Shore. She felt another pang. She used to love swimming in Sylvan's streams and ponds. When she'd lived in Florida, the land of easy swimming, she'd never been able to risk revealing her ears.
"My chambers overlook the water."
Must be nice. "How did the sea get its name?"
"When calm, the silver water reflects the sky. On stormy days, it looks like mercury."
It sounded spectacular. "You're proud of your home."
He grated, "There is much to be proud of." His wings unfolded, drawing her attention.
Both times he'd closed them around her she'd been too freaked out to register how they felt.
"Never seen wings before? The demon slaves in Sylvan must be wingless breeds."
"They're not slaves. They're serfs."
"Are you jesting?" He gave a bitter laugh. "Whatever you have to tell yourself, princess."
Lila had been exiled young. Had her understanding of the fey realm been skewed?
Frustration clear in his expression, he asked, "Why do you have such strong mental blocks?"
"So crazy demon kings can't tap into any more of my nightmares and make them come true--"
Her stomach growled; he stiffened at the sound.
"I won't be endlessly entertaining to you when I curl up on the ground from weakness and never get up. Is that what you planned?"
Seeming to make a decision about her, he said, "Perhaps not." He raised his palm, twirling his other hand over it. An orange appeared!
As he peeled it, her mouth watered at the scent, her gaze following his fingers. They were surprisingly dexterous, but those claws . . . Could he retract them even more? How did he touch females?
He caught her gaze. "What would you do for this?"
She gave him her most arrogant smile. "Not a fucking thing, demon."
Had his lips quirked? Seeming pleased by her answer, he held out the orange atop his flattened palm--as she'd once fed deer.
Now she was the creature being coaxed closer. When she swiped the orange, their fingers brushed, and a current seemed to pass between them. Hell demons must give off sparks. "Is it poisoned?"
"If you doubt it, return it."
MINE. With her first bite, she rolled her eyes with pleasure. Even her taste buds were becoming more sensitive. "Thank you," she said between bites. As she ate, energy poured into her, her headache fading.
When juice dripped onto one of her boobs, his gaze grew heavy-lidded. In Demonish, he said, "I find myself desperately craving orange juice."
She reminded herself to act as if she didn't understand him. "It's bad manners to speak a different language in front of those who don't know it." Once she'd finished her orange, she asked, "Do you eat fruit?"
"Demons need meat." With a significant look, he said, "But I'm also tempted by sweet things."
Changing the subject . . . "How much magic do you wield?"
He hiked his broad shoulders. "In this plane, I can do nigh anything."
"You have power over everything here?" Such as my life . . .
He exhaled. "Total and utter."
"You sound as if you regret that fact, which confuses someone like me--who has zero power."
"Life is long without a challenge," he said. No wonder hers had sped by! "And you do wield power. It can reside in beauty and desire. You possess the former, eliciting the latter from me." He openly admitted to desiring her?
Before she could reply, he conjured a pomegranate. She caught herself grinning at his magic. "Those are my favorite."
He used a claw to slice it open, then handed half to her. "I know. You loved them in the distant past."
How many people loved pomegranates above every other fruit? She'd been able to dismiss his knowledge of her spider phobia, but not this.
Taken with those rumors of her reincarnation, it might be time to accept the evidence.
Weren't reincarnates usually brought back to right some wrong? So why would Lila have been reborn?
Maybe to bring down the Morior.
She believed in fate; the idea of a greater cosmic purpose for her existence appealed to her in so many ways. . . .
She scooped out the seeds from one of the sections, moaning with delight. Yet then he gestured for her to return it.
But . . . but . . . She gazed from the fruit to the demon.
He had a tricksy look in his eyes, as if he'd just made a chess play and was wondering if she could predict all the moves ahead.
He didn't expect her to hand it back to him. So she forced herself to.
His lips curled. Then he hurled the fruit toward the Styx.
"Hey! Nooo." She glared at him. "Dick."
"Am I?" He traced away.
What did that mean? Sighing, she stood and returned to her tower. Inside, she drew up short. New things filled one of the rooms!
She rushed closer. He'd given her a mattress with luxurious bedding. A rug warmed the space, and a mirror hung on the wall. A gift box sat atop the new bed.
She knew all this had come because she'd handed back her pomegranate. Tricksy, tricksy demon.
The point wasn't lost on her. Give a little to get.
But what else did he want her to give?
Glancing around at the inscriptions on the chamber walls, she frowned. Of all the rooms Abyssian could have chosen--such as the fellatio room or the "wheelbarrow" one--he'd picked for her the room that celebrated a demon's claiming bite.
He, for one, believed they had a fated connection. So why wouldn't he cop to it?
Atop the gift box lay a note, handwritten with a bold scrawl:
Join me for dinner at nightfall.
A
This must be more trickery, a trap of some sort. But if knowledge was her only weapon, seeing more of the castle would benefit her.
She opened the package, finding a gown of dazzling gold silk. It was strapless, with a stiff, low-cut bodice. Goldwork embroidery adorned the wide ballroom skirt. Maybe the gold thread had been spun from straw.
Also in the package were matching pumps, a corset, hose and garters, toiletries, and a bathrobe.
Would the king expect to sleep with his dinner date? What if those twelve concubines were in attendance?
She could skip dinner, using the bedding material to shield her skin as she climbed down the fire vines.
Or she could accept the invitation . . . and carry out her escape. She surveyed all the gifts--her new arsenal. Oh, Abyssian, you just fucked up royally.
Lila grinned. She would join him for dinner, on her way somewhere else.
TWENTY
Determined not to watch her in the mirror, Sian roamed his castle halls. The echoing sound of his boots seemed to mock him.
Absolute power boring me absolutely.
At least Calliope made his life unpredictable. How bloody long until dinner?
He'd decided to invite her simply to discover more about his mate's current life. He would order Sylvan dishes for her and a sweet wine to loosen her tongue.
If he could keep his temper--and lust--in check, he would compliment her and make her more comfortable.
His only concern: that he would be seduced again, softening toward her. Earlier, they'd had an almost normal conversation, and damn him, he'd enjoyed it.
Merely sitting next to her had soothed his anger. He'd experienced an acute satisfaction to gaze out at his lands with her.
As she'd surveyed his realm, there'd been no distaste in her expression--more like curiosity. He'd imagined her looking at his body in a like manner. Seeing it anew. Accepting it.
If she could grow used to hell, could she possibly grow accustomed to him?
Sian was hell; hell was Sian. . . .
Maybe he should call for a concubine to while away his time. Strange that he hadn't even considered that option when he'd brought himself release earlier. Fresh from visiting his mate, he'd come with a shock wave's intensity, biting his arm bloody to muffle his destructive roar.
His concubines had
written, beseeching him to join them in their tower. But he preferred females who would lie with him because of desire--not royal duty. Which meant he'd been with few females in general since he'd started changing.
He'd told himself that he'd diluted his memories of his mate with each female he bedded, but who was he kidding? He'd never taken another without fantasizing his mate's trembling body was beneath him.
In his dark imaginings, she'd wrung every culmination from him for ten thousand years.
If Calliope was the key to his pleasure, would he make do with lackluster substitutes for the rest of his life? Before, he'd had no choice because he'd lost her. Now . . . how could he discard her when she was in his keeping?
He'd have to. Even if she could somehow see past his "repulsive" looks, he could never accept her as his queen and the mother to his heirs. Fey and demon parents begat banebloods--creatures whose very blood was poisonous.
No, Sian wanted Calliope only to break his demon seal. Afterward, he would send her away to another prison, far from him.
Then he'd make some demoness his queen and have a hundred red-blooded heirs with her.
Damn it! The prospect of a substitute left him cold.
Yet so did the prospect of a future with her. He could never forget how skillfully she'd manipulated him into offering up hell's weaknesses.
Kari's kingdom had desired slaves. Her father had learned from her where and how to get them.
Because of Sian, scores of demons had lost their freedom forever. His fists clenched, his lifeline of hatred firmly in hand, his crimson filter at the ready.
Again Sian's mind turned to seduction. Why should he deny himself sport with Calliope? He was king of this realm; if he was to be cursed in form, he might as well revel in his power here.
He traced back to his tower and grasped the hand mirror, calling up her new room. He'd chosen a chamber devoted to a sex act he'd not yet enjoyed, an inside joke--with Calliope on the outside.
He frowned at her expression. The female had a cagey, foxlike look about her. Up to something.
Her gaze bounced from the wall mirror to the rug to the bed. Then she began to move with such speed that he could barely follow her actions. . . .
She broke the mirror, using a shard to cut the rug. She set up another shard to refract sunlight toward a runner of fire vine. She ransacked the bedding and pillows, then tore apart her new corset to get to the boning.
When he realized what she was planning, the unfamiliar urge to laugh nearly overtook him. "Wily little fey."
What a . . . surprise.
Calliope was already matching wits with him. In spite of all he'd told her about the dangers of hell, she was still going to attempt an escape.
He couldn't decide what aroused him more: the fact that the firebrand was using all those gifts against him or her stubborn bravery.
Her preparations complete, Lila collected her toiletries and hurried into the bathing chamber.
Brushing her teeth proved to be a religious experience; her shower with scented bath oil was a sensual indulgence.
As she braided locks atop her head, she automatically started to cover her ears. She grew giddy when she realized she didn't have to.
After donning the garters and hose, she rechecked the box for a shift or panties, but found none. Maybe demonesses didn't wear panties? She glanced at her own frayed ones, but couldn't bring herself to wear them again.
When she stepped into the gown, the material sighed with each of her movements. The decorative ties were in the front, so she was able to lace herself. Luckily she didn't need the corset she'd trashed. She slipped on the pumps, which fit perfectly.
Dressed, she took in her reflection with the single remaining shard of mirror on the wall.
Well, then.
The low bodice pushed her breasts far above the crisp edge, making them look larger, all but revealing her areolas. The gown tucked in around her waist, flaring at her hips.
She'd never worn such a decadent dress. She looked womanly, felt womanly.
She felt . . . sexual. And she was all too aware of her lack of panties.
Would Abyssian like this dress on her? Not that she would care, since a dozen concubines would probably be joining them.
She tilted her head, attention on her eyes. Did sharp emotions--anger, glee, lust--really turn her irises teal?
As the sun set, she grabbed the drawstring gear bag she'd fashioned from a pillowcase and rug tassels. She reached under her dress to strap it to her thigh. Her skirts concealed it.
At nightfall, she exited her room into the courtyard, expecting Abyssian to materialize soon--instead a patch of the wall in front of her started to shimmer. A door appeared where none had been a moment ago.
She cautiously opened it and crept out to a landing. A winding candlelit stairway awaited her.
Not even a servant or guard to escort her? Would her escape be easier than she'd hoped? She descended, her heels loud on the stone.
Abyssian's description of this castle had set her imagination aflame. Steeped in magic . . . a mind of its own . . . all but alive.
As she made her way down stair after stair, the magnitude of this labyrinthine palace struck her. The demon hadn't exaggerated its size.
From the staircase, she stepped into a corridor. A gilded door at the end groaned open. She headed through it into a new hallway, and the door behind her closed.
Ah, so that's how Abyssian would keep his mouse in the maze: no door would open until the previous one closed, which gave her zero avenues for escape.
That was okay. She'd prepared for a confrontation.
As she traveled deeper into the castle, that feeling of being watched returned. Sensations danced over her skin, and the faintest whispers sounded in her ears. At one point, she could have sworn a breath ghosted across her nape.
The castle did seem alive, simmering with secrets, mysteries--and loneliness.
Because its master was lonely? Why wouldn't Abyssian be if he'd lost his mate? He clearly still longed for Kari.
For me?
She passed a blue chamber with a large mural of hellhounds and dragons hunting. Her ears twitched, and she glanced over her shoulder at the mural--then shivered. Were the eyes of one of the hellhounds following her?
Shake it off, Lila. Soon she came upon yet another set of steps. She was halfway down them when the entire staircase began to move, sweeping her to another landing. She grabbed the railing, laughing with excitement.
Next she entered a gallery with gargoyle statues and ancient tapestries lining the walls. Trenches of moving lava meandered through the expanse, lighting and heating the area, dispersing the chill of the other corridors.
At the end were two massive doors. They must be fifty feet tall, made of what looked like solid gold. When she stood before them, she craned her head up, feeling small and insignificant.
Etched across the surface were scenes of demonic battles, filled with more hellhounds, dragons, storms of flame, and horned warriors attacking some gigantic reptilian creature.
These scenes evoked hell's storied past, trials and punishments in an unforgiving and mysterious world.
So what would she face beyond these doors?
When they started to open, she squared her shoulders, knowing one thing for certain: whatever awaited her . . . Lila would adapt.
She stepped into a grand dining room, her heels clicking on the polished marble floors. A fire crackled in a large hearth along one wall. A candlelit chandelier descended from a soaring ceiling.
Abyssian sat at the head of a long table set for two. Only he and she would be dining?
He stood at her arrival, acting the gentleman. She hadn't expected manners from a brute like him. That wasn't her only surprise.
The king's appearance was . . . improved.
His crown was made of fire, its shape wider in the back, then tapering to two sharp ends over his forehead. He wore fine tailored clothes: black leather breeches and a
crisp white tunic embroidered with gold symbols that matched his glyphs. A wide, red sash circled his waist. His dark boots shone.
Did he have feet like a man or paws? Hooves? And how did he wear a shirt? The back must be modified for his wings. He'd folded them down until they were barely visible past his broad shoulders.
His long hair was secured in a queue, and his irises looked impossibly green against the darkened skin around his eyes. Yet as his penetrating gaze roamed over her, that green wavered to glowing black.
When a curl escaped her updo and she tucked it behind her ear, his eyes clocked the movement and lingered. Though pointed ears were the most unmistakable trait of the fey, this demon seemed to like hers.
Tracing to the other end of the table, he pulled out a chair for her. Abyssian's behavior was improved along with his looks? His concessions tonight struck her as respectful. Obviously he was setting her up for some elaborate trick.
Wary, she glided forward.
Had he just inhaled the scent of her hair? In a roughened voice, he said, "Your beauty pleases me, Calliope."
Her cheeks grew hot. But she was still a princess; if the king put forth the effort to be civil, at least on the surface, she'd reward him with the same. "Thank you, King Abyssian."
His welcoming and gracious efforts were working. She felt herself relaxing a touch--
"Now, if you will be so kind as to lift your skirts. . . ."
TWENTY-ONE
Calliope narrowed her eyes at him. "What did you say?"
In that dress, she resembled Kari more than ever. Good. Sian needed to be reminded of her treachery.
Because right now she tempted him beyond reason.
He'd watched her approach through the castle, chest tightening to see her eyes bright and her cheeks pinkened with exhilaration as she'd explored his home. With each of her shallow breaths, her plump breasts had threatened to spill from her bodice.
He'd been so enthralled with her looks, he'd almost forgotten about all the weapons she carried. "You can lift your skirts, or I will do it for you," he said. "And I won't be as considerate of the fact that you might not be wearing undergarments."
To her credit, she remained unfazed, even sighing. "What are you going on about now, demon?" She gave him an assessing glance.
For the first time in ages, he'd taken care with his appearance, having a valet help him since he refused to look at his reflection. Sian thought he'd detected her approval earlier. "I'm talking about your abuse of my gifts."