Page 10 of Tempting Azagoth (Angelic Shorts #1)
VISITORS
AZAGOTH
E ager to return home to his lamb, Azagoth hadn’t expected the sight that greeted him when he stepped through the door. Two pairs of eyes swung in his direction. He paused in the doorway, taking in Sariel’s seated position behind Delilah, fingers in her long dark hair and twisting them into a plait.
He actually liked it, sliding his gaze over the cool blue dress that fell to Delilah’s knees, her legs folded beneath her. She looked comfortable. At home. Maybe it was his imagination, but the shadows beneath her eyes appeared less prominent. He wanted to kiss the rest of her sorrow away, especially on the heels of his conversation with Pharo.
She has no one. I’m all she has.
The weight of that realization threatened to buckle him, but he forced himself to finish entering his home, shutting the door behind him. He cut his eyes from Sariel and to the door, silently demanding the other Fallen to leave. Her silver eyes narrowed on him, lips pressed in a line, but she quickly finished her handiwork, letting the braid rest on Delilah’s shoulders.
“Next time you leave, don’t hide her away like a dirty secret. I had to weasel the information out of Ramiel. You know he can’t keep a secret,” Sariel spoke as she rose from the sofa, aiming a smile down at Azagoth’s female while admonishing him. He should’ve foreseen the busybody intruding into his space to poke and prod at his woman.
“Get out. And quit being a gossip. I’ll announce her presence when I’m damned good and ready,” he snapped. She grinned, eyes flashing with mirth, and he knew he’d said something that struck a nerve by the edge to her smile. He’d pay for that later.
“Oh, you’re damned alright, Azzie. We all are. And I’ll do as I please. You’re welcome to try and keep me out next time,” she said with a saccharine grin, lips stretched wide to allow her fangs to make an appearance. He curled his claws into his palm, the points making little indentions.
She’s a former cherubim. I can take her.
But hadn’t they lost enough over the several millennia? How many angels fell on both sides? Each time their fires snuffed out, a sharp bite of pain wormed into his heart, into each of their hearts. They all felt it when one of them died . Petty rivalries weren’t worth risking a true death.
His head tilted in the slightest degree, pulling a sharp intake of breath from Sariel. She’d expected a fight, not a concession.
Their fight might’ve lasted minutes if performed between the two of them or a week to several centuries if done by proxy, each attempting to extinguish the other by moving pieces around on their proverbial chess board. But weariness bowed his shoulders. He simply wanted to enjoy time alone with his lamb. Politics could wait.
Sariel lowered her eyes, acknowledging his submission. She gave his Delilah a small wave before cautiously walking around him to exit the apartment. The way her shoulders tensed and she kept her eyes trained on him suggested she expected foul play, some trick to be played against her. After all, she’d intentionally trespassed into his domain to seek out his potential mate.
Wars have been fought over less.
But he was tired of fighting, of constantly watching his back or, more accurately, the insides of his wings and his nonessential heart. But a blade through the dormant organ would signal his end, obliterated in a flash of light, the explosion propelling his opponent backwards. Sadly, he’d used a Fallen’s death as an advantage in the past.
It’s what brought him to the diner Delilah worked at. Exhaustion. He entertained ideas of a simple life among mortals, attempting to pretend to be one of them to escape his title, position, and the host of angels intricately tethered to his existence.
And somehow, I’ve landed a mate instead of the life I dreamt of.
He couldn’t complain. Eternity would be more bearable with Delilah at his side. He’d weather any storm with her. His lamb. The door clicked shut on the heels of Sariel’s exit. He needn’t worry about her striking him from behind, the hard coating on the outside of his wings protected his heart.
Any wound with a heaven-forged blade would hurt like a bitch but a select few spelled the end. And he had no intention of dying now that he’d found his Delilah.
She’s mine. My mate, my reason for existing. I hope she accepts me, accepts everything I have to offer. But first, the truth, the unveiling. She needs to know what she’s bedding.
DELILAH
Azagoth’s expression reminded Delilah of men sentenced to death row, empty of joy or hope. She knew that expression. She’d lived it. Until him .
Her skin felt clean, untainted by her father’s touch for the first time in months, like she’d baptized herself with the water running through Azagoth’s pipes. Nausea hadn’t roiled in her belly as she’d bathed, allowing her a healthy enough appetite to raid Azagoth’s fridge afterwards.
And that was how Sariel found her, face full of food and eyes widening at yet another visitor. Her cheeks twitched, tender from all the smiling she’d done while the Fallen regaled her with all she’d done in the past century, choosing to entertain her in Azagoth’s absence. It bogged Delilah’s mind that the youthful-looking female was as old as the Morningstar.
“Sariel didn’t bother you, did she?” Azagoth asked like he’d read her mind. She aimed a soft smile at him, shaking her head. It fell as she remembered the task that’d kept him away.
“Is it over?” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Is everything alright?” was what she’d meant to ask, but fear rose unbidden at the thought of the Chosen redoubling their efforts if he’d failed. She needed to know she was safe, that they couldn’t touch her.
Just when I thought I washed his stain clean.
Claws clicked across the floor, and she looked up at Azagoth’s approach. He knelt in front of her, brushing a finger along her cheek.
“You’re safe, little lamb,” he reassured her, soothing notes woven into his voice. She tried to force her limbs to relax, commanding her father’s ghost to quit haunting her.
Perhaps some of the fear shone on her face, spurring him into distracting her .
“Come. There’s something I want you to see,” he said, holding out both clawed hands to her. She looked at them. Really looked at them and they wavered , like an optical illusion.
Her eyes traveled up his hands to his forearms that looked too perfect to be real, unblemished and upward still to his bare chest, also void of scars. She examined the smooth column of his neck, sharp jawline and his nostrils that flared the longer she looked him over, studying him like an insect under a microscope.
The Chosen taught her to revere them. But a tiny voice whispered, “how well do you know this immortal creature?”
Her lips parted and before she could think better of it, she blurted, “Is this your real face?”
He blinked and recoiled at the same time her hands flew to her mouth like she could snatch the words back, shoving them down her throat where they belonged.
Other than that instinctive, visceral response, he didn’t answer, and a tense silence settled between them.
“If I said no, lamb, would you run from me?” he questioned and those golden eyes sharpened, the pupils shrinking then expanding in an interesting wave. She wondered if he wanted her to run. Her pulse quickened, imagining him catching her when she did.
His tongue flicked out, his eyes tracking her response to his question.
“You want to run, my lamb?” he growled, leaning closer, breath fanning her face. Her core throbbed a needy “yes,” but she didn’t let the word slip past her lips.
“Show me,” she said instead. He tilted his head, leisurely running heated eyes down her body. A large part of her wanted a repeat of what they’d done earlier. But she also wanted to see him, see what he hid behind imagined beauty. This fearsome creature protected her. His body had to tell the stories of battles lost and won.
She flushed, thinking she could gather the courage to reciprocate if he yielded first.