Wicked Nights. Gena Showalter

      He arched a brow.

      “You are,” she gasped out. “You really are.”

      “I am thousands of years old.”

      Thousands, as in more than one. She flattened her hands over her twisting stomach. “And you’ve really never kissed anyone? Of your own free will, I mean.”

      He stepped into her personal space, saying softly, “This doubt you express toward my confessions is as offensive as it is baffling.” Cold breath trekked over her face, clean and sweet. “I have never, in all my centuries, spoken a lie.”

      I will not inch away. I will not show weakness. “Sorry, it’s just, you’ve been around a long time, have probably seen humans do everything.” She paused, waiting for his confirmation. Confirmation he gave with a single nod. “I’m just surprised.”

      He gathered a lock of her hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands together. The contrast between the blue-black of the lock and the sun-kissed sweetness of his skin was magnificent, almost magical.

      If she wasn’t careful, she would throw herself at him. And she would find herself rejected and embarrassed, just like the other girl.

      She had to remind herself that she wasn’t interested in a romantic entanglement right now. After everything she’d been through, she wasn’t sure how she would even react to a man’s advances.

      While rape had never happened, plenty of other things had. Hands, wandering. Fingers, massaging. Tongues, licking. Her utter helplessness had disgusted and sickened her. And the fact that Fitzpervert had pictures of her…

      Might vomit. Had he shown anyone? Did he sometimes laugh about the pain he had caused her?

      “What’s wrong?” Zacharel asked.

      She forced her mind to return to the cloud and the angel still towering in front of her. He had released her hair, had backed away from her. Snow once again rained from the tips of his wings, the air now so frigid little goose bumps were popping up all over her body.

      “Nothing’s wrong,” she muttered.

      He smacked his lips as if he tasted something foul. “You lie.”

      “So?” See? Already dark memories were affecting her dealings with a man, tainting everything.

      “So? I tell you the truth, yet you lie to me. That is intolerable, Annabelle, and I will not allow it.”

      And how did he plan to stop it? “Let’s just say that if something’s wrong, it’s none of your business.” Just then, only one thing mattered. Answers. “Before, you told me I had been marked by a demon.”

      He accepted the change of subject with a soft “Yes.”

      “And he did this to claim me as his property?” She remembered waking up with burning eyes. She remembered the creature in her garage, clawing her parents to death. She remembered the way he’d kissed her—the worst kiss of her life.

      “Yes. He must have seen you, desired you and decided to keep you, even if he couldn’t take you with him. Did he say anything to you?”

      “Only classic B movie stuff. You know, I love the sound of trouble. And this is gonna be fun.”

      “He didn’t ask you to belong to him, and you didn’t say yes?”

      “Hardly. But he will come back for me, won’t he?” She’d always wondered. She’d always feared. And, according to Zacharel, fear was a draw for all kinds of evil.

      A more hesitant yes was offered this time.

      She wasn’t going to fear anymore. She was going to prepare. “Well, I plan to kill him when he finds me. So, on that note, I have one more question for you. Will you give me one of those fire swords?”

      ZACHAREL PEERED DOWN at the human woman who had made him feel more in the span of five minutes than anyone had in the centuries since his brother’s death. He did not understand this, or her, or what was happening to him.

      Those otherworldly blue eyes were filled with so many secrets, haunting secrets. He wanted to plumb her depths and discover everything she tried to hide. And he wanted to… touch her. Was her skin as soft and smooth as it appeared? He’d held her, but her clothes had prevented him from knowing the texture of her skin. Would her warmth seep past the layers of cold encasing him and consume him?

      He wanted to kiss her, to discover if her taste would match her succulent scent. Wanted to know if her kiss would differ from Jamila’s. Wanted to know if she would enjoy his kiss as much as she had enjoyed the former boyfriend’s. And he hated that others had touched and kissed her without permission, the knowledge fanning to sparkling life an urge to maim and kill the culprits.