He might be a human, but she’d never met even an immortal with such bravery and resilience. Everything about him fortified her, made her stronger. It was as if she were a sturdy building, capable of standing on her own, but he was her buttress, supporting her outer walls and keeping them steady.

“You are a beautiful couple.” The female voice startled them both, and they whirled around, Arik tucking Limos behind him.

An angel stood on the deck, her white robes glowing as if warding off the night.

“Gethel.” Limos eased next to Arik, who remained in a stiff, battle-ready stance. She took Arik’s hand and squeezed. “It’s okay. She was our Watcher before Reaver.”

“Reaver is why I’m here,” Gethel said. “I heard your summons, but I fear he won’t show.”

“Where is he?”

She shook her head. “I know not. He and Harvester have both become invisible to our eyes.”

Oh, this was bad. If even other angels didn’t know where Reaver was, this was trouble. “Are they in danger?”

“I can only speculate, but I would say yes.”

“Who would… or could… have taken them? And why?”

“Pestilence?” Arik asked, but Gethel shook her head.

“For a Horseman to kill or imprison the Watchers would be the gravest of violations.” She glanced at Limos. “Why were you summoning Reaver?”

Her instinct was to lie. Instead, she forced herself to speak the truth. “I stabbed Pestilence with Deliverance and he didn’t die. Do you know why?”

Gethel’s eyes flashed. “Yes. And so do you.”

Nausea swirled in Limos’s stomach. “So it was my fault.” Arik’s arm came around her, once more bracing her when she needed it. “Why didn’t you say something? You could have warned us.”

“I didn’t know until you confessed your sin to Arik.” She flapped her wings in that way she always had when she was irritated. “You know I love you, Limos, but you brought this on yourself.”

“Hey.” Arik’s voice cracked like a whip. “She regrets what she did, and it took a lot of courage to own up to it, so lay off, angel.”

Lightning streaked overhead. “You are either brave or foolish, human.”

Arik’s fingers dug possessively into her shoulder, not hurting, but marking., buman Claiming. “Yeah, well, what does wanting to marry a Horseman make me?”

Limos whipped her head around to stare at Arik. “You… you’re serious.”

His stare was intense, smoldering. “I told you I won’t let him have you. You said it yourself—the Sheoulic in your contract says husband, not Satan.”

“That’s because the being you know as Satan has many names,” Gethel said. “By naming only one, it could have been argued that the contract wasn’t valid according to some religions.”

“So…” Limos licked her lips, which were as dry as her mouth. “So if Arik marries me, becomes my husband, he could break my chastity belt?”

“In theory,” Gethel said, “he could take your maidenhead and remove you from Satan’s grasp.”

Limos’s heart burned with the desire for Arik’s plan to work, and not just because she’d finally be free of Satan. Arik was offering up her dream on a sexy platter—a marriage, children, sex. Oh, Lord… sex!

And something else, something so priceless she could barely contain her excitement; he’d be giving her someone she could confide in. Someone she wanted to tell the truth to. After they were married, she’d never lie to him again.

“Don’t turn me down, Horseman,” he said, and it was funny how he still refused to say her name. “This might not be the most conventional marriage ever, but if it works, I won’t have demons after my ass to torture your name out of me, and it’ll save you from being Satan’s ball and chain.”

She noticed that he didn’t bring up love as being part of it, and though it shouldn’t sting, it did. But that was okay. Even if he never learned to love her, she loved him enough to make up for it.

“Yes,” she said, her breath trembling in her throat. “My answer is yes.”

On her shoulder, her one side of her tattoo dipped deeper than it ever had.

In favor of good.

Twenty-three

Reaver was still fighting. Harvester watched him from the doorway, amazed at his resilience. He sat against the wall, tossing and catching a rubber ball Whine had given him. Reaver hadn’t said a word since she’d forced the marrow wine down his throat. He’d simply played with the ball, focusing so intently on it that she expected it to burst into flames.

He was incredibly alert, his agility in no way diminished by his captivity, mutilation, or intoxication. She couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen when he was free again. Would he continue to keep that leashed power inside, or would he let loose and destroy everything in his path?

Harvester had no doubt she’d be the first one he came after, and though she.

Whine approached, his footsteps a mere whisper. “You have a visitor.” Whine’s voice was gruff. He didn’t like strangers, though Reaver seemed to have grown on him. “He said you’re expecting him.”

The Orphmage. She brushed past Whine and met Gormesh in her living room.

He looked up from studying the Neethul sculpture on her wall. “You’re late with your first payment.”

“I have it right here.” She reached for a clay bottle on the shelves next to her. “Angel blood. So fresh it’s still warm.”

Gormesh made the flask disappear into the folds of his robes. “I want to see the angel.” He started toward the hall, but Harvester blocked his way.

“That wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“You agreed to give me the angel’s blood.” The pointy tips of the Orphmage’s ears poked out from his waist-length white hair, and now they twitched in agitation. “You didn’t specify how it was to be taken. I will bleed him myself.”

“What is in the jug is more than enough.”

“But it’s far more potent when taken directly from the source.”

Even more so if it was taken while the subject was screaming in pain, which Gormesh no doubt intended to make happen. “No.”

He hissed, all pretense of civility gone. “You will grant me access.”

“You will kiss my ass.” She sensed Whine easing up behind her, could practically feel the tension rolling off him. His protectiveness didn’t come from a place of affection, but rather from self-preservation. He was bound to her, and if she died, his slave contract would default to her killer.

The Orphmage was as cruel a master as he was a scientist.

Gormesh stiffened, baring his teeth. “You have just made an enemy you didn’t need, Fallen.”

“I’ll add you to the list,” she said. “Now leave.”

“You still owe me.”

“And I have a year to pay. So get the f**k out.”

His eyes went flat, and for a moment, she thought he was going to attack. When he spun around and stormed out of the house, she sagged with relief. In a battle, she had the advantage, but as a mage, he had some nasty tricks up his sleeve, and winning wouldn’t be easy… or without a lot of pain.

“Whine,” she said softly, “fetch me some marrow wine.”

“For the angel?”

“No, for me.” Tomorrow she’d go back to dealing with Reaver. TonighReal?t she was forgetting him.

Death. Destruction. It tugged at Thanatos with sharp, hooklike claws.

Eidolon had healed him, but Than had been delirious with pain, and it had taken Wraith, Ares, and a vampire named Con to hold him down. In his delirium, he’d released his souls, and had it not been for an ex-angel named Idess who could communicate with them, the casualties might have been staggering.

The second Than was healed, he’d gotten the hell out of Underworld General, the demon side of him clamoring for a deadly rampage. Instead, he’d gone home.

Where Regan was.

The Guardian had been running around his keep in tight leggings and cropped sweatshirts, her flat, rippled stomach, tight ass, and multitude of sexy battle scars driving him nuts. She’d taken over his library, her neat stacks of notes invading his space. And she flipped the f**k out if he moved them.

So at least once per day, he knocked a page or two off their stacks.

Her frustrated curses amused him.

Right now, though, he was not amused.

As he strode into the great room, Artur met him, his expression uncharacteristically strained. “Milord. It was the Aegi.”

“What was the Aegi?”

“The dead succubus. You said to allow them in…” The vampire was practically wringing his hands, and yes, Than had said succubi were to be admitted. Pestilence kept sending them to seduce him, so Than wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to interrogate them about his movements, his intentions, his locations… and then kill them himself.

But no one else was allowed to kill in his house. Not when death made him crazy. His home was his sanctuary.

“Where is she?” He swiped his fingers over his throat and got rid of his armor, leaving him in nylon jogging pants and a T-shirt.

“The gym, sir.”

He stalked to the gym, violence still scratching at the surface of his mind. Going to see Regan wasn’t the smartest idea right now, but his brain was still operating on a primal level, and logical thought hadn’t caught up.

Regan was on the floor mat, going through a martial arts routine and kicking the stuffing out of one of the training dummies. Her tan skin, marked by scars on her arms, stomach, and back, glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. The scent of blood was thick in the air, another lash to his self-control.

“Are you injured?” He was at the mat before the question was fully formed.

She leaped, spun, and instead of nailing the dummy in the head, she hit him in the chest, knocking him into the treadmill. “Does that answer your question?”