Something tightens in my chest at her words. I continue washing her, my movements slower. Her skin is like silk beneath my hands, and I'm suddenly overcome with the need to protect her, to keep her safe and content forever.
The realization hits me like a blow to the stomach… By Sataniel, I love her.
I, Asmodai, deity of carnal sin, scourge of virgins, corrupter ofsaints—I love this half-mortal woman with her clever mind and stubborn spirit and the vulnerability that she tries so hard to hide.
“Az?” Simone turns in my arms, concern etched across her features. “Are you alright? You went completely still.”
I cup her face, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps I am. My thumb brushes the apple of her cheek in gentle swipes.
“I love you.” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them, hanging in the steam between us. Simone's eyes widen, her lips parting in shock.
“What did you say?” she whispers.
“I love you.” I say it again, more firmly this time. “I don't know when it happened. Damn it, I didn't even know it was possible for me. But I do.”
She stares at me as if searching my face for deception, for manipulation. I let her look, opening myself to her scrutiny in a way I've never done for anyone.
Slowly, achingly slowly, a smile spreads across her face. “I love you too.”
“You do?” The relief that floods me is embarrassingly intense.
“Yes.” She presses her forehead against mine. “Heaven help me, I do.”
I laugh again, pulling her closer. “Heaven has nothing to do with this, little fairy.”
If only she knew how true that was. But for now, the truth—and all its complications—can wait.
22
SIMONE
It's strange to think it's been three years since Az took me from that ravine in Hell. Three years since I woke up in a cave, disoriented and afraid, with a beautiful stranger telling me I couldn't leave. A thousand days of captivity that somehow transformed into... whatever this is now.
I smooth my hands over the midnight blue silk spread across my worktable. The fabric catches the light coming through the tall windows of my design studio—my favorite room in this gothic manor Az built for me. I've spent countless hours here, sketching and sewing and creating. It started as a way to fill endless days, but it’s become something more—a reclaiming of who I was before Thomas, before Abaddon, before Hell.
“You're almost finished, aren't you?” I whisper to the dress, pinning the final pieces of delicate silver beading along the sweetheart neckline. The design reminds me of the stars I used to see when I visited my grandparents' house in the French countryside. They weren't the best grandparents, but I loved that farm anyway.
Az takes me flying sometimes now, his massive indigo wings carrying us over territories I once feared. There's something aboutseeing Hell from above that makes it less terrifying. More like a painting—beautiful in its own strange, terrible way.
Three years.Mon Dieu.
I set my needle down and stretch, my back aching from hours hunched over my work. My fingers brush against the small stone hanging from a silver chain around my neck—a piece of black tourmaline Az said his mother gave him. He didn't tell me much about her, and I stopped trying to ask after a while, burying my head in the sand. Now he's just Az. Just… mine.
I stand to examine my handiwork, pleased with how the dress has taken shape. I designed it for myself—something elegant but comfortable for the romantic dinners we have nightly. Even after being involved for well over a year now, we stilldate.
“Let's see how you fit,” I murmur, carefully lifting the dress from the table.
In the adjoining dressing room, I slip out of my simple linen shift and into my creation. The silk slides cool against my skin as I ease it up over my hips, my shoulders. I reach behind to fasten the hidden clasps, and?—
“Merde.” The dress won't close properly around my middle.
I frown at my reflection. I've been eating well, yes, but not excessively. I turn sideways, examining my profile. There's definitely a subtle roundness to my belly that wasn't there before. Nothing dramatic, but enough to make this perfectly tailored dress uncomfortably snug.
“Just what I need,” I mutter, frustrated. “Another fitting.”
The door opens without a knock—Az never knocks anymore—and I catch his reflection in the mirror as he enters. His eyes darken immediately at the sight of me in the half-fastened gown, skin exposed down my back where the dress refuses to close.
“My little fairy,” he purrs, crossing the room in long strides. “You've outdone yourself.”
