The endless cycle of her deaths and her inability to remember what they meant to each other was his punishment for having broken the law he’d been created to enforce. It was an excruciatingly effective reprisal. He was dying in slow degrees; his soul-the core of his angelic existence-was ravaged by grief, rage, and a thirst for vengeance. Each time he lost Shadoe, and every day he was forced to live without her, further compromised his ability to carry out his mission. Her absence impaired the commitment to duty that was the cornerstone of who he was-a soldier, a leader, and the gaoler of beings as powerful as he was.

Two hundred damned years. She’d been gone long enough to make him dangerous. A seraph whose heart was encased in ice was a hazard to everyone and everything around him. He was a danger to her, because his hunger for her was so voracious he questioned his ability to restrain it. When she was gone, the world was dead to him. The silence within was deafening. Then she returned, and the rush of sensation exploded around him-the pounding of his heart, the heat of her touch, the force of his need. Life. Which was lost to him when she was.

As they returned to their seats, Lindsay said, “My dad says you’re the Howard Hughes of my generation.”

Impatience clawed at him. Discussing his necessary but meaningless facade after the events of the day was both perverse and anguishing. He was beyond agitated, his blood flowing thick and hot with fury and driving hunger.

“I’d like to think I’m less eccentric,” he replied in a voice that betrayed none of his volatility. Every cell in his body was attuned to Lindsay Gibson-the vessel carrying the soul he loved. The illicit physical needs of his human shell had roused with vicious alacrity, reminding him how long it had been since she’d last been in his arms. He could never forget how good it was between them. A single scorching glance could set off an incendiary hunger that took hours to burn out.