She awoke in an unfamiliar bed, wrapped in thick cotton. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the air smelled rich with spices: cardamom, cinnamon, and clove. She tilted her head and saw that she was in a one-room cabin, spare but tidy. Along the far wall were a cast-iron stove and a white porcelain washbasin and in the middle of the room a kitchen table.

Sitting in a hard chair by the table, looking none too comfortable, was Abraxas. His wings were gone, and his more familiar midnight-blue velvet jacket hung from the back of his chair. He had removed his collar and waistcoat and wore only his shirtsleeves, white linen shirt unfastened at the neck. A book lay open in his hands, the edge of the cover visible.

“Milton?” she asked, her voice scratchy and thin. “There’s a nut to crack.”

He looked up, face alight, and then his expression cooled to something more neutral, more careful. “It’s all balderdash, anyway.” He closed the book, face guarded, and asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I…” She sat up and pressed a hand to her chest. Her skin was hot, as if fevered, but she didn’t feel sick. She felt… a hunger. Her eyes fell to Abraxas. His patrician features, his powerful shoulders and arms, the curve of his lush mouth.

“Come here,” she said.

His eyes burned crimson, and he almost stood before he stopped himself. “There’s something you should know.”

She pushed the blanket aside. It was too hot for cotton. Too hot for clothes. She looked down. She was wearing only her linen shift, her arms and legs bare, but even that was too much. She wanted to be naked. She lifted the shift over her head and let it fall to the floor.

She could hear Abraxas catch his breath.

Her smile was a wicked thing. “I said come.”

This time, he stood but did not approach her. She could see it took all his willpower to resist, and his gaze did not leave her.

“Why are you fighting me?” she asked, voice rough with desire. She needed to feel the touch of his hands, the hard lines of his body against her own.

He swallowed. “You must understand that I did it to save you.”

“If you will not come to me”—she dropped her feet to the floor and stepped forward, arms languid and hips swaying—“I will come to you.”

He watched her walk to him, eyes devouring her, and she let him. She felt uninhibited, unafraid. In the moment, she felt truly herself, and she relished it. For once, she was not thinking of Mariel, she was not torn between the Elect and the Fallen. She was at peace, focused on the thing she wanted, and that was the man who stood before her.