Marie-Noelle’s face was white, her mouth pinched. She was agitated, and the wild look that hadn’t surfaced of yet was present in her eyes once more. “I felt him,” she said quickly. “Darrick.”
Rowan paused beside the bike and adjusted the dagger Darrick had given her inside her leather jacket. “He was here.” Rowan shrugged. “You don’t need to worry. He won’t bother either one of you.”
“I don’t fear the fae,” Mikhail growled.
Rowan climbed up behind Azaiel. “You should, gargoyle.” She thought of the power she’d sensed and of how little they really knew about the between realm. “I think we all should.”
“What did he want?” Her mother’s hands twisted together, and her face was clammy with sweat.
“He . . . wants us to be safe.”
Marie-Noelle was silent for a moment, but when Azaiel started the bike she rushed forward and stopped just short of the Harley. “Rowan, I’m so . . .” She struggled to speak.
The block of pain inside her chest had shattered several days ago, but Rowan still couldn’t bear the thought of dealing with it. Not now. “I know,” she said quietly.
Marie-Noelle took another step forward, but Rowan tapped Azaiel on the back. “Let’s go.”
Azaiel nodded to Mikhail. “Keep watch over Cedric and Rowan’s mother.”
The gargoyle nodded solemnly, then Azaiel and Rowan roared into the night.
The last night before Samhain—the possible last night of her life—was like any of the others she’d passed over the last two weeks. She and Azaiel killed several demons, dispatched a few vampires to an early grave, and restored order among the human populace. They patrolled relentlessly, hooked up with the others, and laid waste to a rabid pack of blood demons that descended just before dawn.
When it was over, Rowan was tired, bloody, bruised, and running on adrenaline that was fast leaving. She’d kept her mind empty of anything except the mission at hand, but as she rode behind Azaiel, as her hands clutched his hard warmth to her body she nearly lost it.
A wall of emotion hit her in the chest and made it difficult to breathe. Her eyes watered, and she blinked rapidly in an effort to keep them clear. In the end she lost and rested her head on Azaiel’s back, swallowing the thick lump in her throat as the tears leaked from her eyes in slow rolls of sorrow.
Twelve hours to go. Twelve hours until she met the demon who’d piloted her ship—who’d steered her life with invisible hands.
Twelve hours until she either defeated Mallick or . . . she squeezed her eyes tightly and banished the thought from her mind.
They reached The Black Cauldron a few minutes later, and she slid from the Harley on legs that were weak, and if not for Azaiel, she might very well have dropped to the ground in a puddle of defeat. What kind of warrior was she?
He lifted her into his arms and held her to his chest as if she were a treasure of the utmost fragility. Her arms crept around his neck, and she closed her eyes once more. Not wanting to see anyone, or talk to anyone. All she wanted was Azaiel.
He carried her into the house, bypassed Cedric and Abigail, and took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for her bedroom. Once inside he leaned against the door and just held her. Rowan shuddered, over and over, her tight frame overcome with pain. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the silent emotions inside her subsided, but eventually she relaxed in his arms.
She opened her eyes, angled her head, and drank in his beauty. He stared down at her with an intensity she felt in her bones. It was one of want and need and desire. At that moment he mirrored everything she felt, and a strangled noise erupted from her throat. She couldn’t speak but tenderly caressed his face.
How had this man she’d just met come to mean so much to her? Was it fate that she’d only met him now? When her life was in jeopardy?
He leaned into her touch and still, with no words spoken, he read her mind. Azaiel carried her into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As hot steam filled her bathroom they tore at each other’s clothes, ripping, tearing . . . destroying in an effort to touch. To feel.
In seconds he stood before her. Six feet six inches of raw, masculine beauty, and she reveled in the knowledge that at least for today he was hers. His eyes were no longer golden but bled through with the edgy black that she loved.
“Azaiel, I . . .” Her voice caught, and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t say the things that floated inside her head.
I think I love you.
I think I want you forever.
I think this is my last chance for happiness.
He lifted her into his arms and claimed her mouth in the most gentle, exquisite kiss ever. As light as a feather his lips parted hers, and he invaded with a sweep of his tongue. She groaned into him, and her head fell back as she let him take. Let him taste and caress.
He stepped into the shower, and she slid down the length of him as her fingers sought the straining hardness between them. He watched her in silence as the hot spray from above baptized them in liquid heat, and when she slowly massaged the tip of his cock and cupped his balls he clenched his teeth, but his gaze never wavered from her.
He was velvet-encased steel in her hands. God, he felt perfect, and his eyes glittered, sparks of gold lighting them each time she gripped him and massaged. The fatigue from earlier had long fled; whether it was because of the hot spray or the hot man in front of her didn’t matter.