He looked into her gold cat eyes, trying to decide if he could trust her enough to share even the smallest shred of the truth.
That would be a big fat no.
“They need each other,” he answered instead.
“Cryptic much?”
“Look, I don’t know how much you know about our history…”
“Whose history?” she interrupted hotly to say. “The Vimora’s? I know enough to know you miscreant daemons hunted down and killed every single faine you could get your hands on. And now your land is an absolute, miserable shit hole.”
“Some part-faine survived,” he tried to explain. “And, I wouldn’t call it a…”
“Oh, it’s a shit hole,” Mandy retorted with an emphatic nod. “And, your little ‘predicament’ is self-inflicted, is it not?” When Merus didn’t answer, she continued with just a note of bitterness edging her voice, “Why should my friend even consider helping your daemon out?”
Merus was silent for a long while.
“Has she ever mentioned a prophecy?” he finally asked.
“Prophecy?” Merus watched as she ran a red-tipped finger down the sweat of her mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said at last with a slight shrug.
Merus tongued his cheek.
Pretty little liar.
Before he could pry any information from her, Mandy twisted in her chair. Looking down, Merus eyed the hand she had placed on his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her magic in her touch.
“Look, just-Merus-man,” she said. Though her choice of words may have been jokey, her tone was dead serious. “Prophecy or no, Liv has no experience dealing with a male like that. Or any male for that matter. If that daemon messes with her feelings… or hurts her in anyway… I will kill him.”
He couldn’t help himself.
He grinned.
“There’s no need for empty threats, female,” he taunted, her spunkiness flat-out turning him on.
“God, I hate you.” She tried to pull away.
Before she could bolt, Merus spun her around and dragged her, stool and all, between his open legs.
“You can say you hate me all you want,” he crooned when he had her pinned right where he wanted, her soft, tanned body radiating sunshine and sex. Remembering their time in Vegas, he traced a lazy finger across the swells of her breasts, his eyes locked to the tiny red triangles that cupped the globes of her chest. “But your sweet little nipples are certainly eager to please.”
Goosebumps erupted across her skin, her mouth parting slightly as her eyelids slid closed.
Drawing back, he whispered a command.
“Look at me.”
As if in a daze, Mandy opened her eyes.
He bit back a groan at the sight of her pupils dilated wide with the need to please him.
“This, Mandy…” Trailing his fingertips slowly along her jawline, down her neck, he continued his tortuous whispers. His eyes followed his fingers as they explored the blushing evidence of her arousal. “This is mesmerizing.”
She moaned.
Leaning forward, he breathed hot against her cheek, “It makes me eager to see what other secrets your body will yield to me.”
She started to pant.
He pulled away.
Picking up a pen from the bar, Merus took back the paper he had given her earlier. He flipped it over and scribbled something on the back. He tossed it down, all business.
“Thursday night at midnight Vegas time, you will meet me at that address on the Evential ‘el.”
Spell broken, Mandy leaned away. Her voice rose an octave in flustered irritation. “I’m not meeting you anywhere.”
The hell she wasn’t.
Reaching out, Merus fisted her hair behind her ear and tugged her head back, not quite hard enough to elicit pain, but not all that gently either. He watched with lustful satisfaction as the witch arched into the ache, her blatant physical response affecting him more than he could ever remember.
“You will yield to me, witch,” he said, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper. “And you will like it.”
Pushing roughly away, Merus left her, stunned and wanting, sitting on her barstool.
CHAPTER NINE
In the faint light of his bedroom, Toran’s mind struggled to comprehend the wondrous transformation happening right before his eyes, the faine blossoming to life beneath his touch.
I did this?
Helpless to resist, Toran reached out again to run a fascinated fingertip across her delicate collarbone. At his soft touch, the faine’s lips parted, a puff of breath escaping her lips.
At the sound, he groaned, totally unrepentant, all cares falling away.
Arousal burned hard and low in his gut.
Just as his hungry hand landed heavy at her hip, a rap at the door jolted him out of his reverie.
Toran leapt to his feet. Drawing his blade, he stormed across the room.
He threw the door open to find his uncle, his form still hazy from having just pulsed into the castle.
“What the fuck, Arman?”
“Please forgive me for the intrusion, son,” the old daemon answered, his once-handsome features melting into a familiar, wrinkly smile. Though it was commonly thought daemons were immortal, ageless creatures, this was simply not the case. Unless they met a violent end, they could live for aeons, aging excruciatingly slowly until they reached a sort of tipping point.
At well over a thousand years old, Toran’s closest living relative––his father’s own brother––had long ago reached that point in his near-immortal life where his looks had begun racing towards decrepitude.
“What are you doing here?”
“I just could not seem to help myself.” Ignoring Toran's agitation, and his blade, Arman craned his neck. He smiled with satisfaction when he succeeded at getting a good look into the bedroom.
“So, this is your faine,” he said.
Toran did not like the way the old man was eying his prize. He shut the door in his uncle’s face. With quick strides, he crossed the room and tossed his knife onto the nightstand. Reaching down, he yanked the sheet up the faine’s body all the way to her chin.
Satisfied she was concealed away from prying eyes, he retraced his steps and joined Arman outside the room. Bidding his venna, Toran stoked the fire in the room behind him. When his uncle had arrived, a decided chill had descended upon the entire castle.
He took care to block the doorway with his body.
His uncle’s brows rose in question but dropped almost immediately. The old man stepped away with an indifferent shrug.
“What brings you here outside my private bedchamber?” Toran asked, not bothering to hide his anger. Law held that no daemon was permitted to pulse into the royal living rooms.
Yet here his uncle stood.
Such impertinence.
“What do you want, Arman?”
“I wanted to share in this kingdom’s good fortune.”
At his uncle’s words, Toran found himself unable to completely damn the old daemon for his lawless temerity. It was easy to chalk his presence off to wanting to catch a glimpse of the faine, a creature lost to their plane for centuries.
He would have wanted the same.
“I see she still sleeps. Have you done your duty?”
Toran knew what his uncle was asking.
“I have,” he answered.
He had touched her.
“This is good news. She will awaken soon. I am sure of it, and all will at last be well.” Arman smiled. “With this faine, your… impotence… can finally be cured.”
Toran’s venna drummed against the walls.
“Guard your tongue, uncle.” Stepping into the outer room, Toran slammed the door shut behind him. In her seemingly unconscious state, Toran wasn’t sure how cognizant the faine was of her surroundings. He certainly didn’t want her to hear any part of this conversation.
“Of course, son, apologies again,” Arman replied ple
asantly. “I’ll leave you to get back to business. But first,” he added, “I thought it important that I come and tell you personally that all has been arranged.”
“What has been arranged, Arman?” Toran fought to give the old man his full attention. As much as he was loath––and embarrassed––to admit it, he was near desperate to get back to his faine.
“Your marriage, of course,” Arman answered.
“What the hell?”
Was that panic in his voice?
Arman nodded with energetic enthusiasm. “Yes, when I heard the faine had been found, I took the liberty of putting things in motion.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that his uncle would have stepped in to help; over the centuries, Arman had always been eager to forward Toran’s best interests. Besides, Toran himself hadn’t spoken to his fiancée, or her father, in years.
His uncle’s thoughtful intervention was good news.
Wasn’t it?
“And,” Arman added, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that Sarai is most eager to marry. In fact, she has told me she will be primed to accept you at the first of the year, just over four short months away.”
Shit. So soon?
A sweat broke across his brow. Unable to mask his agitation, Toran began to pace the room. He could feel Arman’s curious eyes upon him.
“The timing is nearly perfect, is it not?”
Something in his uncle’s voice stopped him cold.
Shrugging it off, Toran crossed to the furthest part of the room. From behind his bedroom’s door, he could feel the soothing pull of the faine.
He breathed out a curse.
“Of course,” the old daemon continued with affable ease, “there are certain conditions that must be met to make the marriage arrangement… agreeable… to both sides.”
“What does the old bastard want?” Toran demanded, fully expecting that Sarai’s father would demand a hefty price for his daughter. Despite their long-standing engagement, it was expected that Toran would expend either wealth or favors to “win” his female from her father’s home.
Toran had a pretty good idea which option Narcyz would choose.
“Narcyz asks for nothing,” Arman answered, “other than the liberty of living out his remaining years in peace and safety at his estate in Baltia.”
Toran leaned forward and cocked an ear.
“Come again?” he asked.
“As I said, Narcyz asks for nothing of consequence.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Toran exclaimed. Over the past three centuries, an army of rebels had waged a brutal war to weaken Narcyz’s base of power in Baltia. Lead by Kellen the 8th, one of Narcyz’s many bastard sons, the rebels had slowly taken a swath of territory, territory that rightfully belonged to the crown.
His crown.
The old bastard would be a fool not to demand that Toran step in to quell the rebellion once and for all––no matter the consequences.
“Narcyz is eager to give up his role on the council, as am I,” Arman answered with a deferential tilt of his head. “As you know, these years since your parents’ deaths have not been easy.”
At that understatement of the centuries, Toran huffed out a bitter laugh.
“It was never supposed to be this way,” Arman murmured in response. “Especially for you.”
At his uncle’s soft words, Toran’s enmity burned. The Great Cleansing had been fervently pursued with the pure intentions of making the Vimora stronger, of protecting their blood against the faine’s wicked pull. Case in point, Toran somehow found himself back at his bedroom door. In angry defiance, he leaned against it.
“It is what it is,” he spat. Realizing how close he’d come earlier to succumbing to her wiles, he added, “Fuck the faine.”
His uncle gave an approving nod.
“What about the rebels?” Toran called out, itching for a fight. “Why isn’t he demanding that I take them out?”
“Narcyz cares deeply for Sarai. Thus…” Arman had to raise his voice over the sound of Toran’s laughter. “Thus,” he continued, “he can’t risk you killing Kellen and his men, especially this close to you taking his daughter in your marriage bed.” He glanced Toran’s way. “I’m afraid such carnage would prove too much for you to take at once, faine or no.”
Toran stopped laughing.
“But, as it is,” his uncle said, “we have no cause to worry about such things.” Arman crossed the distance between them to place a mottled hand on Toran’s shoulder. “Instead, you should take this gift that you have been given,” he said, his lips twisting into a gentle smile. “Vile creature though she be, your faine is the key to everything. You must put aside your revulsion––and your pride––and use her the way she was meant to be used. If you do, then soon, you’ll be everything you’ve ever longed to be… husband, father… and king.”
CHAPTER TEN
The crash of a door slamming home finally shook Liv out of her stupor. Disoriented and dizzy, she felt as if she had just survived a pulse across a distant plane.
But that was impossible.
She couldn’t pulse.
Could she?
Eyes screwed shut, she shifted slightly only to cry out as a surprising surplus of energy surged across her skin, her body tantalizingly close to being fully alive.
How was it that such energy flowed through her veins?
How was it she could… feel?
What has happened?
Hazy memories washed over her in waves. The sensation of a male’s hungry hands upon her body. Whispered touches against her skin. Her pores coaxed open to breathe in a bouquet of senses that was equal parts wonderment and shame.
The daemon.
Liv opened her eyes.
She lay in a huge canopied bed that was centered in a spacious room.
Though she felt sure he had just been with her, she found herself alone in the dusky, blue-gray dawn.
Rising slowly from the bed, she blinked as she took in her surroundings. The orange glow from the fireplace cast flickering shadows, revealing large pieces of furniture, dark wood tones, and regal fabrics. The decor was unmistaken in its masculinity.
Despite the fire, Liv shivered.
She felt… cold.
When she chanced to glance down at her body, she saw why. “Ah, the octagon,” she groaned as she cast her eyes about the room, searching for something more to wear. On the wall opposite the bed, she spied a large armoire. Inside, she found a row of button-down shirts and a stack of neatly folded tees. Liv ripped one of the black tees off the top and pulled it over her head, jamming her arms through the sleeves.
The shirt’s hem fell to just above her knees, nearly swallowing her whole.
Feeling more secure now that her body was a bit more covered, Liv tried to calm her racing heart.
“Okay, okay, okay,” she chanted to herself as she sidled over to a partially opened door.
She peeked in.
Bathroom.
There was only one other door in the room. She crept across the carpet to press an ear against the wood.
Through it, Liv could feel energy emanating from two males, two distinct sets of emotions. One was a cloying concoction of slyness, haughty disdain, and barely-hidden glee. The other, a potent blend of anger and disgust highlighted by the barest hint of despair.
They were locked in a terse conversation.
Something about duty? Impotence? Marriage?
She pressed her fingertips against the door and strained to hear more.
A seething blast of hate knocked her away.
Hatred for… me?
Blinking past her hurt and her fear, Liv stood frozen in place, her heart thundering in her chest. If she were brave like Mandy, she’d go back and listen for more. Her friend had always told her that, to protect herself, knowing the lay of the land was key.
She wasn’t brave.
Instead, she finally managed to stagger towards the fireplace. Now even colder t
han before, Liv picked up the heavy poker with shaking hands and bent to stoke the coals.
Just as she leaned forward, the air filled with a hissing static. Someone or something solidified in the room right behind her. A scream of terror left her lips as she whirled around and swung the iron as hard as she could.
She connected squarely with bone.
A daemon roared.
*****
“What the fuck?”
As pain seared across his scalp, Toran’s venna thrashed and whipped about the room in a frenzy. He fell backwards into a chair, the telltale warmth of blood oozing through his hair.
“Oh my gods. Oh my gods.” The sound of a female’s soft and panicked voice thrummed against his eardrums.
He sensed more than saw her dart away. She returned seconds later with a towel from the bathroom. With one arm cradling his head, she pressed the cloth to his wound, her body tucked inside his open legs.
He stared right into her heaving breasts. Through his electric blue haze Toran somehow managed to process that she was wearing one of his V-neck tee shirts. Ten sizes too large, the neckline slid down her shoulder, doing nothing to hide her cleavage.
“I’m so sorry.” The faine’s body trembled as she pressed her hand tighter against his head. “You frightened me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Despite the electric charge in the room, a strange sense of calm blanketed his agitation, as though his unease were trapped beneath her fingertips.
It was as if she welcomed the sting of his venna.
He reached up and knocked her hand away.
“Step away from me, faine.” Taking the towel from her, Toran held it to his head and angled out of the chair and away.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. Ignoring his command, she stepped towards him, her palms open in supplication. “Are you okay?”
He spun away from her touch.
“It’s just a cut.” Gods, his throat felt like gravel. “It’s already healing.” As if to prove the point, Toran tossed the bloody towel into the corner.
As an awkward silence passed between them, Toran could see questions swirling in her eyes. When the faine finally spoke, he resisted the urge to close his eyes and lean in to her melodic voice.
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