LYSANDER WATCHED AS TWO newly recruited warrior angels—angels under his training and command—finally subdued a demonic minion that had dug its way free from hell. The creature was scaled from head to hoof and little horns protruded from its shoulders and back. Its eyes were bright red, like crystallized blood.

The fight had lasted half an hour, and both angels were now bleeding, panting. Demons were notorious for their biting and scratching.

Lysander should have been able to critique the men and tell them what they had done wrong. That way, they would do a better job next time. But as they’d struggled with the fiend, his mind had drifted to Bianka. What was she doing? Was she resigned to her fate yet? He’d given her several days alone to calm and accept.

“What now?” one of his trainees asked. Beacon was his name.

“You letsss me go, you letsss me go,” the demon said pleadingly, its forked tongue giving it a lisp. “I behave. I return. Ssswear.”

Lies. As a minion, it was a servant to a demon High Lord—just as there were three factions of angels, there were three factions of demons. High Lords held the most power, followed by Lords, who were followed by the lowest of them all, minions. Despite this one’s lack of status, it could cause untold damage among humans. Not only because it was evil, but also because it was a minion of Strife and took its nourishment from the trouble it caused others.

By the time Lysander had sensed its presence on earth, it had already broken up two marriages and convinced one teenager to start smoking and another to kill himself.

“Execute it,” Lysander commanded. “It knew the consequences of breaking a heavenly law, yet it chose to escape from hell anyway.”

The minion began to struggle again. “You going to lisssten to him when you obviousssly ssstronger and better than him? He make you do all hard work. He do nothing hissself. Lazy, if you asssk me. Kill him.”

“We do not ask you,” Lysander said.

Both angels raised their hands and fiery swords appeared.

“Pleassse,” the demon screeched. “No. Don’t do thisss.”

They didn’t hesitate. They struck.

The scaled head rolled, yet the angels did not dematerialize their swords. They kept the tips poised on the motionless body until it caught flame. When nothing but ash remained, they looked to Lysander for instruction.

“Excellent job.” He nodded in satisfaction. “You have improved since your last killing, and I am proud of you. But you will train with Raphael until further notice,” he said. Raphael was strong, intelligent and one of the best trackers in the heavens.

Raphael would not be distracted by a Harpy he had no hopes of possessing.

Possessing? Lysander’s jaw clenched tightly. He was not some vile demon. He possessed nothing. Ever. And when he finished with Bianka, she would be glad of that. There would be no more games, no more racing around him, caressing him and laughing. The clenching in his jaw stopped, but his shoulders sagged. In disappointment? Couldn’t be. Perhaps he needed a few days to calm and accept.

HE’D LEFT HER ALONE for a week, the sun rising and setting beyond the clouds. And each day, Bianka grew madder—and madder. And madder. Worse, she grew weaker. Harpies could only eat what they stole (or earned, but there was no way to earn a single morsel here). And no, that wasn’t a rule she could overlook. It was a curse. A godly curse her people had endured for centuries. Reviled as Harpies were, the gods had banded together and decreed that no Harpy could enjoy a meal freely given or one they had prepared themselves. If they did, they sickened terribly. The gods’ hope? Destruction.

Instead, they’d merely ensured Harpies learned how to steal from birth. To survive, even an angel would sin.

Lysander would learn that firsthand. She would make sure of it. Bastard.

Had he planned this to torture her?

In this palace, Bianka had only to speak of something and it would materialize before her. An apple—bright and red and juicy. Baked turkey—succulent and plump. But she couldn’t eat them, and it was killing her. Liter-fucking-ally.

At first, Bianka had tried to escape. Several times. Unlike Lysander the Cruel, she couldn’t jump from the clouds. The floor expanded wherever she stepped and remained as hard as marble. All she could do was move from ethereal room to ethereal room, watching the murals play out battle scenes. Once she’d thought she’d even spied Lysander.

Of course, she’d said, “Rock,” and a nice-sized stone had appeared in her hand. She’d chucked it at him, but the stupid thing had fallen to earth rather than hit him.

Where was he? What was he doing? Did he mean to kill her like this, despite his earlier denial? Slowly and painfully? At least the hunger pains had finally left her. Now she was merely consumed by a sensation of trembling emptiness.

She wanted to stab him the moment she saw him. Then set him on fire. Then scatter his ashes in a pasture where lots of animals roamed. He deserved to be smothered by several nice steaming piles. Of course, if he waited much longer, she would be the one burned and scattered. She couldn’t even drink a glass of water.

Besides, fighting him wasn’t the way to punish him. That, she’d realized the first day here. He didn’t like to be touched. Therefore, touching him was the way to punish him. And touch him she would. Anywhere, everywhere. Until he begged her to stop. No. Until he begged her to continue.

She would make him like it, and then take it away.

If she lasted.

Right now, she could barely hold herself up. In fact, why was she even trying?

“Bed,” she muttered weakly, and a large four-poster appeared just in front of her. She hadn’t slept since she’d gotten here. Usually she crashed in trees, but she wouldn’t have had the strength to climb one even if the cloud had been filled with them. She collapsed on the plush mattress, velvet coverlet soft against her skin. Sleep. She’d sleep for a little while.

FINALLY LYSANDER COULD STAND it no more. Nine days. He’d lasted nine days. Nine days of thinking about the female constantly, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking. If her skin was as soft as it looked.

He could tolerate it no longer. He would check on her, that was all, and see for himself how—and what—she was doing. Then he would leave her again. Until he got himself under control. Until he stopped thinking about her. Stopped wanting to be near her. Her training had to begin sometime.

His wings glided up and down as he soared to his cloud. His heartbeat was a bit…odd. Faster than normal, even bumping against his ribs. Also, his blood was like fire in his veins. He didn’t know what was wrong. Angels only sickened when they were infected with demon poison, and as Lysander had not been bitten by a demon—had not even fought one in weeks—he knew that was not the problem.

Blame could probably be laid at Bianka’s door, he thought with a scowl.

First thing he noticed upon entering was the food littering the floor. From fruits to meats to bags of chips. All were uneaten, even unopened.

Scowl melting into a frown, he folded his wings into his back and stalked forward. He found Bianka inside one of the rooms, lying atop a bed. She wore the same clothing she’d been clad in when he’d first taken her—red shirt, tights that molded to her perfect curves—but had discarded her boots. Her hair was tangled around her, and her skin worryingly pale. There was no sparkle to it, no pearl-like gleam. Bruises now formed half-moons under her eyes.

Part of him had expected to find her fuming—and out for his head. The other part of him had hoped to find her compliant. Not once had he thought to find her like this.

She thrashed, the covers bunched around her. His frown deepened.

“Hamburger,” she croaked.

A juicy burger appeared on the floor a few inches from the bed, all the extras—lettuce, tomato slices, pickles and cheese—decorating the edges of the plate. The manifestation didn’t surprise him. That was the beauty of these angelic homes. Whatever was desired—within reason, of course—was provided.

All this food, and she hadn’t taken a single bite. Why would she request— It wasn’t stolen, he realized, and for the first time in his endless existence, he was angry with himself. And scared. For her. He hated the emotion, but there it was. She hadn’t eaten in these last nine days because she couldn’t. She was truly starving to death.

Though he wanted her out of his head, out of his life, he hadn’t wanted her to suffer. Yet suffer she had. Unbearably. Now she was too weak to steal anything. And if he force-fed her, she would vomit, hurting more than she already was. Suddenly he wanted to roar.

“Blade,” he said, and within a single blink, a sharp-tipped blade rested in his hand. He stalked to the side of the bed. He was trembling.

“Fries. Chocolate shake.” Her voice was soft, barely audible.

Lysander slashed one of his wrists. Blood instantly spilled from the wound, and he stretched out his arm, forcing each drop to fall into her mouth. Blood was not food for Harpies; it was medicine. Therefore her body could accept it. He’d never freely given his blood to another living being and wasn’t sure he liked the thought of something of his flowing inside this woman’s veins. In fact, the thought actually caused his heartbeat to start slamming against his ribs again. But there was no other way.

At first, she didn’t act as if she noticed. Then her tongue emerged, licking at the liquid before it could reach her lips. Then her eyes opened, amber irises bright, and she grabbed on to his arm, jerking it to her mouth. Her sharp teeth sank into his skin as she sucked.

Another odd sensation, he thought. Having a woman drink from him. There was heat and wetness and a sting, yet it was not unpleasant. It actually lanced a pang of…something unnameable straight to his stomach and between his legs.

“Drink all you need,” he told her. His body would not run out. Every drop was replaced the moment it left him.

Her gaze narrowed on him. The more she swallowed, the more fury he saw banked there. Soon her fingers were tightening around his wrist, her nails cutting deep. If she expected some sort of reaction from him, she would not get it. He’d been alive too long and endured far too many injuries to be affected by something so minor. Except for that pang between his legs… What was that?

Finally, though, she released him. He wasn’t sure if that gladdened him or filled him with disappointment.

Gladdened, of course, he told himself.

A trickle of red flowed from the corner of her mouth, and she licked it away. The sight of that pink tongue caused another lance to shoot through him.

Definitely disap—uh, gladdened.

“You bastard,” she growled through her panting. “You sick, torturing bastard.”

He moved out of striking distance. Not to protect himself, but to protect her. If she were to attack him, he would have to subdue her. And if he subdued her, he might hurt her. And accidentally brush against her. Blood…heating…

“It was never my intent to harm you,” he said. And now, even his voice was trembling. Odd.

“And that makes what you did okay?” She jerked to a sitting position, all that dark hair spilling around her shoulders. The pearl-like sheen was slowly returning to her skin. “You left me here, unable to eat. Dying!”

“I know.” Was that skin as soft as it looked? He gulped. “And I am sorry.” Her anger should have overjoyed him. As he’d hoped, she would no longer laugh up at him, her face lit with the force of her amusement. She would no longer race around him, petting him. Yes, he should have been overjoyed. Instead, the disappointment he’d just denied experiencing raced through him. Disappointment mixed with shame.

She was more a temptation than he had realized.

“You know?” she gasped out. “You know that I can only consume what I steal or earn and yet you failed to make arrangements for me?”

“Yes,” he admitted, hating himself for the first time in his existence.

“What’s more, you left me here. With no way home.”

His nod was stiff. “I have since made restitution by saving your life. But as I said, I am sorry.”

“Oh, well, you’re sorry,” she said, throwing up her arms. “That makes everything better. That makes almost dying acceptable.” She didn’t wait for his reply. She kicked her legs over the bed and stood. Her skin was at full glow now. “Now you listen up. First, you’re going to find a way to feed me. Then, you’re going to tell me how to get off this stupid cloud. Otherwise I will make your life a hell you’ve never experienced before. Actually, I will anyway. That way, you’ll never forget what happens when you mess with a Harpy.”

He believed her. Already she affected him more than anyone else ever had. That was hell enough. Proof: his mouth was actually watering to taste her, his hands itching to touch her. Rather than reveal these new developments, however, he said, “You are powerless here. How would you hurt me?”

“Powerless?” She laughed. “I don’t think so.” One step, two, she approached him.

He held his ground. He would not retreat. Not this time. Assert your authority. “You cannot leave unless I allow it. The cloud belongs to me and places my will above yours. Therefore, there is no exit for you. You would be wise to curry my favor.”

She sucked in a breath, paused. “So you still mean to keep me here forever? Even though I have a wedding to attend?” She sounded surprised.

“When did I ever give you the impression that I meant otherwise? Besides, I heard you tell your sister you didn’t want to go to that wedding.”

“No, I said I didn’t want to be a bridesmaid. But I love my baby sis, so I’ll do it. With a smile.” Bianka ran her tongue over her straight, white teeth. “But let’s talk about you. You like to eavesdrop, huh? That sounds a little demonic for a goody-goody angel.”

Over the years he’d been called far worse than demonic. The goody-goody, though… Was that how she saw him? Rather than as the righteous soldier he was? “In war, I do what I must to win.”

“Let me get this straight.” Her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her middle. Stubbornness radiated from her. “We were at war before I even met you?”

“Correct.” A war he would win. But what would he do if he failed to set her on the right path? He would have to destroy her, of course, but for him to legally be allowed to destroy her, he reminded himself, she would first have to commit an unpardonable sin. Though she’d lived a long time, she had never crossed that line. Which meant she would have to be encouraged to do so. But how? Here, away from civilization—both mortal and immortal—she couldn’t free a demon from hell. She couldn’t slay an angel. Besides him, but that would never happen. He was stronger than she was.

She could blaspheme, he supposed, but he would never—never!—encourage someone to do that, no matter the reason. Not even to save himself.

The only other possibility was for her to convince an angel to fall. As she was his temptation, and as he was the only angel of her acquaintance, he was the only one she could convince. And he wouldn’t. Again, not for any reason. He loved his life, his Deity, and was proud of his work and all he had accomplished.

Perhaps he would simply leave Bianka here, alone for the rest of eternity. That way, she could live but would be unable to cause trouble. He would visit her every few weeks—perhaps months—but never remain long enough for her to corrupt him.

A sudden blow to the cheek sent his head whipping to the side. He frowned, straightened and rubbed the now-stinging spot. Bianka was exactly as she’d been before, standing in front of him. Only now she was smiling.

“You hit me,” he said, his astonishment clear.

“How sweet of you to notice.”

“Why did you do that?” To be honest, he should not have been surprised. Harpies were as violent by nature as their inhuman counterparts, the demons. Why couldn’t she have looked like a demon, though? Why did she have to be so lovely? “I saved you, gave you my blood. I even explained why you could not leave, just as you asked. I did not have to do any of those things.”

“Do I really need to repeat your crimes?”

“No.” They were not crimes! But perhaps it was best to change the subject. “Allow me to feed you,” he said. He walked to the plate holding the hamburger and picked it up. The scent of spiced meat wafted to his nose, and his mouth curled in distaste.

Though he didn’t want to, though his stomach rolled, he took a bite. He wanted to gag, but managed to swallow. Normally he only ate fruits, nuts and vegetables. “This,” he said with much disgust, “is mine.” Careful not to touch her, he placed the food in her hands. “You are not to eat it.”

By staking the verbal claim, the meal did indeed become his. He watched understanding light her eyes.

“Oh, cool.” She didn’t hesitate to rip into the burger, every crumb gone in seconds. Next he sipped the chocolate shake. The sugar was almost obscene in his mouth, and he did gag. “Mine,” he repeated faintly, giving it to her, as well. “But next time, please request a healthier meal.”

She flipped him off as she gulped back the ice cream. “More.”

He bypassed the French fries. No way was he going to defile his body with one of those greasy abominations. He found an apple, a pear, but had to request a stalk of broccoli himself. After claiming them, he took a bite of each and handed them over. Much better.

Bianka devoured them. Well, except for the broccoli. That, she threw at him. “I’m a carnivore, moron.”

She hardly had to remind him when the unpleasant taste of the burger lingered on his tongue. Still, he chose to overlook her mockery. “All of the food produced in this home is mine. Mine and mine alone. You are to leave it alone.”

“That’d be great if I were actually staying,” she muttered while stuffing the fries in her mouth.

He sighed. She would accept her fate soon enough. She would have to.

The more she ate, the more radiant her skin became. Magnificent, he thought, reaching out before he could stop himself.

She grabbed his fingers and twisted just before contact. “Nope. I don’t like you, so you don’t get to handle the goods.”

He experienced a sharp pain, but merely blinked over at her. “My apologies,” he said stiffly. Thank the One True Deity she’d stopped him. No telling what he would have done to her had he actually touched her. Behaved like a slobbering human? He shuddered.

She shrugged and released him. “Now for my second order. Let me go home.” As she spoke, she assumed a battle stance. Legs braced apart, hands fisted at her sides.

He mirrored her movements, refusing to admit, even to himself, that her bravery heated his traitorous blood another degree. “You cannot hurt me, Harpy. Fighting me would be pointless.”

Slowly her lips curled into a devilish grin. “Who said I was going to try and hurt you?”

Before Lysander could blink, she closed the distance between them and pressed against him, arms winding around his neck and tugging his head down. Their lips met and her tongue thrust into his mouth. Automatically, he stiffened. He had seen humans kiss more times than he could count, but he’d never longed to try the act for himself.

Like sex, it seemed messy—in every way imaginable—and unnecessary. But as her tongue rolled against his, as her hands caressed a path down his spine, his body warmed—far more than it had when he’d simply thought of being here with her—and the tingle he’d noticed earlier bloomed once more. Only this time, that tingle grew and spread. Like the shaft between his legs. Rising…thickening…

He’d wanted to taste her and now he was. She was delicious, like the apple she’d just eaten, only sweeter, headier, like his favorite wine. He should make her stop. This was too much. But the wetness of her mouth wasn’t messy in the least. It was electrifying.

More, a little voice said in his head.

“Yes,” she rasped, as if he’d spoken aloud.

When she rubbed her lower body against his, every sensation intensified. His hands fisted at his sides. He couldn’t touch her. Shouldn’t touch her. Should stop this as she’d stopped him, as he’d already tried to convince himself.

A moan escaped her. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His scalp, an area he’d never considered sensitive before, ached, soaking up every bit of attention. And when she rubbed against him again, he almost moaned.

Her hands fell to his chest and a fingertip brushed one of his nipples. He did moan; he did grab her. His fingers gripped her hips, holding her still even though he wanted to force her to rub against him some more. The lack of motion didn’t slow her kiss. She continued to dance their tongues together, leisurely, as if she could drink from him forever. And wanted to.

He should stop this, he told himself yet again.

Yes. Yes, he would. He tried to push her tongue out of his mouth. The pressure created another sensation, this one new and stronger than any other. His entire body felt aflame. He started pushing at her tongue for an entirely different reason, twining them together, tasting her again, licking her, sucking her.

“Mmm, yeah. That’s the way,” she praised.

Her voice was a drug, luring him in deeper, making him crave more. More, more, more. The temptation was too much, and he had to—

Temptation.

The word echoed through his mind, a sword sharp enough to cut bone. She was a temptation. She was his temptation. And he was allowing her to lead him astray.

He wrenched away from her, and his arms fell to his sides, heavy as boulders. He was panting, sweating, things he had not done even in the midst of battle. Angry as he was—at her, at himself—his gaze drank in the sight of her. Her skin was flushed, glowing more than ever. Her lips were red and swollen. And he had caused that reaction. Sparks of pride took him by surprise.

“You should not have done that,” he growled.

Slowly, she grinned. “Well, you should have stopped me.”

“I wanted to stop you.”

“But you didn’t,” she said, that grin growing.

His teeth ground together. “Do not do it again.”

One of her brows arched in smug challenge. “Keep me here against my will, and I’ll do that and more. Much, much more. In fact…” She ripped her shirt over her head and tossed it aside, revealing breasts covered by pink lace.

Breathing became impossible.

“Want to touch them?” she asked huskily, cupping them with her hands. “I’ll let you. I won’t even make you beg.”

Holy…Lord. They were lovely. Plump and mouthwatering. Lickable. And if he did lick them, would they taste as her mouth had? Like that heady wine? Blood…heating…again…

He didn’t care what kind of coward his next action made him. It was either jump from the cloud or replace her hands with his own.

He jumped.