pressure on the blade, “can we talk?”
I stared at him for a moment, then gave him a tiny, shaky nod.
“Good.” His easy smile was so at odds with the fact he had a dagger against his throat. Perplexing man. Demon. Whatever.
“I have never touched you with the intent to harm, and I never will.”
I swallowed. “Your manifold threats sure said different.”
“Like your contemplations of how to eviscerate me?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“That was just a figure of speech.”
“As was your pondering of where best to stab me, or how your hands would feel wrapped around my neck, I’m sure.”
I inhaled sharply. “You bastard.” The insult tumbled out of my mouth before any fearful instinct could stop it. My hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger. “You’ve been reading my mind?”
“There’s a difference,” he said with remarkable calm, considering he was riling up someone one second away from giving him a bloody necklace, “between intrusive reading and picking up aggressive projections.”
I opened my mouth, closed it. Shook my head. “What?”
“You need to learn shielding.”
“My thoughts?” Horror speared through me. My grip on the dagger slipped a little. “In that room, with Zaquiel… Did I—could he…?”
“I shielded you.”
“You…” I blinked, closed my eyes for a moment. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” When I looked at him again, his eyes had warmed, his focus sharpened. “I’ll teach you how.”
I stared at him for the span of a few heartbeats. “You? Will train me? Why?”
“Do you want me to keep picking up your stray thoughts?”
I numbly shook my head.
“Then you need to learn to put up shields.”
I got that much, sure. Didn’t explain why he offered to teach me himself instead of pushing me off to Azmodea or someone else.
“Like I said,” he murmured, “you have my attention.”
“Get out of my head.”
“I’m not even in it, love. And unlike with auditory signals, I can’t block your thoughts by covering my ears.”
“How much—” My hand holding the dagger shook. “How much have you caught?”
“When, exactly?”
Good grief. I closed my eyes, too mortified to hold his gaze as my mind helpfully flashed back through all of our interactions and the many thoughts I had about him…a lot of them unruly and way too revealing.
The sound of fabric rustling made me snap my eyes open again, only to stop short at the sight of him rolling up his right sleeve and thoughtfully regarding his forearm as he flexed his muscles.
“Arm porn,” he mused. “I can see it.”
My face burned like a supernova, and my hand holding the dagger trembled…slipped.
Azazel hissed low as the blade slit through his skin, leaving a trail of bright red.
With a yelp, I dropped the knife. I covered my mouth with both hands, my heart skipping a beat. Or a dozen.
Blood poured out of the wound like a morbid waterfall of red. A wet gurgle bubbled up from his throat. His eyes were wide, his features slack. He sag-leaned forward until his forehead met mine and braced himself with his hands against the wall on either side of me.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” I whispered, my thoughts racing.
I killed him. Good Lord, I killed him. He was bleeding out all over me. My hands shook as I pressed them against his chest, trying foolishly to steady him. I wouldn’t be able to hold him upright. He was going to collapse right there, his blood painting his tunic in a gruesome crimson batik.
He’d given me the means to hurt him, and I’d gone ahead and slit his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I wailed. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh, God…”
His lips moved, but no sound came.
“What?” I whispered.
He shifted his head, brought his mouth to my ear. “Azazel,” he muttered.
I stilled.
“If you feel the need to invoke a higher being,” he continued, his voice turning into a purr, “it should be me.”
That. Stinking. Rat. Bastard.
With a groan of angry frustration, I pushed against his chest. It shook under my hands. A sound much like wheezing close to my ear, his breath huffing against my neck.
That did it. His silent laughter made me snap. The horror of thinking I killed him veered straight into fury, and I slapped the hell out of his shoulders, his chest, his arms, punctuating each smack with a growled, barely coherent insult.
He let me. For a good thirty seconds, he allowed me to vent my anger while he—irritatingly—kept on half wheezing, half chuckling close to my ear.
“Stop.” Slap. “Laughing.” Slap. “You.” Slap. “Jerk.” Slap.
One more