Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
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.”