Before she could inform him of that, however, he said, “Give Bianka whatever she wants.” Talking to his own cloud, apparently. “Anything but escape and more of those…outfits.” His gaze intensified on her. “That should stave off the boredom. But I only agree to this on the condition that you vow to keep your hands to yourself.”
Anything she wanted? She didn’t allow herself to grin, the girl forgotten in the face of this victory. “Done.”
“And so it is,” he said, then spun and stalked from the room. His wings expanded in a rush, and he disappeared before she could follow. But then, there was no need to follow him. Not now.
He had no idea that he’d just ensured his own downfall. Whatever she wants, he’d said. She laughed. She didn’t need to touch him or wear lingerie to win their next battle. She just needed his return. Because then, he would become her prisoner.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE’D ALMOST GIVEN IN.
Lysander could not believe how quickly he’d almost given in to Bianka. One sultry glance from her, one invitation, and he’d forgotten his purpose. It was shameful. And yet, it was not shame that he felt. It was more of that strange disappointment—disappointment that he’d been interrupted!
Standing before Bianka, breathing in her wicked scent, feeling the heat of her body, all he’d been able to recall was the decadent taste of her. He’d wanted more. Wanted to finally touch her skin. Skin that had glowed with health, reflecting all those rainbow shards. She’d wanted that, too, he was sure of it. The more aroused she’d become, the brighter those colors had glowed.
Unless that was a trick? What did he truly know of women and desire?
She was worse than a demon, he thought. She’d known exactly how to entrance him. Those naked photos had nearly dropped him to his knees. Never had he seen anything so lovely. Her breasts, high and plump. Her stomach, flat. Her navel, perfectly dipped. Her thighs, firm and smooth. Then, being asked to lie beside her and think of what he disliked about her…both had been temptations, and both had been irresistible.
He’d known his resolve was crumbling and had wanted to rebuild it. And how better to rebuild than to ponder all the things he disliked about the woman? But if he had lain next to her, he would not have thought of what he disliked—things he couldn’t seem to recall then or now. He might have even thought about what he liked about her.
She was brilliant. She’d had him.
He’d never desired a demon. Had never secretly liked bad behavior. Yet Bianka excited him in a way he could not have predicted. So, what did he like most about her at the moment? That she was willing to do anything, say anything, to tempt him. He liked that she had no inhibitions. He liked that she gazed up at him with longing in those beautiful eyes.
How would she look at him if he actually kissed her again? Kissed more than her mouth? How would she look at him if he actually touched her? Caressed that skin? He suddenly found himself wanting to watch mortals and immortals alike more intently, gauging their reactions to each other. Man and woman, desire to desire.
Just the thought of doing so caused his body to react the way it had done with Bianka. Hardening, tightening. Burning, craving. His eyes widened. That, too, had never happened before. He was letting her win, he realized, even though there was distance between them. He was letting his one temptation destroy him, bit by bit.
Something had to be done about Bianka, since his current plan was clearly failing.
“Lysander?”
His charge’s voice drew him from his dark musings. “Yes, sweet?”
Olivia’s head tilted to the side, her burnished curls bouncing. They stood inside her cloud, flowers of every kind scattered across the floor, on the walls, even dripping from the ceiling.
Her eyes, as blue as the sky, regarded him intently. “You haven’t been listening to me, have you?”
“No,” he admitted. Truth had always been his most cherished companion. That would not change now. “My apologies.”
“You are forgiven,” she said with a grin as sweet as her flowers.
With her, it was that easy. Always. No matter how big or small the crime, Olivia couldn’t hold a grudge. Perhaps that was why she was so treasured among their people. Everyone loved her.
What would other angels think of Bianka?
No doubt they would be horrified by her. He was horrified.
I thought you were not going to lie? Even to yourself. He scowled. Unlike the forgiving Olivia, he suspected Bianka would hold a grudge for a lifetime—and somehow take that grudge beyond the grave.
For some reason, his scowl faded and his lips twitched at the thought. Why would that amuse him? Grudges were born of anger, and anger was an ugly thing. Except, perhaps, on Bianka. Would she erupt with the same amount of unrelenting passion she brought to the bedroom? Probably. Would she want to be kissed from her anger, as well?
The thought of kissing her until she was happy again did not delight him.
Usually he dealt with other people’s anger the way he dealt with everything else. With total unconcern. It was not his job to make people feel a certain way. They were responsible for their own emotions, just as he was responsible for his. Not that he experienced many. Over the years, he’d simply seen too much to be bothered. Until Bianka.
“Lysander?”
Olivia’s voice once more jerked him from his mind. His hands fisted. He’d locked Bianka away, yet she was still managing to change him. Oh, yes. His current plan was failing.
Why couldn’t he have desired someone like sweet Olivia? It would have made his endless life much easier. As he’d told Bianka, desire wasn’t forbidden, but not many of their kind ever experienced it. Those that did only wanted other angels and often wed their chosen partner. Except in storybooks, he had never heard of an angel pairing with a different race—much less a demon.
“—you go again,” Olivia said.
He blinked, hands fisting all the tighter. “Again, I apologize. I will be more diligent the rest of our conversation.” He would make sure of it.
She offered him another grin, though this one lacked her usual ease. “I only asked what was bothering you.” She folded her wings around herself and plucked at the feathers, carefully avoiding the strands of gold. “You’re so unlike yourself.”
That made two of them. Something was troubling her; sadness had never layered her voice before, yet now it did. Determined to help her, he summoned two chairs, one for him and one for her, and they sat across from each other. Her robe plumed around her as she released her wings and twined her fingers together in her lap. Leaning forward, he rested his weight on his elbows.
“Let us talk about you first. How goes your mission?” he asked. Only that could be the cause. Olivia found joy in all things. That’s why she was so good at her job. Or rather, her former job. Because of him, she was now something she didn’t want to be. A warrior angel. But it was for the best, and he did not regret the decision to change her station. Like him, she’d become too fascinated with someone she shouldn’t.
Better to end that now, before the fascination ruined her.
She licked her lips and looked away from him. “That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about.” A tremor shook her. “I don’t think I can do it, Lysander.” The words emerged as a tortured whisper. “I don’t think I can kill Aeron.”
“Why?” he asked, though he knew what she would say. But unlike Bianka, Aeron had broken a heavenly law, so there could be no locking him away and leading him to a righteous path.
If Olivia failed to destroy the demon-possessed male, another angel would be tasked with doing so—and Olivia would be punished for her refusal. She would be cast out of the heavens, her immortality stripped, her wings ripped from her back.
“He hasn’t hurt anyone since his blood-curse was removed,” she said, and he heard the underlying beseeching.
“He helped one of Lucifer’s minions escape hell.”
“Her name is Legion. And yes, Aeron did that. But he ensures the little demon stays away from most humans. Those she does interact with, she treats with kindness. Well, her version of kindness.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that Aeron helped the creature escape.”
Olivia’s shoulders sagged, though she in no way appeared defeated. Determination gleamed in her eyes. “I know. But he’s so…nice.”
Lysander barked out a laugh. He just couldn’t help himself. “We are speaking of a Lord of the Underworld, yes? The one whose entire body is tattooed with violent, bloody images no less? That is the male you call nice?”
“Not all of the etchings are violent,” she mumbled, offended for some reason. “Two are butterflies.”
For her to have found the butterflies amid the skeletal faces decorating the man’s body meant she’d studied him intently. Lysander sighed. “Have you…felt anything for him?” Physically?
“What do you mean?” she asked, but rosy color bloomed on her cheeks.
She had, then. “Never mind.” He scrubbed a hand down his suddenly tired face. “Do you like your home, Olivia?”
She blanched at that, as if she knew the direction he was headed. “Of course.”
“Do you like your wings? Do you like your lack of pain, no matter the injury sustained? Do you like the robe you wear? A robe that cleans itself and you?”
“Yes,” she replied softly. She gazed down at her hands. “You know I do.”
“And you know that you will lose all of that and more if you fail to do your duty.” The words were harsh, meant for himself as much as for her.
Tears sprang into her eyes. “I just hoped you could convince the council to rescind their order to execute him.”
“I will not even try.” Honest, he reminded himself. He had to be honest. Which he preferred. Or had. “Rules are put into place for a reason, whether we agree with those reasons or not. I have been around a long time, have seen the world—ours, theirs—plunged into darkness and chaos. And do you know what? That darkness and chaos always sprang from one broken rule. Just one. Because when one is broken, another soon follows. Then another. It becomes a vicious cycle.”