Atroyel, p.1
Atroyel, page 1
ATROYEL
ROGUE ANGELS
BOOK ONE
LILITH DARVILLE
CONTENTS
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Friend & Family Alert
Black Rose and the Three Princes
1. Aleah
2. Atroyel
3. Aleah
4. Atroyel
5. Aleah
6. Tristan
7. Cassiel
8. Aleah
9. Cassiel
10. Cassiel
11. Aleah
12. Cassiel
13. Aleah
14. Tristan
15. Aleah
16. Atroyel
17. Aleah
18. Atroyel
19. Aleah
Black Rose and the Three Princes
20. Tristan
21. Aleah
22. Atroyel
23. Atroyel
24. Aleah
25. Aleah
26. Atroyel
27. Tristan
28. Aleah
29. Aleah
30. Aleah
31. Tristan
32. Aleah
33. Tristan
34. Aleah
35. Tristan
Black Rose and the Three Princes
36. Atroyel
37. Aleah
38. Tristan
39. Aleah
40. Atroyel
41. Tristan
42. Aleah
43. Aleah
44. Tristan
45. Aleah
46. Tristan
47. Atroyel
48. Tristan
Next up for Aleah and her angels…
Also by Lilith Darville
About the Author
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FRIEND & FAMILY ALERT
Yes, indeed, this is for my evangelical and otherwise sensitive loved ones . . . especially those of you who tell me you’re wearing your knees out praying for me. I’m already overwhelmed with guilt—not really, but that’s the polite thing to say. If you went batshit crazy over my spanking scene, this series would make you certifiable. *evil grin*
This story is my breakdown fantasy, so I might as well imagine that Brad Pitt and I walk off into the sunset just like in the movie . . . but before we do. . .
In the unlikely event you stumbled upon this book by accident, remove it from your Kindle immediately. Don’t hesitate; do it NOW! I can’t deal with any more guilt over causing arthritic knees.
There are some things you should know before you dive into this book. Although all of the sex depicted in this book is consensual, there are references to abuse the heroine suffered. If any mention of abuse is a trigger for you, this may not be the story for you.
Put judgments aside, and get ready for a fantasy ride . . .
BLACK ROSE AND THE THREE PRINCES
Once upon a time, an archangel named Syrael was the Sex Angel Lord of all the realms. Syrael, a vain and wicked archangel with great power, possessed a magic mirror. Every morning, Syrael asked his magic mirror, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the most powerful sex angel of all?” The mirror always told him he was the most powerful, which pleased him to no end because the mirror never lied.
But the day came when the magic mirror told Lord Syrael that there was a more powerful sex angel, and the large golden eyes of a beautiful Nephilim stared back at him. She was plain and unadorned; her beauty needed no enhancement.
One of the Nephilim race had survived.
This damn near shocked Lord Syrael into a chronic case of erectile dysfunction. All the Nephilim had been hunted down and destroyed during The Thousand Years War. The sex demon lords had removed their scourge from the universe. Yet there was no disguising the divine light shining from those eyes. The power of the Nephilim sexual appetite was legendary, and the moment he saw her, Syrael knew she had to die.
It wouldn’t be easy. Instead of the usual tears and supplications, this Nephilim wore a shield of rage and determination, hiding her fear and vulnerability from the world. But her silent screams from years of abuse drove daggers of delight straight into Syrael’s heart. Her pain appealed to his baser instincts. Her determination made him want to break her. He wanted her to suffer before she died. As he looked into those large chestnut-brown eyes, his heart hardened into darkness that started to consume his divine light.
Furious, Lord Syrael summoned three princes of the realm who were bound to him, the sex angels Cassiel and Atroyel and Tristan, and he dispatched them to kill the lovely Black Rose. As proof of her demise, he demanded they bring him her heart so he could consume it and gain her power . . .
1
ALEAH
Every cell in my body screams for his touch, a touch that will never come. My Troy is gone. I’m so very alone without him, but life must march on. So, I wall off my shock and swim in a moat of numbness. But every Saturday night, our date night, I sit here for hours and bleed my sorrow into a bottle.
I’m perfectly content . . . That’s a lie, but we won’t go there right now . . . having my weekly vigil in our favorite private dining room at Maison Raul. Well, it was ours. Now it’s just mine. Troy died. And for the six months since, I’ve been coming here, trying to recapture the feel of his oh-so-clever hands on my thighs and between my legs. They were some of our happiest moments, and many were in this very room. We were best friends, and there were not enough words to describe the depth of our love, so we’d used our bodies to speak the truth instead.
Even during the pandemic, while everything had been shut down, Raul, the owner and maître d’, had graciously met me at the restaurant and let me occupy the space until it was time to pour me into an Uber.
Earlier in the week, my editor called, begging me to return to work, enticing me with an assignment. Now I have to make up my mind: resume some semblance of life or continue to wallow in my grief. But it’s more than that. Whether I’m ready to return to work or not, I’m just not sure about this assignment. My confused thoughts have a firm hold as I try to make sense of what’s bothering me about it. As a journalist, not every assignment turns my crank, but I don’t usually feel any emotional connection with the client even when one does. This time I have.
I’d agreed to a video conference call with the mysterious Cyrus Stone, and something about him nags at me. While I could put part of it down to my grief, there’s something more—something dark and possibly dangerous. Or I’m letting my overactive reporter’s imagination run away with me. Let’s face it, I haven’t been able to think past the crushing pain in my chest that started when Troy died.
“Greetings, my dear, it’s time for Name This Wine,” Raul says as he places a large glass of wine in front of me. He straightens and waits for me to do the swish-see-smell-sip thing with the rich red wine. I’ve come to know the restaurant owner pretty well during the past six months. He prides himself on his “psychic” ability to match the right wine with a patron’s mood, and it’s become a weekly game with us. I look up at him and force a smile. “Baco Noir?”
“You got it in one.” Raul’s voice is filled with a warmth I can’t help responding to. “Glass or bottle?”
“Bottle.” My answer is his cue that he’ll need to load me into an Uber in an hour or two. Since Troy died, I’ve genuinely come to know the meaning of “drowning my sorrows.”
“Chef has whipped up a beef stroganoff with your name written all over it, or would you prefer to see a menu?” Raul smiles as he wraps a napkin around the neck of the wine bottle before placing it in front of me.
“That sounds awesome. Beef stroganoff it is. Thank you, Raul.” I give him another smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. Eating, like everything else since Troy died, is no longer a pleasure; it’s a necessity. Without food, I’d die, which might not be a bad idea, but I’m not the suicidal type. As if he can read my mind, Raul pats my hand before leaving my private dining room. Before the pocket door slides closed, I catch a glimpse of golden eyes that seem to glow. Warmth floods my body as the light reaches me, and I’m hit in the gut with memories of Troy. But then again, I see Troy everywhere.
I take another sip of my wine as I let my mind wander down memory lane to when Troy had given me an explosive orgasm while I sat on this very spot. I let my head rest against the wall while closing my eyes, letting the memories flood in. The feel of Troy’s hands as they pushed apart my thighs and his fingers found my clit. I know I’ll only have those experiences in my mind from now on, and I’m having trouble embracing my future as a celibate.
My cell phone rings before I get too far down Pity Party Lane and into the pit of pain that makes up my life these days. My editor Daisy’s brilliant smile appears on the screen.
“Hey!” I try to force some cheer in my voice as I pick up.
“Hey, you. Is everything okay? How’d it go?” I can almost feel Daisy crossing her fingers as she waits for my response.
“It went great.” A lie. “I was just about to call you.” Semi-truth. I was going to call her once I figured out just what to do about this contract offer.
Daisy breathes a massive sigh of what is no doubt relief. “This calls for a drink.”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Don’t get too excited. I’m not sure I’m the best person for this job, hon.”
My headphones pick up rustling sounds, and I imagine Daisy settling back on her leather sofa, crossing those shapely legs and taking a sip of wine. “Spill, girlfriend, and don’t leave out one tiny detail.” Daisy is one of those beautiful women you’d love to hate, except she’s so damned nice, you can’t help but love her.
I close my eyes again and think about Cy Stone, for once thankful I don’t think in pictures. Tall, dark, and very French, the billionaire’s presence had overwhelmed me from the moment he filled my computer screen. A presence so imposing, it was almost as if he were in the room with me.
“I look forward to developing a close working relationship with you.” Cy’s voice had been deep with an undertone of sinister that matched his brooding looks.
I sink deeper into the well-padded booth. Cy’s words keep playing in my head, along with the heat from eyes that held mine far too long to mistake his meaning . . . and the flicker of interest it sparked in me.
“There’s not much to tell that you don’t know, Daise. He said the call confirmed that he wants me to do the series, and he’d contact you with the details, including a list of reading materials for research and a list of the places where I’ll conduct his interviews. I told him I’d look over his proposal and let you know my answer. He gave me twenty-four hours.”
“Let me add a little incentive. Cy’s offering the magazine five million dollars to run a series of five articles on his clubs and lifestyle. His contract will keep us in the black for several years, never mind the hefty portion that comes to you.” Daisy sighs. “Not that you care about the money, I know. But we sure could use it.” The wistful tone in her voice tugs at my heart. And I can’t hate her for that, either, because, with Daisy, there’s no subtext to the message. She’s not trying to manipulate me at all. If I say no, she’ll accept it without malice. But her sigh and tone let me know just how important this is to her.
So I refrain from telling her that I was more than a little put-out at his controlling attitude. Or that his penetrating gaze made me aware there’s still life in my lady bits. He’d made it clear he’d be calling the shots, and that just isn’t how I work . . . Assuming I want to go back to work at all.
“I’ll think about it, Daise. I know how important this is to you. I’m just not sure I’m ready to go back to work yet.” I slowly rotate my head, trying to ease some of the perpetual tension I carry in my neck and shoulders.
“Ali.” Daisy’s voice is warm and gentle. “You’re going to have to join the land of the living sometime. You’d be the first one to kick my butt if you saw me hurting myself. You know you would. So consider this your kick in the ass. I think you need this. Let me know what you decide.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow. Be good.” I ring off before we can do our usual “but bad is better” exchange.
I squeeze my eyes shut as I let grief, my constant companion, wash over me. Since the day the doctor and I told Troy he only had four to six months to live, I haven’t cried. Not even at his funeral. Oh, I started to. Two tears rolled, one down each cheek. Then the funeral director hauled my ass off to sign more papers.
I wish I could cry. Maybe that would relieve some of the weight from the mountain of grief sitting on my chest. The grief makes it very difficult to think past the deep sense of loss that consumes me. But think I must. If I’m to give Cy Stone my answer, I have a lot of research to do, not to mention figuring out the physical reaction I had to this man—I refuse to acknowledge it’s a spark of physical attraction.
My nerve endings start simmering when two of the most exquisite-looking men I’ve ever seen invade my space and jolt me out of my alcohol-induced reverie.
“May I help you?” I squint at the two hunks staring down at me.
“We have a message for you from your Troy. May we sit?” Tall, dark, and very handsome asks.
My adrenaline surges into overdrive at the mention of my deceased husband. The love of my life. Message? It would be just like him to find a way to send me a message from the great beyond, the one he was sure didn’t exist. That thought barely has time to form when my rational mind reaches through the alcohol fog. Shit like this just doesn’t happen. Not in real life, anyway. This kind of thing only happens in the Netflix shows Troy and I binged on as we coasted through his last months. There had been two requirements when choosing the shows: there had to be magic, and either good had to triumph over evil, or there had to be a happily ever after.
No, you cannot sit, asshole. Have you lost your mind? I give them both the once-over while I get my racing pulse back under control. How dare they invade my privacy? My heart continues to hammer although I have no idea why.
I should be afraid. Lord knows with my history of abuse, being confronted by two strange guys should have vaulted me into protection mode. But I feel nothing but the weird hum, that simmering feeling. I’m perfectly safe, and I’ll have to get used to talking to strange men if I take this assignment. Besides, all I have to do is yell, and Raul will throw their asses out posthaste. And there’s something familiar about them. I wave my hand as if I’m a frigging princess allowing them a royal audience. It won’t hurt to hear them out.
The two men sit, and a hum starts warming every cell in my body and intensifies as a breath of air caresses my cheek, drawing my attention to the men. The one sitting to my left is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome but in a very different way from Cyrus Stone. While Cy reeks of European nobility, this man reminds me of an Israeli prince. Thick, curly black hair frames a sculpted face holding molten gold eyes. On my right sits a drop-dead gorgeous blond god. Certainly, someone so perfect must be Apollo or even Zeus himself. I rack my brains for the names of other gods while I examine them. Both have smooth olive skin and look at me with undisguised attraction.
“Okay, let’s hear it.” Not my most polite welcome, but these guys have a lot of explaining to do.
Gorgeous blond gives me a wicked grin and holds out his hand. “Forgive our intrusion. I’m Tristan Adams, and this is my brother, Cassiel.” Magnetic blue eyes capture and hold my gaze, making me feel more than a tad as if I’m slowly being reeled in. The instant our hands meet, a jolt of electricity zings through me. Those are the closest words I can find to describe the strange sensation—one I haven’t felt since the moment I met Troy.
Cassiel’s hand replaces Tristan’s, and a similar bolt strikes. I can’t conceal the shudder that rolls through me.
“What’s the message?”
2
ATROYEL
I sit beside my beloved in all my incorporeal glory. Just as I guessed, Aleah’s made it a tradition to visit one of our favorite haunts. Looking at her, memory after memory of her inner beauty floods me—her strength, her resilience, her determination. Yet here she sits, motionless, in a pool of melancholy like a boat without a rudder, and it’s my fault. Those exquisite brown eyes usually alight with life are dull with grief.
The depth of her pain shocks me. Aleah’s always been the bravest person I know, and nothing ever got her down for long. She battled chronic illness that brought her pain and misery, insisting we keep an “attitude of gratitude.” Despite her pain, she’d made it her mission to ensure my comfort and dignity during the awful months while my body slowly deteriorated. Something about the depth of her care and commitment had taken my love for her to a level I can’t describe. And here she is. It’s been so long since I smelled her sweet scent, tasted her tantalizing flavor, felt her satin skin. Seeing her again brings me to my knees, and if I had a body, I’d sink to them.
