Текст книги "Prince of Demons"

Автор книги: Nora Ash

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

47

Georgia

The door shut behind the prince with a soft click. He’d brought her to an opulent suite, with gold and marble on every surface, and a view of the ancient city through the large windows that would have stolen her breath during any other circumstance.

“Come, Breeder. Eat. You will need your strength tonight.” The demon led her by his grip on her arm to an overstuffed sofa, where a platter of food was laid out on the glass-and-marble coffee table in front of it. Piles of sliced meat, bowls of olives, loaves of honey-smeared bread. None of it did anything but turn her stomach.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Unfortunate that you will still need to eat,” he said, with no inflection of regret. “Sit.”

She considered refusing. Her eyes slid from the platter of food to the prince, who was simply watching her—waiting for the rebellion.

Georgia sat. There was no point in fighting, not about this. Possibly not about anything at all anymore.

She didn’t eat. Not until the prince sat down next to her, picked up a piece of bread between two fingers, and pushed it to her lips. “Open.”

She hesitated for a second, then obeyed. The food tasted like ash, and Aragalan’s satisfied expression, when his fingers brushed her lips and she began mechanically chewing, raised goosebumps of revulsion along her skin. And still, she ate.

Memories of the first time Kesh fed her tried to surface. She didn’t let them.

Mouthful after mouthful slid down her throat, tasteless and invasive.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Aragalan purred, his black eyes turning hooded as they greedily swept over her face and lingered on her mouth. He forced a green olive between her lips and rumbled something akin to a purr when she accepted it. “Submissive. My father tells me my mother took a few weeks before she surrendered fully, but that won’t be a problem with you, will it? Your weakness seems fused into your blood from birth, hmm?”

Georgia glared at him as he pressed another olive—black this time—to her mouth, but there was little fire left in her gaze. “That’s truly what you desire? A hollow shell by your side? Your mother birthed you, and yet you are content to see her like she’s nothing more than a meat puppet for your father to use? That’s all you want out of your wife? A mindless husk?”

“Wife.” The word came out on a mocking rumble. Aragalan swiped his thumb over her lips, then dropped his hand to her thigh, squeezing high. “A truly human concept. You will be my mate, little Breeder. Your sole purpose will be to spread your legs, to receive me, and to birth my heirs.”

He stroked his hand all the way down her leg, then back up under her skirt. His skin was scalding against hers, revulsion crawling up her thigh as he reached her panties and stroked his fingertips against the fabric. “Did you know getting fucked by a demon lord will kill a woman unless she’s a Pure Breeder? Or a demoness, of course. But they’re… not nearly as soft and pliant as human pussy.”

“I’d heard.” She managed to keep her voice steady and her gaze straight ahead, even as his fingers slipped underneath her panties and stroked through her cleft. Only when he found her clit and pressed in did he manage to wrest a shudder from her body.

She clenched her jaw when he began toying with the metal-encircled organ and tried to will her mind away from the screaming of unwilling nerves. Begging now, crying now, would only make it easier for him to snuff her spirit when the true horrors began.

“You will be happy to know, it doesn’t mean I’m inexperienced. My mother has trained me well. I won’t even need to activate your ring.” He plucked at the metal circle, making it scrape cruelly against her clit. “Not after the claiming ceremony. You will be fully conscious as I wring orgasm after orgasm from your quivering flesh until that soft little mind of yours simply… gives. Within a week, you’ll be on my lap, open and receptive to my every demand. Mine, and mine alone.”

Aragalan gave a soft chuckle before pressing his thumb firmly to the tip of her clit, ignoring her involuntary jump. “Well… until our sons are old enough to need training, of course. Then you will service them, too, until they win their own mates, like my mother did for me and my brothers. Isn’t that a beautiful thought, hmm? The circle of life and servitude you Breeders were born for, fulfilled to its fullest potential. Now, why don’t you close your eyes and relax, my pretty? Let’s get you nice and warm for your auction. The more times you come now, the less it’ll hurt when I claim you at your auction tonight.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound far too soft for the violence it left behind. Georgia stayed where she was, sprawled across the couch like a discarded doll, breath shallow, muscles trembling from exhaustion and shame. Her skin was slick with sweat, the ghost of his hands still burning on her thighs, her throat, the curves of her breasts. The aching nub of her trapped clit. She couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop remembering.

The room was silent now. Rich with gold leaf and velvet and polished stone, as if opulence could disguise what it was: a cage.

She dragged in a breath that tasted of salt and fear. The prince’s parting words echoed—"you’ll be fetched soon"—and she hated how her heart stuttered at the sound of imagined footsteps. Next came the auction. And then…

Georgia closed her eyes against the truth, but it didn’t stop the knowledge of what came after the auction.

A shimmer broke the stillness—soft at first, like heat haze rising from scorched earth. Georgia froze, breath caught in her throat, muscles seized in terror. The servants. She wasn’t ready. She’d never be ready.

But it wasn’t the prince’s servants come to fetch her for auction.

The glow sharpened, gold bleeding into every shadow, until the room seemed to hum with it. And then—Georgia’s heart stuttered, confusion overtaking fear—Suzanne stood before her.

For a moment, Georgia could only stare. The goddess looked exactly as she had in Maine: barefoot, slight, an innocent child in face and stature.

The goddess smiled faintly, as if they were old friends sharing some harmless secret.

“Suzanne.” The name rasped out of her worn throat.

“Well,” the goddess said lightly, head tilting, “this is disappointing.”

Georgia forced herself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. She clutched the edge of the couch, naked, trembling, glare sharp beneath the weight of everything that had been done to her. “Disappointing?” she rasped. “Do you know what they’ll do to me? What they’re planning? Please, just help me get out.”

Suzanne regarded her like one might a smudged painting—once promising, now ruined. “I thought you’d help me,” she said, almost gently. “I thought you’d be like Selma. Powerful. Capable of bending demonic darkness toward the light. But Kesh didn’t claim you, so… I guess I was wrong. I’m afraid you’re of no use to my plans. Rescuing you now would just draw too much attention to what I’m doing. The demons can’t know, not until I’m ready. I’m sure you understand.”

Georgia’s breath shuddered. “Please. Please don’t let them do this to me. You’re a goddess. You could⁠—”

“I could,” Suzanne agreed, voice light as air. “But why would I? Saving you risks everything I’ve built. And you’ve already failed me.” She tilted her head, as if remembering something important. “The Stone of Power I gave you. I need it back, so I can give it to my next hopeful.”

“I—I don’t have it.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, stilted and frail as the callousness of the divine being in front of her sank deep. “I didn’t—it’s back in America.”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. “You don’t have it? You were gifted one of the most powerful artifacts on Earth, and you simply… didn’t think to hold on to it? Right. I guess the pieces of my mistake are certainly forming a picture, aren’t they? Well. I'd best be off. Stones to recover, evil power structures to destabilize. Good luck at your auction, Georgia.”

The soft light folded in on itself and she was gone.

Georgia was alone.

A tremor worked its way up her spine as she stared at the place the goddess had stood.

When the door to the opulent suite opened some ten minutes later, and the servants arrived to lead her to her auction, she followed them without a word.

48

Georgia

When the King arrived in front of the large, opulent doors shielding the auction hall from view, the servants had already attached a gold chain to lead her by.

Gold encircled her wrists in ornate shackles and her neck in a collar inlaid with shimmering rubies, but the leash was attached where they expected her true submission.

“You look like a picture-perfect mate already. My son is a lucky man.” The King let his gaze sweep over her, lingering on her bare breasts and sex before he plucked the chain from his servant and gave it a light tug. The motion traveled through the leash to the ring fixed between her legs, pulling her clit taut. Sharp, deep sensation seared through her pelvis, low and brutal. Georgia swallowed a hiss, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Come along then, Breeder.” The doors ahead of them began to open. The hall beyond was bright with firelight, a circular room with an arena in the center and seats rising around its perimeter, like an amphitheater of old. The King tugged on her leash again, harder this time.

Georgia didn’t manage to stem a small cry this time. She stumbled after him, powerless against the pull of the ring. As she would be for the rest of her life.

The chain pulled again. Georgia winced and followed, bare feet skimming polished stone, the clink of her shackles swallowed by the rising sound ahead.

When they crossed the threshold, the noise hit her like heat.

A roar.

Dozens of demon lords filled the coliseum stands, their voices thick with hunger and triumph. Not reverence. Conquest.

The King raised the chain slightly as he guided her forward, making sure she stayed a step behind him like a prized beast on display. Every movement of the leash sang along the nerve in her clit, sending sharp reminders of where she was, what she was.

They crossed the center of the arena floor. The lords above leaned forward in their seats, hungry-eyed, leering.

She didn’t meet any of their gazes. Her chin stayed up, but her insides curled tight.

On the far side, steps of white marble curved upward. The King took them without pause, tugging her behind, until they reached a raised platform with gilded railings and a single, low pedestal.

He tugged on the chain, guiding her up on the pedestal with the deep, sharp humiliation of the ring forcing her to flinch and adjust until she stood like he wanted her—arms behind her back, chest thrust forward, legs apart. Naked and visible to every eye in the coliseum.

The King waited for silence to fall over the gathered demons, as every eye fell on her body, displayed like meat on the platform. Then he stepped forward, his voice carried, rich and clear and perfectly amplified without need of a microphone.

“Brethren. Loyal subjects. Warriors of our future.” He paused, letting the crowd’s energy still before continuing. “Today, we mark a turning point. The Americans—our wayward kin, drunk on chaos and weakness—believed they could keep the rarest prize our kind knows to themselves.”

A soft hum rolled through the room. Georgia kept her gaze fixed on the far wall.

“They thought her their salvation. Their rebellion’s seed—a vessel to sire a new generation of traitors. But in the end…” He reached behind him and gave the chain a casual tug, making Georgia raise up on her toes with a whimper. The crowd laughed. “In the end, they saw reason. They understood they could not stand against us. That to do so, would be to perish.”

He let the leash fall slack again.

“This Breeder is a symbol of their weakness. Their defeat. With the surrender of a Pure mate, I announce the end of the war with our traitorous cousins in the West. There is once again only one true court, and I will remember each of you here today. You who remained steadfast. You who did not waver.”

He turned slightly, gesturing toward Georgia with an open palm. “And now, as promised—your reward.

“You all know the rules,” the King said, letting his gaze sweep the crowd. “We begin with a display of wealth. A show of what each of you believes she’s worth to your bloodline—what monetary value you place on the fruit of her womb.”

A ripple of sound—low, eager—passed through the arena.

“Once the first bid has been placed, it may be challenged, either by currency or by a show of strength.” He turned then, pausing to let his gaze wander up Georgia’s trembling form. “A challenger may choose to fight the current bid holder instead of increasing the monetary value. Blood, spilled for the right to breed her. A worthy cost.”

Georgia’s stomach twisted. The weight of the gathered demons’ attention pressed down on her like a second collar.

“Once a victor is named, his reward must be claimed before us all. Twist her ring to claim her cunt, seed her womb in the arena to cement your victory, and none shall be able to challenge your right as her mate for the rest of eternity.”

A tremble worked its way through Georgia’s body. Her throat felt too tight to swallow. Her first rape would take place in front of all of them. The subsequent ones would last for the rest of her existence.

The King raised his arm. “Begin!”

A voice rang out from the stands. “One million euros.”

Another answered, fast and sharp. “One-point-two.”

The crowd stirred, hungry for the game. The King said nothing, only stood beside her like a curator beside his prize.

Georgia didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her clit still ached between her legs from the last tug, nerves tight and raw. She swallowed the lump in her throat, the ruby-encrusted collar around her neck constricting the movement. Her wrists throbbed in their gold shackles. She kept her gaze on the floor ahead, on a crack in the marble no one else would notice.

“Three-point-four,” someone called, raising another rumble amongst the lords.

Then a third voice—smooth, certain—cut through them. “I challenge.”

Silence fell.

From the front row, Prince Aragalan rose. He adjusted his leather bracers and stepped down toward the arena floor, his eyes never leaving Georgia.

He smirked at her as he passed her platform. No leering. No filth. Just confidence. Like he already knew what her body would feel like submitting under his.

The lump in Georgia’s throat became too big to swallow past the collar. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, willing them away. It didn’t help.

The other demon lord—the one who’d bid three-point-four million for her—stepped into the arena after the Prince.

The two faced each other, nodded once, then looked to the King, waiting for the signal.

The King raised his hand, then dropped it sharply.

The arena erupted.

The two demons surged toward each other, bare fists crackling with shadow. Magic spilled from their skin like smoke—black and thick, twisting around their limbs as they collided. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed off the marble walls. Georgia flinched.

A fist connected with Aragalan’s side, sending him skidding across the blood-slick floor. He snarled, rising to his feet, mouth already smeared with red. The magic around him coiled tighter, denser now, wrapping him like a second skin.

The other demon advanced, but too slow. Aragalan moved like a blade. He ducked the next blow, caught the other’s arm, and drove his elbow up into the joint with a sickening crack. The man screamed. Then Aragalan shoved him back with a blast of shadow, slamming him into the ground so hard the stone beneath cracked.

The crowd cheered.

Blood streaked the arena floor now. The other demon lay groaning, one arm bent wrong, blood leaking from his mouth.

Aragalan turned toward the stands, chest heaving, hands still dripping.

“Challenge me,” he said, voice low and thick with triumph. “And I will use your blood to lubricate my cock when I claim the Breeder as mine. There is no besting me. There is no outbidding me. There is only defeat.”

Silence stretched, heavy and taut. No one moved.

Then—“Four million,” someone called from the upper tier.

The crowd stirred again. All eyes turned to Aragalan.

His lip curled. “Then come and take your chance,” he snarled, already pacing toward the center, blood still slick on his hands.

The challenger rose, stepping down the marble stairs with deliberate calm. His gaze locked with Aragalan’s, power rising in dark tendrils from his skin.

But he never reached the arena floor.

With a sound like the sky tearing open, the ceiling above them shattered. Stone and dust exploded inward, the air ripped apart by a force too sudden to prepare for. A heavy thunk followed, and a crack split stone floor, racing from the center of the arena in two directions, setting the pedestal wobbling.

Georgia cried out, stumbling to keep her balance. The King’s hold on her chain yanked her back with a brutal tug as he raised a wall of dark magic around the platform, shielding them from the rain of debris.

Choking on an agonized sob, she squinted through the smoke and dust to the arena below.

Something moved in the haze—something black and burning and terrible, and…

No. No, it couldn’t possibly be⁠—

Fear gave way to mind-numbing shock as the smoke cleared and the large outline of a man turned crisp and clear and undeniable.

Kesh.

He crouched amid the rubble where he’d dropped through the ceiling, his body sheathed in pulsing shadow, power seething off him in waves. Eyes burning with a fury too vast for words.

Every demon in the room went still, but he paid them no mind.

Straightening slowly, his gaze found Georgia’s. His lip curled in a snarl at the sight of her shackles. The humiliating chain. The deep sound rumbled through the broken coliseum, rich and deep and preternatural.

“You have one second to release what’s mine, King of Nothing. One. Before I pull this palace down on your skull and erase your city from existence.”

49

Kesh

The European king didn’t flinch.

He stood tall on the marble platform, one hand still loosely gripping the gold chain dangling from between Georgia’s legs. Kesh didn’t let his eyes follow to where it was tethered. Rage pounded in his temples and pressed at his skin, his bones, his teeth at the sight of her naked and trembling.

“What a dramatic entrance,” the King said, voice smooth as glass. His eyes gleamed with nothing but dark amusement as he took in Kesh’s dust-covered figure, standing amidst pieces of the broken ceiling. “But alas, need I remind you, you stand before me defeated, youngling? As you well know, the Breeder was surrendered in exchange for my mercy. Don’t come here now, cloaked in borrowed fury, and pretend that wasn’t the deal you struck.”

Kesh narrowed his eyes at the lying king, so haughty on his platform, clearly entirely confident in his belief that Kesh posed no threat. That he didn’t possess the strength to take back what had been stolen. His guards and the lords in the room shifted, restless with the intrusion, but none of them moved. None of them interrupted. They thought the king’s lack of concern signaled they were safe.

They were mistaken.

Kesh didn’t look at the king. He looked past him to the tiers of stone seating above. The demon lords who now sat silent, watching. Waiting. Weighing power.

His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. Sharp enough to cut flesh.

“He’s lying.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber.

“Those of you who’ve met us on the battlefield—those of you who’ve bled beneath our blades—you know the truth. We are not losing.” His gaze swept the crowd. “We are winning.”

He took a step forward, smoke curling off his shoulders. “I would never surrender my female. This Breeder is mine. Aragalan stole her from my court, just as his brother tried to steal the last Pure. This—” He motioned toward the platform, toward the chain, the shackles, Georgia’s trembling frame. “This is not a show of strength. It’s a farce.”

Silence.

“You think he intended to let any of you win her? That this auction is anything beyond theater?” He scanned the rows of watching lords. “Stay out of my way, and you will keep your territory. Your title. Your bloodline.”

His magic pulsed, slow and dark.

“Stand against me—and you’ll die with the false king and his spawn.”

Kesh turned back to the platform, his eyes flicking to Georgia before he could stop himself.

Naked. Shackled. Collar gleaming at her throat. Ankles spread just so. And between her legs, the gold chain—still held in the King’s lazy grip—running taut to the ring that encircled her clit.

Everything inside him locked. Every instinct, every tether, every inch of restraint.

Her eyes found his. Blue, wide, wet with tears she hadn’t let fall.

Her lips moved, and though no sound passed them, her words still reached him.

You came.

The disbelief in her wet eyes sank deeper than his own fury. The fragile hope. The grief. She didn’t think he could win. Not against all of them.

She didn’t believe he would survive this. That he could save her.

His gaze shifted—to the male still holding her leash.

The king looked smug, prepared to speak again, to gloat again.

Kesh didn’t let him.

“You’re out of time.”

The magic erupted from him like a detonation—black and vicious and absolute—with no warning and no chance for the King to react.

One moment the ancient ruler stood haughty and sovereign, hand still wrapped around Georgia’s leash. And the next⁠—

A blast of shadow slammed into him, ripping through flesh, through bone, through centuries of entitlement and rot.

Blood and ash sprayed the platform, coating Georgia’s bare skin, her shackles, the marble beneath her feet. A hunk of something—part of a rib, maybe—hit the golden railing and skidded away.

There was a sound, wet and final.

The king was gone.

The leash clattered to the ground, chain swinging limp, one of the king’s fingers still attached by scorched flesh welded to the metal.

For one breathless second, there was only silence—the kind that follows a cataclysm. Thick. Stunned. Disbelieving.

Then chaos cracked the stillness open.

A roar split the air, and Prince Aragalan launched from the stands with a burst of power, his black magic already coiling in thick, oily ropes around his arms.

He struck hard and fast, driven by fury and panic, the certainty of bloodline collapse driving him forward.

Kesh met him head-on.

A second impact lit the arena, shadow clashing against shadow, sparks and smoke and the stink of raw magic flooding the space.

Guards surged from the outer ring, blades drawn. Some of the gathered lords rose too—most to fight, some to flee—but not all chose sides. Not yet.

Those who did hurled themselves from the stands like animals.

The arena descended into slaughter.

Kesh moved like fury made flesh, power pouring from him in waves that cracked marble and split stone. Every blow he landed left ruin behind—demons thrown, guards crushed, the scent of seared flesh thick in the air.

He tore through them.

Aragalan came at him again and again, relentless, and Kesh met him each time with the deep-seated knowledge that if he lost, Georgia would face eternity as this monster’s breeding slave. He could not fail her.

Not again.

He propelled his body forward and finally managed to catch Aragalan by the throat. Before the European prince could get free, Kesh slammed him into the ground hard enough to crater the arena floor. Blood trailed from his temple.

But there were too many.

Before Kesh could finish the job, magic exploded against his side. A sword found his ribs. Another slammed into his back. He staggered but didn’t fall.

Until he did.

A blast hit him square in the chest, ripping through shadow and armor and skin. He crumpled to one knee, blood slicking the ground beneath him.

Another strike. Then another.

The last burst of magic threw him backward, slamming his body into the shattered remains of the central platform. Columns collapsed. The ceiling cracked.

Stone rained from above as the palace began to break apart.

Dust settled around him. The stone beneath his back burned hot with dark magic, and his every breath was a blade in his chest.

Kesh pushed up on shaking arms. He had to move. Had to stand. He couldn’t fail her, he couldn’t⁠—

Before he could lift more than his shoulders, a black whip of magic slammed into his spine, forcing him flat. He snarled and tried again, but another lash struck, then another. Power lashed from every direction, from the surviving lords who’d chosen the Europeans’ side.

Aragalan limped into view, blood streaking his face, one arm held stiff, but his eyes burned with fury. Behind him, two more lords, hands raised, magic coiled and ready, closed in. Together, they bound Kesh down. Power wrapped around his limbs, his chest, pressing harder the more he fought it.

He snarled and strained against it until his muscles screamed and his veins burned. The marble cracked beneath his body with the rumble of his magic, fighting to break free, but the binds held. There were too many.

He’d lost.

Through the haze of blood and dust, his gaze found Georgia again. His heart ached more than his body ever could at her wide, sorrowful eyes, fixed on his. She hadn’t looked away during the entirety of the battle. Nor his defeat.

In her blue gaze, he saw everything he’d lost when he let fear and weakness reject the woman who’d shown him what it was to know love. If he’d claimed her, like every instinct in him had screamed to do, like even she’d known he was meant to do, none of this would have happened.

Instead, he would now die with the knowledge that his failure to protect the one who should have been his mate meant an eternity of debasement for her.

The magic pinning him tightened. A crack in his ribcage sent blinding pain through his bones, but it was nothing—nothing—in comparison to the rending of his heart as the final vestiges of strength bled from his broken body.

In the end, he didn’t get to tell her how bitterly he regretted his cowardice.

His vision blurred, and as she faded into the darkness, all he managed was to mouth the last, inadequate words that mattered.

I’m sorry.

The magic constricted. Kesh’s spine arched with the force of it, nerves blazing in white-hot agony. He heard Aragalan’s snarl—something guttural and victorious—and then the pressure grew sharp, focused. The unmistakable crack of vertebrae beginning to split.

This was it.

His body failed, muscles twitching against the stone, breath a thin whistle in his throat.

Somewhere beyond the noise in his skull, he heard it. Her voice. Desperate. Shattered.

“No!”

And then came the light.

Blinding, pure. It exploded through the darkness behind his lids like a sun bursting open, searing into what little consciousness he had left.

And then…

Nothing.