I clear my throat. “Uh, thanks.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll stop praising you now.” She shakes her head and moves forward again. “I hear the music starting up. You’d better make sure you dance with your girl.” She shoots a grin over her shoulder. “Otherwise, I might beat you to the chance.”

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CHAPTER 15

Once, Pope took the lot of us to some kind of harvest festival, and we had one hell of a good time with the spiked cider and apple picking. This is a lot like that . . . and also not.

It seems like the entire village has come out in celebration. There’s a four-person band striking up a tune. The food smells amazing. Children dart through the gathered people, giggling and shouting with glee. Teenagers make eyes at one another from their respective friend groups. This isn’t a party with an eye for tourists; this is for this community, a social event that it seems like everyone pitched in to make happen. Now they get to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

“Eve.”

Two couples begin to dance. Then three. Then four. The people gathered quickly move back to create an open space for them to spin one another around. My heart lurches at the joy on the dancers’ faces.

“Eve.”

I can’t quite tear my gaze away. Not even for Azazel. “What?”

“Would you like to dance?”

I know what I should say, but I can’t quite dredge up the anger that’s been brimming beneath my skin since the moment I woke up in this realm and realized what he’d done. It’s not that I forgive him—I don’t know what it will take to get there, or if it’s even possible. It’s more that I’m starting to fully understand the kind of man Azazel is . . . to recognize in him the client I shared meals and conversations with over the years. The stories he told me may have been edited, but they seem to hold a core truth.

Or maybe it’s the call of the fiddle-like instrument one of the band members is playing, insistent and tempting. I don’t know, but I set my hand in Azazel’s and let him pull me onto the impromptu dance floor. I’m not short, but he’s massive, and it feels a little absurd as he carefully places one hand on my waist.

Staring up at his roughly handsome face has my heart doing unforgivable things. I shiver at the naked need in his eyes as he leads me around the circle, picking up speed once I get the rhythm down. There don’t seem to be specific steps, but we dance and dance until I’m dizzy and the whole world narrows to the man tethering me with a perfectly polite touch.

I can’t stop myself from laughing in giddiness. It’s worth it, because Azazel loses some of his intensity and grins down at me, relaxing for the first time in . . . I don’t know. Ever, maybe?

“Ready for a spin?” He doesn’t wait for me to reply before he changes his grip on my hand and sends me whirling before him. He catches my hip again, continuing to move with my momentum, as someone cheers in the background—Alice, I think.

As I’m dancing with Azazel, it’s so easy to forget all the bad things that have happened. At least for a little while. The song changes and changes again, and neither of us flags or suggests a break. My breathing comes hard, sweat gathers along my spine, and my muscles ache from more use than I’ve given them since arriving here.

Except for the sex.

There’s no use thinking about that right now. Not when every nerve ending feels alive and brimming with lightning. Not when Azazel’s big hand is on my waist, his heart in his onyx eyes.

The music shifts. I glance over to find the drummer and the one playing a guitar-like instrument sitting back, sweat sheening their foreheads. They laugh and accept frothing mugs of beer, obviously ready to take a break. The fiddler turns the tune to something soft and achingly sweet.

We slow alongside the other dancers. Azazel clears his throat. “We can rest if you like.”

“Not a chance.” I laugh breathlessly. “I love to dance.”

“I’m beginning to see the attraction.” His fingers flex against my hip. “Eve⁠—”

It’s clear he’s about to apologize again. I shake my head. “We don’t have to talk about it again. I may not like what you did, but I’m beginning to understand why.” I glance around. Everyone is so fucking happy. “What happens to orphans in this realm?” The question pops out before I have a chance to change my mind.

Azazel tenses slightly before seeming to make an attempt to relax into the gentle sway of our slow dance. “It’s different in every territory, and even in mine, it varies. In most cases, a child would go to the nearest family member.”

My throat feels thick. It’s so silly. I’ve had a lifetime of therapy to work through the loss of my parents. I may have ended up in foster care, but I was one of the lucky ones. Though my first few sets of foster parents passed me on when they got what they really wanted—a baby—my final set weren’t all that bad. Overstretched and drowning, they did their best with what they had. They never hurt their kids. The bare minimum, but better than some of the stories I’ve heard over the years. Getting handed a check and a backpack when I graduated hurt—a lot—but so many people have had it worse.

I don’t know what Azazel reads in my expression. He does me a kindness and continues. “In villages like this, if there’s no family, everyone comes together and decides who is best prepared to take the child—or children. Then the village does what it can to supplement things so that isn’t a burden on the primary caregiver.”

“Is this one of the other things you supplement?”

He glances down. “Yes.”

Of course it is. Because Azazel cares about his people and uses his power to help them on multiple levels. “What about the city?”

“We have specific families and programs that help them.” He meets my gaze steadily. “On its surface, it’s not dissimilar to the foster care system in your world, but those families are all supported—and monitored—on multiple levels. In the villages, everyone will intervene if something goes awry. In the city, it’s more formal. I won’t pretend that every family is perfect or that there haven’t been bad things that happened, but we work hard to ensure the children are protected.”

The awful feeling in my throat gets worse. “That sounds like it’s too good to be true.”

“It’s not a perfect system. In a perfect system, there would be no need for foster families.” He clears his throat. “But there are fewer children who are in need of parents or guardians now than there were when we were constantly at war.”

Damn him. I swallow hard. “You’re making it really hard to hate you.”

He smiles wanly. “I’m sorry.” Azazel turns us and moves away from the dancing, though he keeps a hold on my hand. “Let’s get you something to eat and drink.”

The moment we reach the table, he’s mobbed. I nibble on a cake that manages to be both savory and sweet and watch the old folk pass Azazel around. He submits to their questions about when he’ll get married and have children with faint laughter and an easy diversion that says he’s been through this song and dance plenty of times before. He even kisses a damn baby at one point, holding them easily in his massive hands. I refuse to acknowledge the lurch in my stomach at the sight.

He may not be fully comfortable in this setting, receiving this attention, but he’s quite good at it. And they all clearly love him. Why wouldn’t they? The changes he’s enacted have positively benefited their lives, families, and communities.

It doesn’t excuse the danger he’s put me in . . . but I’m having a hard time holding on to my anger. This is so much bigger than me. Yes, I wouldn’t be in this mess if he hadn’t spent the last few years as one of my best clients, but . . . It’s not as if I didn’t enjoy the time with him. It’s not as if I didn’t encourage him to keep booking me, to keep choosing me above the other professionals, even though I knew we were in danger of crossing several of my lines. If I’d told him to leave me alone, he would have.