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Jophiel blinked, gazing down at her. “That injury in your leg might have done the trick had we waited a day or two for it to fester.”

Adalaide wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather not wait for infection to set in, thank you.”

“You’re right. A bit of demon poison or a knife to the gut would do nicely.”

Adalaide pushed herself off the sofa. “I’ve had enough talk of my death for the moment. I need tea.”

She left the room, not waiting for more instruction from Jophiel on how she might meet her end, and stopped in the kitchen. Her gaze trailed to the dark spot on the floor that marked the place where she’d detonated eight years ago.

She should have had the floors replaced, but some part of her, the part that still sought retribution for her actions, wanted the reminder. She moved to it, standing over the discolored patch in the shape of a starburst pattern.

Her mother’s terrified face flashed in her mind. Was she doing the wrong thing? Accepting a second chance when she so clearly didn’t deserve one? Try as she might to convince herself she wanted it for Gabriel, the lie sat bitterly on her tongue—a curse. To never be afforded the luxury of half-truths, even for herself. In this, she was like the angels. Perhaps only in this.

She set the kettle to boil and moved along the counter, running her fingers over the smooth surface. The image of her thighs resting atop cool marble flashed into her mind. Her nipples pebbled at the memory of his stinging bites and the way she’d writhed against him, taking pleasure from his body.

It was sinful the way he felt inside her. She bit her lip, flushing as heat rushed between her legs.

The kettle whistled, startling her out of the memory, and she moved quickly down the counter, grabbing a cup, strainer, and the canister of loose tea.

Tendrils of ice danced along the back of her neck. She froze.

The temperature was so cold it could mean only one thing. The red-haired witch was back. Outside this very moment, if her instincts were correct.

She whirled, racing for the front door and slid to a stop beside Jophiel, who was already poised for attack.

“She’s outside,” Jophiel mouthed.

Adalaide silently lifted both hands. They didn’t need to say it. If Sanura was there, this was not the time to be injured. They would need to fight her off if Jophiel hoped to have enough time to retrieve her soul from her body before it expired.

The door rattled as if the witch were testing to see if it was locked. Then a bang sounded, and the door creaked, dangling precariously on its hinges before it tipped backward, crashing to the floor with a resounding thud.

Chapter 30

Adalaide

Adalaide shot up in her bed, gasping for breath. She wiped her brow, slick with sweat from another night terror. In this dream, Sanura had come, but this time rather than being chased away by Jopheil’s magic and Adalaide’s growing power, Sanura had wrapped sharp nails around Adalaide’s throat and with her free hand, plunged her fingers through Adalaide’s round belly, tearing out her child.

Adalaide had screamed and thrashed but she’d been powerless to stop the vile creature.

Her heart slowed as she sucked in calming breaths, but her throat was raw, either from screaming or retching earlier in the night.

Tossing aside her blankets, she slid two swollen feet onto the floor. Her back ached, but returning to sleep, and more nightmares of the red-haired woman who hunted her, was out of the question.

Groaning, she rested a hand on her round stomach and shuffled down two flights of stairs to her kitchen. Reaching for a glass, she twisted the knob and leaned her full belly against the counter, watching it fill, then lifted the glass to her lips, letting the cool liquid soothe the burn.

“I hope you’re comfortable in there my love, for I am quite discontented by your temporary lodgings.”

She laughed as the child in her womb gave a small kick.

When she’d learned she was with child, silent terror had stolen through her, but it was quickly replaced with joy at knowing she had made a perfect being with her soulmate. Surely a child born of such love, with one parent of angelic blood and the other a full angel, could be nothing less than perfect.

It also meant she was no longer destined to be alone. She made a silent vow to the child quickening in her womb that she would be a better parent than hers had been. She would be a mother who protected her child even against their father.

Thinking of him sent pain rippling through her and she quickly grasped the emotion, locking it down tightly the way Jophiel had taught her. Where other women prepared for birth in the normal ways—lying in, preparing the home for an infant—she reinforced wards and learned to quiet any emotions that may give her condition away.

It had begun in preparation for her reash transformation, to ensure he did not come and save her before she could transition and have her soul wiped clean. But when one month became three and three became six and the father of the babe whom she’d so adored, never darkened her door, insidious thoughts of her family and her own self-worth crept in.

Now, she cared only about ensuring he did not return simply out of some form of duty or obligation.

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