Текст книги "The demons queen"

Автор книги: Katee Robert

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CHAPTER 11

EVE

Fucking Azazel is something I’m going to curse myself for in the morning, but I can’t seem to worry about it right now. No matter how different he looks, he’s still my Azazel in bed. We’re still getting off on the exchange in power that doesn’t have a defined set of rules beyond what feels good in the moment.

And now, kneeling between my thighs with his cock still dripping, he fingers me back to full health. Magic is a hell of a drug, that’s for damn sure. He’s being careful with me, but he’s not about to let me out of his bed before he gets another one from me.

He strokes his finger over my G-spot, his expression a mask of concentration all devoted to my pleasure.

The pain of taking someone his size is already fading, need taking hold once more. It consumes me, ensuring there’s no space for thinking, for fear, for worrying about the future. There’s only the here and now, Azazel’s thick finger inside me, lazily building my desire.

Another one, indeed.

Azazel adds his thumb to the mix, dragging it over my clit with each stroke. My first orgasm was damn near violent. This one feels almost like comfort, a gentle wave cresting and sending me back to the shore. It feels like safety.

He slows his strokes, eases his big finger out of me, and leans down to press a light kiss to my lips. “Don’t move.”

As if I could. I lie there and watch him pad naked to a doorway that obviously leads into his bathroom. He returns a minute later with a damp washcloth.

Even with the balm having chased away the worst side effects of taking him so recklessly, I still ache a little when he presses the cloth to my pussy. His onyx eyes miss nothing. “The balm will continue to work. You shouldn’t be sore at all in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

He frowns but finishes cleaning me up and tosses the cloth into a short bin I hadn’t noticed before. “Stay.”

I shouldn’t. I’m already feeling vulnerable and raw in a way that has nothing to do with my body. He protected me today. He didn’t hesitate to give me exactly what I asked for—what I needed—when I came knocking at his door at an indecent hour. More than that, he’s submitted to my anger, to my punishments, without complaint.

He lied to me. Tricked me. Essentially kidnapped me. He . . . chose me. That shouldn’t matter—I didn’t ask for this—but it does.

I’m softening. Damn it.

“I’ll stay.”

He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He’s too smart for that. Instead, he gets me a glass of water, watches closely as I drink it, shows me where everything is in the bathroom, and when I’m finished there, bundles me up in a blanket and sprawls us out in his bed.

It should be uncomfortable. I don’t sleep with clients, and I haven’t dated anyone in a truly spectacular amount of time. But the moment I close my eyes, Azazel’s steady breathing relaxes every tense part of me as his warmth cocoons me in safety.

It’s a lie.

The voice is faint, toothless. I’ll work to get my barriers up tomorrow . . . maybe.

But when I wake up, it’s to an empty bed.

I blink a few times, wondering if I imagined the whole thing. The faint ache in my body gives lie to that thought immediately. I sit up slowly, my head spinning faintly. “How long did I sleep?” Even knowing it’s foolish, I can’t help calling, “Azazel?” Silence is the only response.

There’s no reason for the spike of hurt that realization brings. I’ve spent every moment since I arrived here pushing him away. Why should I expect he’d give me the courtesy of at least writing a note or something to greet me when I woke?

But I am hurt.

I climb off the bed and look around. His room is a larger version of mine, the color scheme dark—deep-blue walls, copper accents on the furniture, all of which is some kind of black wood I don’t recognize. The temptation rises to snoop, but my bruised pride . . . bruised heart . . . can’t stand the thought of being here a moment longer.

“I’m overreacting.” The words feel faint and insecure in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Azazel is not my boyfriend. He’s my captor. Just because we’re fucking, just because he demonstrates care when he’s with me, does not change that fact. I know Stockholm Syndrome doesn’t exist exactly, but if it did, the sheer power of the orgasms he gives me would be enough to scramble my brain.

I shove through the door and out into the hall. I almost snap a command but force myself to pause and moderate my tone. “I’d like to go back to my room. Please.”

With every step I take down the long hallway, I berate myself for my recklessness, for letting pheromones and hormones make me forget exactly what brought me here in the first place. For . . . a lot of things.

Homesickness rises, so strong that I press my hand to my chest as if I can soothe the feeling with touch alone. It doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t help. I don’t even know what I’m homesick for. My empty apartment? New York? Pope and the few friends I’ve allowed myself over the years? The clients who will just move on to other professionals once they realize I’m no longer around? I may have built up the fantasy that I’m irreplaceable, but it’s not the truth. That realization hurts almost as much as Azazel’s betrayal.

I’m in a magical realm a million lifetimes from everything I know, and I can’t stop jumping on my captor’s cock. I’m giving him exactly what he wants. It’s easier to be angry with Azazel than to examine all the ways I feel hurt and foolish right now.

The first corner brings me back to my door. “Thank you.” I can’t quite make my tone be gracious. I shove through my door and head directly to the bathroom. I’m going to shower and then . . .

The rest of my life stretches out before me, with me lonely and alienated. I’ve been here over a week. That’s barely enough time to adjust, but trying to explore feels like giving in. I wrap my arms around myself, more conflicted than I’ve ever been. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to feel.

Showering does nothing to clear my mind. Getting ready usually creates a calm space inside me, the motions familiar and comforting. Not today. I give up halfway through and march out to the wardrobe to pull on a black wrap dress. It’s beautiful and fits perfectly, which only worsens my mood.

I have to get out of here.

Even if that means seeing him before I’m ready. This room is massive, but the walls feel like they’re closing in. I have to go . . . I need to . . .

I push through the door. “Please.” It’s getting easier to talk to the castle, feels less like I’m talking to myself. Or maybe desperation has a way of cleaving through things that don’t matter. “I need to get out. Just for a little while. I need . . .”

Walking helps keep the buzzing feeling that’s beneath my skin at bay, but only barely. It’s so much worse than it was last night, but I’ll throw myself out a window before I beg the castle to send me to Azazel.

No matter how much I crave the feeling of his strong arms around me. That craving is a lie, a weakness. Giving in to it will only pave the way for him to get what he wants. He ruined my life.

He saved my life.

Only because he’s the one who endangered it!

Fuck, now I’m arguing with myself. This is bad.

I turn two corners and nearly weep at the sight of a staircase opening up in front of me. “Thank you.” I rush forward, moving too quickly, but I can’t seem to slow down. The voices in my head are drowned out by two words, repeated over and over again until they bleed into each other.

Get out. Get out. Get out. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout.

I’m moving so fast, I trip over my feet. For a moment, I’m perfectly weightless, and then I crash into a body. It catches me around the waist and keeps me from landing on my face. “Eve? What’s wrong?”

Ramanu.

I know that the sensation of my ribs cracking, of my sternum splitting, of my heart emerging, bloody and frantic, is panic. It’s not real. It can’t possibly be real. But though my brain knows that, my body hasn’t gotten the memo. “Can’t. Breathe.”

To their credit, Ramanu doesn’t hesitate. They loop an arm around my waist and turn smoothly to keep walking in the direction I was headed. “You’re safe.”

“No.”

“You are,” they insist. Calm and steady. Their tone isn’t patronizing or pitying. Just matter-of-fact. “You’re having a panic attack.” We round another corner. “I’m taking you to the gardens. We’re almost there.”

They half carry me the rest of the way. My legs aren’t quite working the way I need them to be. Nothing is working the way I need it to. Can someone die from panic? Surely that’s possible. Rabbits die from fear, right? Why wouldn’t it be possible for humans too?

Ramanu hauls me through a wide doorway, and then the sun is on my face, warm and buttery and as gentle as the caress of a mother I’ve never met. They bring me to a low bench and urge me down. “Here, darling.” They guide my arms up to cross over my chest, my hands to the front of each shoulder. Then they tap their fingers over mine, back and forth, back and forth. “Breathe. Focus on the sensation.” Back and forth. “Again. There you go.”

My eyes burn. “I can’t⁠—”

“You can.” They speak firmly and softly, still tapping in that regular rhythm. “Give it time.”

I don’t know how long it goes on for. It feels like a small eternity. I can’t even say when I finally manage to draw a full breath or when the horrible tightness in my chest eases, just a little. Only that it happens. Eventually.

Through it all, Ramanu crouches before me, as patient as a saint, talking to me softly as they continue tapping. Them having horns where most humans have eyes turns out to be comforting. They squeeze my shoulders. “Better?”

“A little.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it.”

“You’ve been through a lot.” They rise and sit on the bench next to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

And have whatever I say go directly back to Azazel? I think not. I clear my throat and drop my arms. “I’d like to go into the city. The walls are feeling too close in the castle.”

“That’s not an option after yesterday.” To their credit, they say it regretfully. “Azazel has ordered a lockdown until he can investigate further.” They motion to the garden. “There are plenty of open-air places within the castle. This garden is midsized, but there are others.”

For the first time, I look around the space, taking in the splashes of greenery and bright blooms. I’m no horticulturist, but even if I were, I suspect I wouldn’t be able to identify these strange plants and flowers. They’re beautiful, though. Now that I’m able to focus on something beyond breathing, I can practically taste the life in the air.

That doesn’t make this less of a cage.

“Ramanu—”

Their head jerks up, their attention focused on something far away as tension bleeds into their lean body. “I’m sorry, Eve, but I have to go.” They stand abruptly. “Azazel would like you to attend dinner with him tonight.”

Before I can dredge up a rejection of that idea, they’re rushing across the garden and through the doorway. I squint. For a moment, it looked like they’d actually disappeared, rather than just left. I want to say that’s impossible, but that’s what I thought about demons and magic and a host of other things I’ve encountered in the last week.

I slump back onto the bench. I can’t remember the last time I had a panic attack. I must have been a teenager. They were something I dealt with in junior high and high school. They started after the foster family—the one I thought I’d be with forever—adopted a baby and suddenly had no room or space for my troubled preteen self. The next home wasn’t bad, but there were four kids there and never enough attention to go around. Getting lost in the shuffle made me feel unmoored, and that sensation gave way to panic. It’s been years—decades—since the last attack. Long enough for time to dull the memory, to remove some of its teeth.

My heart is still beating too fast, my muscles as shaky as if I’d just completed an intense workout. I’m exhausted, but the thought of going back to my room is too much to bear. Instead, I make myself stand and walk through the garden.

As Ramanu said, it’s not particularly large—roughly the size of my penthouse back home—but whoever designed it was clever. The greenery is explosive. The paths are narrow and winding. I take several circuitous routes before the buzzing in my brain finally retreats enough for me to think. Mostly.

Not only am I trapped in this realm, but now I’m trapped in the castle. How long before Azazel gets high-handed and decides the only safe place for me is my bedroom? Or his bedroom?

The fizzle of lust that rises in response to the thought only serves to piss me the fuck off. Yes, I came to him last night when I didn’t know where else to go. Yes, he gave me what I thought I needed. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s manipulation. We don’t have equal power in this . . . whatever the fuck it is . . . if he can restrict my movements and cut me off even further from the outside world.

And then he summons me to dinner like an errant child.

I stop, narrowing my eyes. Fine. I’ll attend dinner. But I’m going to make him choke on my presence.

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CHAPTER 12

AZAZEL

“Rusalka is here.”

I look up from the report that I’ve been staring blankly at for . . . a period of time. I’m not sure how long. “What?”

Ramanu drops into the chair across from my desk. “She brought Belladonna for a shopping trip. They both seem content, but there was no warning for this visit, so I’m not sure if you want to look into it or not.”

I do. Ramanu is keeping an eye on the humans who were sent with the other territory leaders, and while some of them are doing better than others, Belladonna is the one I’m most concerned about. She was raised in a toxic religious household and has internalized a number of falsehoods as a result. The god her people worship is nothing like the ones mine do; he’s controlling and cruel and determined to flog his followers into submission. I hate seeing the pain it causes, the scars. Her coming from that background means she can’t be entirely trusted to advocate for herself. That’s why I spoke with Rusalka ahead of the meeting to ensure Belladonna went back to their realm, instead of with one of the others. “I’ll invite them to stay for dinner.”

Ramanu winces. “Yeah, about that.”

“Why do you have that look on your face?”

Instead of answering directly, they frown. “What happened last night after the attack? Eve seemed shaky, but mostly okay. There was nothing in her emotions to indicate she’d end up in a spiral that resulted in a particularly nasty panic attack this morning.”

I go still. “A panic attack?”

“It’s a good thing the castle sent me to her,” Ramanu says slowly. I can actually feel their attention narrowing on me. “I don’t like the idea of her suffering through that alone.”

Alone. Suffering.

Because I was too damn cowardly to face her waking up, knowing she’d regret everything that happened between us. I have no illusions about the wrongs I’ve committed against her. I deserve her anger. But I care about Eve, and every time she comes to me for sex while holding so much anger, it hurts. It’s a hurt I’ll shoulder until the end of time, but I’m only mortal. Sometimes I need to retreat.

I just didn’t expect my retreat to cause Eve more pain. “What was wrong?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Ramanu’s tone gains an edge. “What happened last night? This morning?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Wrong.” They shake their head. “You may embody the overprotective-bargainer persona, but every single one of us has those same instincts. I didn’t make the deal with Eve, but you decided to put her on that dais, which means she falls under my check-ins. So you will, in fact, answer my question, Azazel.”

I have to concentrate on holding their gaze. That, more than anything, prompts me to answer honestly. “She came to me last night and wanted sex as comfort. She was a little rattled from the violence. She slept in my bed afterward.” Each sentence is stilted.

“You bloody fool.” Ramanu shakes their head. “Damn it, Azazel. You left her alone, didn’t you? Fucked her sideways, cracked her right open emotionally, and then weren’t there to catch her when she woke up feeling vulnerable.”

I flinch. “I had work to do.” The excuse feels as flimsy as mist.

“You’re afraid.”

I hold up a hand. “Stop reading my emotions.”

Ramanu scoffs and slouches back into the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “It’s literally how I see, asshole. If you don’t want to be perceived, learn how to shield better.”

I have many skills, but shielding from Ramanu’s sight isn’t one of them. That doesn’t mean it’s comfortable to hear those truths stated so baldly. “Is she okay, Ramanu?”

“Okay is a relative term.” They shrug. “She’s angry and overwhelmed and hurt. She wasn’t struggling to draw breath when I left her, but I would have preferred to stay with her longer. Unfortunately, Rusalka has poor timing.”

It’s tempting to rush to Eve and try to talk to her, but I’m still the leader of this territory, and there are a lot of people depending on me not fucking up relations with the rest of the realm. I’m on the best terms with Rusalka, and that needs to be honored. “I’ll speak with Eve at dinner.”

Ramanu’s attention is like static against my skin. “You’re too smart to act so foolish.”

“I know.” There’s nothing else to say. Except . . . “I need Brosh found, Ramanu. I can’t fix anything until the threat is truly eliminated.”

“If you thought Brosh was the only threat, you would have eliminated him a long time ago.”

I wish that were the truth. I sigh. “Family is complicated.” And my family has been tangled up with the leadership of this territory since its founding. Most of them can see the benefit of what I’m doing, but . . . “If I go around murdering my cousins in cold blood, it will turn the entire family against me.” If that happens, then dealing with Brosh will look like playground antics.

“I don’t envy you the balancing act you’re in the midst of.” They hesitate. “The list of people I trust to handle this is smaller than I’d like.”

I know. Most of my people are happy with the changes I’ve made. The trade alliances benefit our territory where war only ripped families apart and resulted in far too many of our young adults gone far too soon. We’re longer-lived in this realm due to the magic inherent in every atom. It means those scars aren’t going away anytime in the near future.

But there are always those who want more power, who flourished in the violence of war. Some of them are louder—like Brosh and his followers—than others. It’s those that worry me. I might be willing to risk my own safety to build trust with those people, to bring them over to my way of thinking, but I would never willingly risk Eve’s safety for the same.

“There has to be someone,” I finally say. “You can oversee things, but with you leaving at any moment to chase your witch, it’s too risky to have your attention split.” Or to delay the search.

I have half a mind to command Ramanu to stay, to deal with their witch later, but that’s not an acceptable command. They haven’t made a bargain in ages, and the amount of time they’ve spent watching the witch nearly rivals mine with Eve. It’s important to them, and I’d be a shit leader if I prioritized my fear over their potential happiness.

They consider for long enough to make me restless, before finally saying, “I think Nuin and Ziven are safe options. Both have their reasons for preferring your leadership to someone like Brosh. They also have no direct connection with anyone in your family, which is a small miracle. They won’t be conflicted if they find him.”

“Talk to them and set up the search.”

“Will do.” Ramanu sighs. “Eve isn’t going to play nice at dinner. You know that, right? She’s going to put on a show for Rusalka and Belladonna.”

I hate that they’re right. I give a sigh of my own. “Well, maybe it will teach Belladonna a thing or two about advocating for herself.”

Ramanu smirks and starts for the door. “Or maybe she’ll see a kindred martyr when she looks at you.” They waltz out of the room before I can work up a response to that.

Dinner starts to go wrong the moment I sit down. It’s clear enough that Rusalka and Belladonna are getting along swimmingly. I made the right choice in sending her to them. That’s small enough comfort when Eve sashays into the room, brimming with fury in a way I’ve never seen from her before.

She looks beautiful in her anger, dressed to kill in black, each step dripping acid and aimed directly at me.

I clear my throat as she downs half her wine in a single swallow. “This is Eve. Eve, this is Rusalka and Belladonna.”

“I remember you.” Eve looks at Belladonna, some of the tightness fading from her expression. “You were part of the auction.”

“Yes.” Belladonna leans forward, curiosity alighting her expression. There’s none of the wounded woman whom I first made a deal with present, which would be more of a relief if I weren’t so acutely aware of Eve’s anger. Belladonna smiles. “It’s been an interesting experience.”

“Interesting. That’s one way to put it.” Eve downs the rest of her glass. She’s drinking too fast, as if she’s fleeing something . . . or working up the destructive courage for a fight. I can feel Rusalka’s eyes on me, but I can’t pull my attention away from my woman.

At least until Belladonna crosses her arms over her chest, a small frown appearing between her brows. “You’re not happy here.”

“Ding, ding, ding.” Eve raises her glass in a mock toast.

I grab the wine bottle before she can refill it. A lost cause as such things go; she just shrugs and grabs my glass instead. I try to catch her wrist, but she evades me and snags it.

Belladonna frowns harder. “If you’re being mistreated⁠—”

“Mind your tongue,” I growl. I’m still too focused on Eve to moderate my tone. A mistake.

“I don’t care if you made the initial deal that got her here,” Rusalka snaps. “If you use that tone again, I’ll rip out your tongue.”

Eve laughs bitterly. “Down, Daddy.” She turns to address Belladonna, and some of the venom in her tone eases. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. I’m safe.” She practically spits the word. “What reason do I have to be angry?”

All the reason in the world, and we both know it. I sigh. “Eve . . .”

“I think I’ve had enough. Good night.” She rises unsteadily to her feet, sweeping up Belladonna’s wine as she does, and wobbles out of the room.

I don’t know where she’s headed, but I can’t let her go alone. I shove to my feet. “I apologize. This isn’t how I’d hoped things would go. I have to see to Eve.”

“Wait.” The sharp command doesn’t come from Rusalka, like I would expect. It comes from Belladonna.

I force myself to pause and give her my attention even though every instinct is demanding I charge out of the room. “Yes?”

She swallows visibly. “I know you said time moves differently, but . . . my sister?”

Frustration blooms like a poison flower inside me. I have to work to lock down my expression. It’s not Belladonna’s fault that her family is awful to the point that I’m tempted to wipe them off the face of the earth. She made the deal to save her sister, and I’d be a monster to shove my anger at this woman, who’s looking at me with hope in her eyes.

I swallow down another sigh. “She was gifted with an anonymous medical scholarship to cover her treatment the moment you signed the deal.” I can’t quite keep a sneer off my face. “Your parents believe it’s a reward for her faith that your god would provide.”

“Not my god. Not anymore.” Belladonna shakes a little but nods. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” Later, I’ll pause to consider the implication in her words, to allow myself to hope that her changed belief is true. Right now, I need to deal with Eve. “Stay as long as you like. One of my people will escort you to the portal when you’re ready to go.”

I move out of the room as quickly as I can without running. Despite it having only been a minute or two, Eve has made good progress. Or at least she started that way. As I close in on her location, she weaves drunkenly to the wall and uses her hands to “walk” along it.

“You’re acting ridiculous,” I snarl. I sweep her into my arms without missing a step, ignoring her cursing protest. “You can barely walk, so I’ll carry you.”

“I hate you.” She swallows the dregs of Belladonna’s wine and drops the cup to bounce along on the floor behind us. Three glasses would be enough to knock her on her ass if they were stretched out over the course of an evening. To have downed them in less than fifteen minutes means she’s well on her way to passing out.

“I’m aware,” I snap. Even as I speak, I curse myself for letting my frustration take hold. She has every right to be angry with me. Just because I love Eve doesn’t mean I’m entitled to a single thing from her.

The effects of the alcohol continue to sweep over her as I climb the stairs toward her room. Her body goes loose, and her head lolls against my chest. “You weren’t there,” she whispers.

I almost miss a step. I don’t have to ask what she means. I already know. “I didn’t think you’d want me there.”

“Liar. Again. Even though you said you’d stop.” She wags a finger in front of my face, her words slurring dangerously. “You felt it too.” Her eyes drift closed. “I know you . . .”

I frown down at her. “Eve?”

No answer. I stop short, suddenly sure that she’s dead. A foolish, irrational thought. She drank enough to get drunk, but nowhere near enough to be truly dangerous. Even so, when I reach the landing at the top of the stairs, I hesitate before finally saying, “My room.”

The castle makes me work for it. Apparently it’s angry at me too.

By the time it allows me to reach my room, I’m too exhausted to worry about the implications of bringing her to my bed instead of her own. I could pretend it’s to ensure she stays safe through the night, but the truth is much more vulnerable.

I want her close to me. No matter the consequences.

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