Page 64 of Wicked Believer
I scowl. “Why do I find that difficult to believe?”
We stare at one another, both refusing to blink. A whole lifetime of communication seems to pass silently between us. Every hurt. Every doubt. Every wicked deed.
The doubt is more than I bargained for, quite frankly.
“Well, in any case, should something like that happen again”—I level Azrael with a hardened stare, my lip curling—“whatever we were would fail to matter.”
Azrael’s jaw clenches. “I don’t respond kindly to threats.”
Another chill blows through the abandoned mall, and an unpleasant tingling sensation crosses the back of my neck, but I refuse to look away.
I would rip apart the world for her.
Make any threat. Sign any deal. Killanyone. Do or say anything.
No matter how barking mad and disturbed it may be.
I am exactly what my Father made me, after all.
“Azrael,” I whisper, my jaw clenched and my voice humiliatingly ... vulnerable. “I will ask you this only once.” I cast a furious, pleading look at him. “Please don’t take her from me.”
Azrael tilts his head to the side. “I’ve ... never heard you beg for anything.”
“Nor will you ever again.” I nod, my gaze hardening as I push a stray hand through my hair. “Should I consider it done then?”
Azrael sighs, long and low. “You know I can’t do that. Not even for you, Lightbringer.”
My expression turns cold. “Well, I had to try at any rate.”
“You love her?” Azrael watches me curiously as if he knows without a doubt that it’s true, but he’s simply astonished to find that I’m capable of it.
That makes two of us.
Before there was her, there was, well ...
A thousand lifetimes. Another eternity.
“Yes. Yes, I do,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on as my grin turns devious. “Though you know, I’ve always preferred to share.”
Azrael quirks a brow in interest as he nods, like he’s taking that knowledge into advisement. “If that’s the case”—his cold gaze rakes over me—“I think I may have a better offer that suits you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charlotte
The following days pass by in a blur, an endless parade of media coverage and seemingly nonstop interviews, until I basically collapse in a heap on Imani’s desk late one night. The first twenty-four hours after Olivia’s death were the worst. Locked away alone in the penthouse, like a princess trapped in a tower, until the last of the protestors finally dispersed and stopped screaming their hatred at me. But honestly, I’m not sure which was more exhausting—all the invasive interviews I had today or the loneliness that’s been gripping me.
Lucifer hasn’t been home in several days.
I fiddle with a spare paper clip on my desk, trying hard not to look as miserable as I feel. This morning when I arrived at Apollyon headquarters, there was an odd sense of comfort in seeing how full my inbox was, even with all the security staff not allowed to be more than five feet from me, but now that I’ve gotten my inbox under control, that familiar feeling of emptiness whenever Lucifer’s away is back again, needling me.
“Go home, Charlotte,” Imani says, sensing I’m well past my limit. “Get some rest.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
When the security team delivers me safely back to the penthouse, a feeling of thickness tightens my throat. I wrap my arms around myself, unable to stand the sight of the empty halls as I wander aimlessly.
Maybe I should text Jax and see if she’s available tonight? Or maybe even strike up a conversation with Ramesh to see how his wife and kids are doing.
