His mind fogged with more of the glorious pleasure as he dipped down and kissed one side of her, then the other. Annabelle arched her back, moving away from him, but he didn’t like that, so he freed one of his hands to shackle her in place.
“Zacharel!”
“Annabelle.” The fog in his mind thickened, and he failed to register the dainty hands now pushing at his shoulders, trying to dislodge him. Why had he denied himself this type of contact for so long? he wondered again. And how had he once convinced himself a single taste of this woman would be enough? He would have this, have Annabelle, at least once a day, he decided, until he’d tired of the act.
He might never tire of this.
Something sharp scraped down his cheek, once, twice, drawing blood. He released Annabelle to swat that something away, whatever it was. Can’t let it hurt her. The moment he did, she bolted backward, tumbling from his lap. When she hopped to her feet, he jumped to his. His robe remained girded around his waist as he reached for her. But…just before contact, she punched him in the nose with so much force the cartilage snapped. Blood poured down his face.
He frowned, still reaching for her. Exquisite. “Annabelle. Kiss.”
“Kiss this, you mangy rat!” She kneed him between the legs with so much force he would probably need his testicles surgically removed from his abdomen.
Pain zoomed through him, breath left him and he hunched over. The fog in his mind cleared at last, and he looked up, confused by her violence. That’s when she double tapped his cheek, and his knees gave out. He fell to the floor, bright stars winking through his line of sight…but not enough to block her fear-glassed eyes or the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“Annabelle,” he said, holding out his arms to prove he meant her no harm.
“No!” Mistakenly thinking he’d been trying to grab her, she went low and—actually stabbed him in the side. She had changed her clothes, but had not given up the weapons strapped to her thighs. He should have known.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” she spat.
He grunted, knowing she’d nicked his kidney.
She straightened, dropped the bloody knife as if it burned her. With one white-knuckled fist, she held the sides of her shirt together. With the other, she frantically rubbed the spot just above her heart. Trembling, she backed away from him. “Did you hear me? Never again!”
He had done this to her, he realized. He had reduced her to this.
Shame filled him as he stood. The cut in his side throbbed, but he paid it no heed. It would soon heal.
“Annabelle.”
Her footsteps quickened, and she didn’t stop her backward progress until reaching the far cavern wall. But even that wasn’t enough for her. She extended an arm to ward him off.
“D-don’t come any closer!” Panic coated her voice, the edges sharp enough to slice through bone. A moment later, she doubled over, a cry of pain springing from her.
Concerned, Zacharel raced toward her. She sensed him, straightened and scooted to the right, avoiding contact.
“Stop! I mean it.” She swept her gaze over him, probably searching for the most vulnerable spot to punch him, and gasped. “You really do have a black heart.”
He stopped as ordered, looked himself over. His chest was bare, the smudge of black just over his heart visible and larger, so much larger, now hemorrhaging into his collarbone and torso.
More of his spirit had died.
No wonder Annabelle wanted out of your embrace.
From the moment he’d realized what the smudge meant, that he finally lived with a ticking clock, that he was dying, bit by bit, he’d been okay with the end result, had even seen it as an insurance policy—but he wasn’t okay with it now. If the impossible happened and he passed on before Annabelle, she would have no one to oversee her protection.