Chapter Six
Azagoth got the fuck out of the room. Away from Lilliana. Away from the female who had given him the gift of stepping outside of his realm for the first time in thousands of years. Who set his blood on fire when he’d taken her hand. And when he’d kissed her. Holy hellfire, today had been the best day he’d had in eons. Maybe in...ever.
He could still feel the sand on his feet and between his toes as he hauled ass to his office. The halls were empty, which was good, because right now he didn’t trust himself not to disintegrate anyone who got in his way.
He hit the door at a dead run and slammed it closed behind him. With a thought, he shut down the soul tunnel and went straight to the fireplace.
The flames licked at his bare skin, but as usual, he felt nothing. How odd, given that the Egyptian sun had engulfed him in warmth.
Trembling all over, he gripped the mantel so firmly that the stone beneath his fingers gave way. He’d leave one hell of a set of handprints once he got himself under control.
But could he get himself under control? What the hell was happening to him? The moment he’d stepped from his library out into the desert and breathed the hot, dry air, something inside him had broken open, releasing a trickle of sensation he hadn’t been able to identify. It had been familiar, and yet foreign, maybe what humans called déjà vu. Whatever it was, it had been pure and pleasant, a kind of joy that wasn’t dependent on evil or violence or death.
But the moment he’d rematerialized inside his library, the sensation had morphed into something much less pleasant, as if the river of emotion seeping out of the fissure had become polluted. Tainted in the way only malevolence could do.
Hatred and pain and the desire to destroy something had overwhelmed him. He hadn’t been prepared for the onslaught of feelings, and now his body was shaking and cramping like he’d overdosed on some human designer drug.
Closing his eyes, he made a futile attempt to corral his runaway emotions, to gather them up and stuff them back inside the icy tomb where they’d been interred for so long. He’d been such a fool to want to feel something again. How could he have forgotten that emotions were bad, bad things?
He growled at the sound of a tap on the door. “Go away.”
The door whispered open, and he gripped the mantel even harder as his wings writhed beneath his skin. His true form, the one that literally frightened the piss out of most demons, was itching to break out and rip something—or someone—apart.
Soft footsteps padded inside, and he got a whiff of the warm citrus fragrance that was unique to Lilliana.
Instant, embarrassing hard-on.
Okay, so he couldn’t rip her to shreds, but dammit, he wasn’t ready to talk to anyone, let alone the female who had just drawn something from him he hadn’t felt in forever.
This is your own damned fault. You wanted a mate, an angel who would warm you from the outside.
Yeah, well, he hadn’t expected to be warmed from the inside too.
“Do you not understand the words, go away?”
He heard her drawn-out inhale, as if she was gathering her own temper. “You seemed upset. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m Azagoth, the Grim Fucking Reaper, king of my domain. Of course I’m okay.”
“What, so the Great Azagoth doesn’t have feelings?” She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a stomp of her foot. “Is the Great Azagoth also so rude that he can’t talk to someone face to face?”
Irritated now, he rounded on her. “I told you not to come in.”
She stiffened, but instead of defending her actions as he expected, she inclined her head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have barged in and demanded something of you when you clearly want to be alone.” Pivoting crisply, she started for the doorway.
“Wait,” he blurted, his mouth operating independently from his brain. “I didn’t mean to be a bastard.”
The words came out stilted and unfamiliar to his own ears. How long had it been since he’d apologized to anyone? Thousands of years, probably. No wonder he was so rusty.
Lilliana turned around slowly. “What happened? You seemed so relaxed and happy when we were in the desert, like you were a normal person and not the Grim Reaper. Now you’re extra...reapy.” She cleared her throat. “Also, you’ve sprouted horns.”
Of course he had.
She eyed him like he was a rabid hellhound, and when her gaze dropped to his feet, he barked, “What are you doing?”
“Checking for hooves.”
He was pretty sure his horns grew larger. So did his dick.
Irritation that he couldn’t control his own body, let alone his emotions, pissed him off even more. Made him...as she put it, extra reapy. Then she was walking toward him, her long, fluid strides kicking her slim hips out with each strut. The bare expanse of her belly became a focal point as she came closer, and suddenly, all the writhing, shifting feelings inside him narrowed into a single stream of lust.
Much, much better. Fury, joy, sadness, guilt...those were things he couldn’t deal with. Lust, though...that he could handle, and handle very well.
“Look,” she said as she halted in front of him. “It wasn’t my fault that we had to come back. We used up the entire hour—”
A tap on the doorjamb cut her off, and they both looked over to the open doorway where Zhubaal stood, outfitted in leather and weapons.
Not a good sign.
“My lord, I had a meal sent to your dining room.” He gestured down the hall. “And...you have another visitor.”
“Send them away. I’m done for the day.”
Zhubaal shifted his weight in an uncharacteristic display of unease. “Sir...it’s Methicore.”
Instant alarm shot up Azagoth’s spine, and he instinctively stepped in front of Lilliana. “Is he alone?”
“Aye.” Zhubaal’s tone was grim. “I shackled him with Bracken Cuffs.”
The cuffs, designed to neutralize supernatural abilities, weren’t necessary, not when Azagoth was the most powerful being in his own realm, but with Methicore’s history, it was a wise precaution. Plus, being shackled was humiliating, and Methicore deserved it. And worse.
“Send the bastard in.”
Zhubaal bowed deeply and left. As soon as the door closed, Lilliana stepped closer. “Who is Methicore?”
“He’s a vile excuse for an angel,” he growled. “A pox upon his kind.”
She frowned. “How do you know him?”
Azagoth inhaled deeply, doing his best to keep the monster throbbing inside him at bay. “I know him,” he said thickly, “because he’s my son.”
Bastard. A vile excuse for an angel. A pox upon his kind.
Azagoth’s words about his own son completely obliterated any warm fuzzies Lilliana had begun to feel for him. It was too reminiscent of her own father’s rejection of her. She’d been the product of breeding for a purpose, and when she’d approached him a quarter of a century ago in an attempt to get to know him, he’d made it very clear that he wanted nothing to do with her.
“I have a mate and sons now, and I don’t need you barging into our lives and ruining everything.”
In other words, his family didn’t know about her. He’d kicked her out of his grand residence with instructions to stay away from him and his family.
Looked like Azagoth was no better than dear old dad. She should have known.
As Zhubaal escorted Methicore inside, anger at the way he was chained boiled up. She’d been shackled the same way only a few weeks ago, and the memory of being rendered helpless and at another’s mercy closed in on her in a claustrophobic wave.