Page 43 of Azrael

And God help anyone who tried to take her from me now.

Chapter Twelve

Zara

I hadn’t expected Azrael to lift me like that, so suddenly yet so gently.One moment I was standing in the hallway.The next I was wrapped around him, my weight seemingly nothing to him.The hard planes of his body felt like a fortress against mine as he carried me down the hallway, his footsteps deliberate and unhurried.

“Az,” I whispered, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Sam.Call me Sam when it’s just us,” he said.

“Sam.”No, that didn’t feel quite right.“Samir.”

He didn’t respond with words.Instead, his arms tightened around me.His scent enveloped me -- leather, musk, and something uniquely him that I couldn’t name but had grown addicted to over these past days.

“You don’t have to carry me,” I said, though my body betrayed my words as I nestled closer to him.

“I know,” he replied, his voice a low rumble I could feel vibrating through his chest.“I want to.”

Two simple words, but coming from Azrael -- Samir Hamdi, Sam to his friends, and the Angel of Death to his enemies -- they carried power, like a vow.I’d learned quickly that he never said anything he didn’t mean, and he never wanted anything he couldn’t take.

The traffic outside created a distant hum, occasionally punctuated by the growl of a motorcycle that made me think of the club.Azrael’s brothers.The men who called him when there was a problem that needed permanent solving.The thought made me shiver, not with fear of him but with the knowledge of what he was capable of.I’d seen it firsthand.

“Cold?”he asked, misinterpreting my reaction.

“No.”I couldn’t lie to him, not now.“Just thinking about what’s coming.”

His jaw tightened, the only indication that my words had affected him.“Don’t.”

“How can I not?”I challenged, keeping my voice soft despite the steel behind it.“A handful of you against how many of my uncle’s men?”

“I told you --”

“I know what you told me.That the club has your back.That you’ll get my mom out safely.”I traced the line of his jaw with my finger, feeling the stubble that had grown throughout the day.He’d shaved off his beard yesterday, even though I didn’t know why.

Azrael paused in the middle of the hallway, his dark eyes finding mine in the half-light.At thirty-nine, the lines around his eyes spoke of years of hard living, but it was the intensity behind them that always captured me.Half Middle Eastern from his mother’s side, he had inherited her coloring -- swarthy skin, nearly black eyes, and dark hair that I’d wanted to run my fingers through countless times.

“Zara,” he said, my name like a prayer on his lips.“I’ve been the boogeyman that keeps men like your uncle up at night since before you knew there was evil in the world.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.Azrael had earned his road name for a reason.The Angel of Death.Their cleaner.Their executioner.

And somehow, against all logic and self-preservation, he had become my protector and was about to become my lover.

I clung tighter to him as we continued down the hallway, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt shift with each step.The man was solid, built by years of fighting and riding and surviving.My fingers brushed against an old scar on his forearm -- a knife wound from years ago, he’d told me, from a time when he’d been less careful.

“What time will you leave?”I asked, needing to know how much time we had left.

“To meet the club or to get your mom?”

“I mean tomorrow.When you meet with the others,” I clarified.

“Early,” he replied.“Meeting the others at the clubhouse no later than eight.”

The quiet rustle of my pajamas against his jeans filled the silence between us.We passed the spare bedroom, the one he kept ready but that no one ever seemed to use.Until I’d come here.

“You should sleep in my room tonight,” he said, as if reading my thoughts as we passed the spare room.It wasn’t a question.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere else,” I responded.

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