I’m no stranger to stalking or even violence. I wish it were otherwise, but even before I started my work as an escort, there were a string of bad relationships with both men and women. Looking for love in all the wrong places. Or, rather, I was looking for love, and the people I fell for were looking for someone who was less of a partner and more of a possession. After my last girlfriend slit my tires over a harmless text, I swore off dating entirely. Then I met Pope and started my work. I’m too busy to date now, too uninterested in all the bullshit that comes with filtering out potential prospects who would have a problem with what I do.
And if I sometimes develop fondness and desire for my clients? If sometimes I let myself fall into the fantasy that they love me too, that they’re choosing me above all others? Well, that’s my problem, not theirs.
I’m spiraling, I know I’m spiraling, but I don’t know how to stop it. There’s no Pope to call to talk through the mess in my head. I know what they would say about my unease with Azazeclass="underline" Use what you’ve got. He obviously cares about my well-being, even if he’s going about it in a shitty, over the top way. I could use that . . .
God, I’m so tired.
I open my eyes and stare at the city lights dancing over my ceiling with the movement of my sheer curtain in the faint breeze. It’s all too much. This situation. The violence I witnessed today. The future. All of it.
I don’t make the decision to get out of bed and pull on a short robe. I certainly don’t choose to open the door and step into the hallway. The lights are lower than normal, a nod to the late hour.
“I don’t know how to do this.” I reach out and gingerly press my fingertips to the stone wall. It’s cool and pleasing against my skin. “I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would like to go to Azazel . . . please.”
Nothing happens as far as I can tell, but even with Ramanu and Azazel, I never see the castle move. It’s one of those strange phenomena where I look away and when I look back, things have changed. With that in mind, I start walking.
This may be all for naught. Or I may change my mind the moment I come up against the reality of how impulsive I’m being. I pick up my pace, as if speed has ever been enough to outrun my thoughts.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve tried to leave my room multiple times, and each attempt has been met with frustration. I just walk and walk and walk, and right when I’m at the point of breaking, the damned castle deposits me back in front of my door.
Not so tonight.
The first turn ends in a short hall with a large door. I stop abruptly and narrow my eyes. “Is this a trick?” There’s no answer, but why would there be? This castle has no voice. I never found that truly tragic until this moment. I look around and clear my throat. “Uh, thank you. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
There’s nothing to do but knock on the door and hope for the best. The wood is more textured than I expect at first glance, rough against my knuckles.
Seconds later, the door opens to reveal Azazel. It’s late enough that he’s traded in his customary tunic and pants for some type of short skirt garment that wraps around his hips and leaves most of his legs bare. His thighs are huge. Ruinous, even. I’ve never wanted to bite thighs the way I suddenly ache to in this moment.
He frowns. “Eve. Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong.” The words are stark and filled with enough honesty to drown us both. “I can’t think, can’t sleep. Today was . . .”
“A lot. I know. I’m sorry. I would spare you the memories if I could.” He takes a step back, a clear invitation to enter.
Coming to him at all was a terrible idea. I knew it the moment I got out of bed. Sometimes, that’s all there is: bad and worse. Staying in my own room and being suffocated by my racing thoughts was worse than whatever this is.
You know what this is.
I guess I do. The moment Azazel shuts the door, I shrug out of my robe. I’m not wearing anything underneath.
His shocked inhale is almost—almost—enough to make me look at him.
“Eve?”
“I can’t think anymore.” It’s suddenly all too much. I close my eyes. “I know this is fucked on so many levels, Azazel. I shouldn’t be here.”
There’s no sound to indicate movement, but when he speaks, his voice comes from in front of me. “Are you doing this to help or to hurt?”
I shrug helplessly. “Both?”
His strained chuckle tugs at something in my chest. I don’t want to understand him. I don’t want to recognize that he’s just as out of his depth right now as I am. I certainly don’t want to admit that maybe he’s making the best of a shitty situation. “Is it me you want to hurt . . . or yourself?”
“Both,” I whisper.
“It’s a bad idea.” He’s closer. I swear I can feel the heat coming off his body now. “Every time I touch you, you resent me more.”
If only that were true. If only I hadn’t spent every night since that scene in the dining room fingering myself to the memory of him. Not his human version, for all that the sex was outstanding. No, when I slip my hand between my thighs, it’s horns, obsidian eyes, and a too-long wicked tongue I’m remembering.
I open my eyes to find him a few measly inches from me. It would be so easy to push this, to take control like I did last time. But . . . I’m tired. Scared. Shaky in a way I don’t know how to combat. “Touch me.” I suck in a harsh breath. “Please.”
As he reaches out to cup my face in his giant hands, I make my peace with the truth—in the morning, it won’t be him that I resent. It will be myself. For being weak in my desire. For wanting the person who’s responsible for upending my life.
That’s a problem for tomorrow.
Right now, Azazel lowers his mouth to mine, kissing me so sweetly, I might weep from the longing that springs to life in my chest. To be a different woman, with different fault lines. To be able to accept this and stop fighting. To do . . . a lot of things.
I break the kiss. “I can’t do soft. I—”
He bands an arm under my ass and lifts me until our faces are even. “If at any point you want to stop, say ‘stop’ and it ends. Do you understand?”
“Yes?”
This time, when he kisses me, it’s just short of violent. I moan into his mouth and enter the battle of teeth and tongues. Yes, this—this is what I need. He walks us across the room, and it seems to take forever, but I’m not curious enough to stop kissing him. Especially when he finally lays me down on his absurdly soft bed and moves back to kneel between my spread thighs, then undo his loincloth and toss it to the side.
The size difference really is absurd. The tallest person I’ve ever been with is six-five, and Azazel has a good seven inches on them at least, even without counting the horns. But he’s not gangly like a basketball player; he’s built thick and muscular, and holy fuck, his cock is huge. No, huge isn’t the right word. Did I say his thighs were ruinous? What a joke. His cock is the very definition of the word.
Even with the flicker of fear that curls through me, I can’t stop myself from reaching out and dragging a single finger up, up, up his absurd length. “You’re going to kill me with this.”
He huffs out a strained laugh. “Baby girl, I’ve seen your toys. You can handle it.”
I jolt, but I can’t begin to say if it’s from the pet name or the reminder that he has, in fact, seen me take a toy nearly this size. I’d completely forgotten about that, a little long-distance session we had a few years back. He’d purchased the toy for me, and I sent him a video of me using it.