Page 17 of The Damned (Coven of Bones #3)

Beelzebub narrowed his gaze on my face, constantly evaluating and trying to understand the change in my mood.

I glared up at him, the dimming light in the room making the bright, shining gold of his Enochian tattoos seem all the more vibrant.

The light from them played off his features, making him look far more angelic than he had any right to be.

Whereas Lucifer had once been an angel, Beelzebub had been created from the pits of Hell itself, as had each of the archdemons.

Each one had been gifted a circle to claim as his own, and each archdemon possessed the qualities of the circle he’d been created from.

They were the darker reflections of our own magic.

“I can do it myself if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said, tilting his head to the side. His wing twitched as if it wanted to argue that he could, in fact, not do this himself. He rolled his eyes. “Or I can ask Raum.”

“You said asking a demon will come with consequences,” I said, challenging the offer. Had his warning been an exaggeration and a lie?

“It will undoubtedly, but it should be my price to pay. Not yours,” he said, glancing down at where my hands trembled with unease.

I sighed, unable to allow him to come to further harm because of this injury. He’d protected me, whether because of Willow or because of my song. “You were injured protecting me. This is the least I can do.”

Beelzebub finally moved toward the bed, sitting on the edge and making himself smaller.

He was still imposing, his height still greater than mine even as he sat.

His legs were spread to the perfect width, and I knew I would have been able to fit between them perfectly.

To nestle myself between his thighs and touch his golden brown skin for myself.

I swallowed as he smirked at me, winking as if he knew the path my thoughts had taken and it amused him that I wasn’t impervious to his effect.

Turning his body to the side, he lifted one leg to rest it atop the mattress so his other foot that remained on the floor ran parallel to the bed itself.

I studied his profile for a moment. The slight angle of his upturned eyes was breathtakingly beautiful, but the strong curve of his brow above them was too harsh to be pretty.

A contradiction that continued down to the sharp angles of his jaw, which looked as if it’d been carved from the rock of Hell itself.

The Enochian runes danced over his skin as I forced my feet to move past him, perching on the edge of the mattress behind him.

One of his leathery wings fanned itself over the mattress, laying out as if it, too, needed a rest.

His injured one extended down to the floor, a deep tear in the fibrous flesh.

I studied the part where the wings connected to his spine, unable to resist laying a finger atop the connective tissue there.

Warmth spread to my finger at the contact, a shiver running up Beelzebub’s spine as his head curled forward.

He turned his neck to glance at me over his shoulder, a smirk on his face that was more than just a tease.

It was a carnal promise, his deep red eyes boring into mine as he ran his tongue over the top of his bottom teeth.

“Careful, songbird. They’re sensitive,” he said, earning a swallow and a nod from me.

I tore my finger away from his skin, the part where the black of his wings blended into the brown of his skin.

It was like watching muscle move, parts of the flesh that were normally on the inside so obvious from the outside.

“Another reason I don’t want anyone but you to touch them. ”

I threaded the needle with deep breaths, tying the end and using my teeth to tear it off the spindle. “Doesn’t that mean they’ll hurt more?” I asked, wishing we had a numbing agent to ease the pain.

As well as other sensations.

“It does,” he admitted, smirking at me as he smiled over his shoulder. “You worried about me?”

I flushed, my face warming with the heat of my embarrassment as I avoided his gaze and reached out to grasp his wing. He shuddered, a deep growl rumbling in his chest that forced me to drop it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said, my face twisting with sympathy.

“Didn’t hurt,” he grunted, his fist grasping the blanket on top of the bed and squeezing. It bunched in his grip, making something unfamiliar tingle along the surface of my skin.

I swallowed, wetting my suddenly dry lips as I forced myself to gently grab his wing once more. He didn’t growl a second time, his entire body tense as I tried to touch him as little as possible.

Wiping the excess blood away with my fingertips, I slid the needle into his skin.

I shoved down my nausea at the feeling of his flesh parting for the needle, focusing in on the wound and sealing it closed.

The alternative was using sex to heal him, using my body to offer him pleasure and feeding on his, offering him pure, uninterrupted energy in exchange.

I didn’t have that in me, couldn’t allow that to happen.

So I stabbed my way through his flesh, reaching around his wing to pull the needle back through to the other side, over and over again.

I knitted his flesh, brought him pain, all the while knowing I could have made him feel good instead.

If only I were braver. If only I were less of a selfish coward.

But I wasn’t. I was just me.