and yellow. She made her way to the table, picked up the vase and brought the flowers to her nose, inhaled.

“Thank you, Declan, for the flowers.”

He shrugged, shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sure. I just found them growing around the place.”

She smiled at him. “Because you knew I would like them.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged again, looked away for a moment, then back to her. It was strange to see this apparent shift in his usual absolute confidence. “Do you need anything? More pillows?”

“Everything I need is right here,” she said.

It was true. He had given her a home.
His
home. A safe place. And more, a place close to him. She hoped to get closer, hoped he would allow her to do so. Wanted it perhaps more than she had wanted anything in her life.

She didn’t understand what she was feeling exactly, other than this burning desire to be with him, to please him. She had never experienced such feelings before, nothing with such strength.

Dizzy suddenly, she sank onto the edge of the bed. He was at her side in an instant.

“Angel, are you all right?”

He took her chin in his hand, tilted her face up, and she felt her cheeks go warm.