Page 63 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)
Lucien/Beau
T he walk back to my chambers felt like the longest journey of my life.
Every step was an exercise in self-control, trying not to fixate on Azrael’s proximity or the way his hand would occasionally brush against mine in a way that sent electricity shooting up my arm like I’d stuck my finger in a socket while standing in a puddle.
The corridors seemed endless, each turn revealing another stretch that kept me trapped in this exquisite torture of being so close to him without actually touching.
By the time we reached my chambers, I was a mess of contradictory impulses—wanting to run away, wanting to grab him, wanting to pretend nothing was happening, wanting to demand answers about what exactly was happening between us.
Instead, I stood there like an idiot while Azrael opened the door with that perfect fluid grace that made even the simplest actions look like choreographed art.
The man didn’t just move; he flowed, like darkness given form and really good posture.
“I shall prepare your bath, my lord,” Azrael said, his voice dropping to that lower register that did funny things to my insides. “Would you prefer the jasmine or sandalwood salts this evening?”
“Surprise me,” I managed, yanking at my tie like it was personally offending me. “As long as it doesn’t smell like actual sulfur or something that died in a bog, I’m not picky.”
He inclined his head with that ghost of a smile that made my heart do gymnastics routines it definitely hadn’t qualified for, then disappeared into the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the silence, along with the faint scent of something woodsy and exotic that made me think of midnight forests and secret rendezvous.
Not that I’d ever had a secret rendezvous.
My dating history was about as exciting as watching paint dry in slow motion.
I collapsed into a nearby chair and attempted to get my brain functioning again. Which was like trying to restart a computer by hitting it repeatedly—technically possible but highly inefficient.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam that curled around Azrael’s tall figure like he was making a dramatic entrance in a music video.
He’d removed his tailcoat and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle that made my mouth go dry faster than a desert at high noon.
Why were forearms sexy? Who decided that?
I wanted to file a complaint with the Department of Anatomical Attractions for making such a random body part so distracting.
“Your bath is ready, my lord,” he announced, and somehow even that mundane statement sounded like an invitation to something that would make a romance novelist blush. His voice had this way of wrapping around ordinary words and making them sound like they were wearing lingerie.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to produce anything more sophisticated than a squeak, and moved past him into the bathroom.
The massive sunken tub was filled with steaming water, the surface scattered with what looked like black rose petals.
Candles floated in glass bowls around the edges, casting the room in warm, flickering light that danced across the obsidian walls.
“It’s, uh, very atmospheric,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the setup. “Were you going for ‘romantic spa’ or ‘elegant sacrifice’? Because if you’re planning to harvest my organs, I’d appreciate a heads-up so I can at least finish my drink first.”
A smile touched Azrael’s lips, a real one this time, brief but devastating in its effect on my already compromised cardiac function. “The black roses aid in muscle relaxation, my lord. I noticed you were tense during dinner.”
Yeah, because you kept looking at me like I was the main course, side dish, and dessert all rolled into one. “Right. Tense. That’s one word for it. Another might be ‘wound tighter than a spring in a jack-in-the-box that’s been cranked for three hours straight.’”
I stood there awkwardly, suddenly very aware that the next step involved getting naked.
Tonight, with the air between us practically crackling with enough electricity to power a small city, the prospect of his fingers working at my clothes seemed dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical harm.
Before I could decide whether to dismiss him or let him stay, Azrael stepped forward and began undoing my buttons.
My breath caught in my throat as his cool fingers brushed against my chest, each point of contact sending sparks across my skin like he was made of static electricity and I was a particularly conductive metal.
“The nobles seemed receptive to your rebuilding plans,” he said conversationally, as if he wasn’t currently undressing me while my heart was attempting to break the land speed record.
His face was so close I could see individual eyelashes, impossibly long and dark against his pale skin.
“Though Lord Whatshisface will require… additional persuasion.”
“Mm-hmm,” I managed, staring fixedly at a point over his shoulder because looking at his face right now would be like staring directly at the sun—painful, potentially damaging, and impossible to look away from once you started. “Very persuasive. I mean, he needs persuading. Yes.”
Wow, Beau. Shakespeare is weeping with envy at your eloquence right now. They should put that on a greeting card: ‘Very persuasive. I mean, he needs persuading. Yes.’ Right next to ‘Get Well Soon’ and ‘Happy Birthday, Grandma.’
Azrael’s fingers deftly worked their way down my shirt, each button revealing more skin that immediately pebbled in the cool air—or possibly from the way his eyes darkened as they followed his hands’ progress.
When he reached the last button, he slid the shirt from my shoulders with agonizing slowness, his cool fingers trailing down my arms in a caress that was definitely not standard butler procedure unless “How to Seduce Your Master” was a chapter in Butler School that I’d somehow missed.
My heart was pounding so hard I was surprised it wasn’t visibly deforming my chest like something from an alien movie. Each breath felt shallow and insufficient, like my lungs had decided oxygen was overrated compared to the scent of cedar and midnight that surrounded Azrael.
When his hands moved to my belt, I watched in a sort of fascinated horror as those elegant fingers worked the leather free. The subtle brush of his knuckles against my lower abdomen sent a jolt of heat straight to my groin, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
“I—” My voice cracked embarrassingly, and I cleared my throat. “I can handle the rest!”
Azrael paused, his fingers still on my belt buckle, his face close enough that I could feel his cool breath against my cheek. His eyes met mine, and what I saw there made my breath catch —hunger, raw and barely contained, like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
“Are you certain, my lord?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that I felt in my chest more than heard. “It’s no trouble.”
No, the trouble was that I was about two seconds away from grabbing his stupidly perfect face and finding out if those sculpted lips felt as good as they looked.
The trouble was that I had exactly zero experience with actual sex despite being technically twenty-two years old, and I was pretty sure fumbling like a virgin wasn’t the way to seduce your immortal demon butler.
The trouble was that my body was currently experiencing a rebellion against my brain’s authority, and if he moved his hands any lower, he’d encounter evidence of that rebellion that would be impossible to explain away.
“Very certain!” I squeaked, my voice hitting notes that would make a soprano jealous. “Super certain. The most certain anyone has ever been about anything, ever. In the history of certainty.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth as I babbled, his pupils expanding until the crimson was just a thin ring of fire around bottomless black.
For a moment—one heart-stopping, breath-catching moment—he swayed forward slightly, close enough that I could feel the coolness radiating from his skin, close enough that the slightest movement from either of us would bring our lips together.
My heart threw itself against my rib cage like it was trying to escape, and time seemed to stretch like taffy, each second lasting an eternity as we stood frozen in that almost-embrace.
His gaze was so intense I could practically feel it like a physical touch, tracing over my face, lingering on my lips in a way that made them tingle in anticipation.
Just when I thought he might actually close that infinitesimal distance, a log shifted in the fireplace across the room, the sharp crack shattering the moment like glass.
Azrael straightened, stepping back with visible reluctance, his perfect composure reassembling itself like armor being locked into place.
“I shall return shortly with your evening attire,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, the only indication that he’d been affected at all by whatever had just happened—or almost happened—between us.
The moment the door closed behind him, I practically tore off the rest of my clothes, my fingers fumbling with buttons and clasps in their haste.
I was hard enough to cut diamonds, a condition that wasn’t going to resolve itself through sheer willpower, and I needed to be submerged before Azrael returned or suffer the most mortifying moment of my admittedly short life as a demon king.