Demon Angel by Meljean Brook

by arranging their deaths. If they committed suicide or were executed before they could repent, they were hers.
    But it would take many years before Hugh would be hers— and there was always the chance he wouldn't be destroyed by this, just as Isabel or Robert could make peace with their betrayal and rage.
    That was if they ever did anything to make peace with. She tried to laugh at herself, her impatience—Lucifer must have known this waiting would seem like punishment.
    She tried to laugh, but she could not look away from Hugh.
    He had not yet noticed Isabel's approach. Leaning with his elbows on the parapet, he looked out over the valley, his head bent. Thinking of a way to thwart her, most likely. It should have made her smile, but she could see the invisible weight that lay across the line of his shoulders.
    Ridiculous, that she should want to ease it. That she would have traded herself for Isabel at that moment. That she yearned to appear before him—not as the demon, Marie or Isabel, but as she'd been once, before she was Lilith.
    But that was forbidden, as was the envy rising in her heart as Isabel lay her hand on his forearm.
    Hugh turned, saw the woman beside him, and did exactly as Lilith had known he would: he assumed it was a demon, come to torment him.
    And now Lilith laughed softly, bitterly, because she realized had Isabel not worn the commoner's garb, Hugh might have paused. For there were reasons a lady might be on the allure with a knight, and he might have waited until he was certain 'twas not a demon. But, given his belief that Isabel was all purity and innocence, he could not conceive of her betrayal. Could not imagine she would appear before him wearing deception.
    "Isabel," he said with enough sarcasm and disrespect that the lady hesitated.
    But she did not lack courage, and bolstered by weeks of Lilith's encouragement, did not retreat. Her words poured forth in a rush, a declaration of love and devotion, of fate and fancy.
    Lilith heard the lady's nervousness, the effort it took for her to say those words; Hugh heard a demon playacting.
    "You have come to pledge yourself to me?" he asked, affecting surprise, but with an unmistakable edge of anger beneath.
    Isabel mistook it—for passion or something else, Lilith couldn't say. "Aye." Suddenly shy, she lowered her head and stared at his hands. "If you would have me."
    "If I would have you?" he echoed, then laughed. "I would die to have you. And then, perhaps—if Robert would oblige us—we could marry." His voice deepened, exuding a lazy sensuality. Lilith's skin seemed to tighten and prickle; he intended that voice for her, and it promised heat and a slick tangle of limbs.
    And it promised violence. The sensuality was a thin veneer; he was furious.
    Isabel raised her face, tears glittering in her eyes. "I do not think we will be allowed to consecrate our love with vows."
    "Nay!" His eyes widened dramatically, and he grasped her hands, pulled her against him. "Perhaps we could kill him then. As a widow, you'll need a new husband." He ground his hips against hers, and Isabel gasped, tried to tear herself away. "We could consecrate our love every night."
    "I… I do not think—" Sudden fear broke her voice.
    "Come now, my lady. Let us seal our promise of love with a kiss. 'Tis nothing, a kiss. All of this is nothing."
    The last was said bitterly, and the ache that had threatened beneath Lilith's breast bloomed into full. Hugh kissed Isabel hard, ignoring the beating of her fists on his shoulders.
    Lilith looked away, her throat tight. It might have been a good plan, if he meant to punish Lilith with such a kiss. If he meant to hurt the demon who'd proved susceptible to his touch.
    In the courtyard below, d'Aulnoy and Mandeville began a slow, deliberate trek toward the tower post. Their swords were sheathed at their hips, and she could hear the weapons' soft swaying with every step they took. The baron radiated jealousy and disbelief, Mandeville cold