by Bec McMaster
The demon merely looked at her, shockingly devoid of any of those human tics that made a person what they were.
He didn't have to say a thing. He owned her. Every damned inch. Morgana wiped all of the expressions off her face—especially her distaste—then dragged him out onto the balcony, where she lit her cheroot from the Döbereiner's lamp.
"What is so important you had to drag me out of there? Tremayne's about to put forth our candidacy for the seat of Prime." She cast a glance over the dozen Order sorcerers inside the dining room. Drake might think he ruled the Order, but there were always those dissatisfied with the restraining yoke of power and how tightly it rubbed. Those who didn't like all of the rules or restrictions, or those who simply hungered for more power. "And some of them might realize what you are."
Not every sorcerer worth his salt knew what a demon felt like, but just enough to make her wary.
"If they do, then I'll take care of it," he replied simply. Human speech patterns were starting to come more easily to it. Three weeks ago a mere sibilant hiss from its throat had been enough to make ice trickle down her spine; a constant reminder of the debt she owed. Without it, she would no longer have her legs, but with it...
Damned to hell.
"If you kill them all," she pointed out dryly, "then we don't have anyone to vouch for us when we take over the Ascension. Do you know how long it's taken Tremayne and me to cultivate them?"
"Who said anything about killing?" it asked. "Kill your tools and you can never use them again."
Morgana swallowed a mouthful of bitter saliva at the thought. It was something she might have said, but hearing it from a demon's mouth....
He has you on a string, after all. Just how long would it be until she was no longer useful?
"So what's the problem?" she asked. There was nothing she could do about its hold over her. At the moment.
"Your son is listening to me, but last night I felt another presence in there with him."
Morgana nearly dropped her cheroot. "How the hell did anything get into that cellar—"
"Not physically."
Psychically. She felt ill. There was only one person she knew who had the strength or the inclination to do so. "Drake." Turning around, she sucked down on her cheroot, resting her hand on the marble balustrade as she saw red, just for a moment. All her life Drake had tried to take what was hers from her. And although Sebastian had been forged purely as a weapon against him, a part of her hated that her son leaned toward his father more than he ever had to her. "What are we going to do?"
"We need to isolate him," the demon mused. "Sebastian is beginning to listen to me and might come around to the plan, but he won't consider it if he thinks there's another option."
"Drake's offering to help him?"
"I barely dared listen in, but I caught enough of it. He's trying to get Sebastian to listen to him, and offering to help him escape."
"And we can't have that," she said bitterly. Her son might be her most perfect weapon against her ex-husband, but he was also the dog that bit the hand that fed it. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Untrusting. Her thoughts coalesced as she blew out a perfect ring of smoke. Yes. That was it. "What else did they speak of?"
"Drake promised to return tomorrow. He has the girl at his side." A twist of the demon's mouth showed some small hint of displeasure. It didn't like Cleo—or her gifts. Perhaps it was even scared of them. "It gives him a benefit in swaying your son's mind, and I need Sebastian for my plans."
"Our plans," she corrected, though a part of her wondered. The demon had promised her the position of Prime during the Ascension in two days. It said it merely wanted Drake's head on a platter—which suited her perfectly—but she wondered.
Drake was the greater threat at the moment, however. Morgana turned in a swirl of flounced skirts and paced along the balcony, staring through the greenery. "Sebastian might want his father to rescue him, but I doubt he truly believes Drake will come. All we have to do is feed that doubt. Make him feel abandoned. Alone. Actually, this might work in our favor." She turned, gesturing with her cheroot. "There was never any guarantee that Sebastian would fall for your lies in time, but if he thinks his father reached out to him, then abandoned him...."
The demon cocked its head. "Yes," it said. "He wants his father's love. That much is clear. But he does not believe in it. Not deep inside. It might push him into my hands."
"Can we stop Drake from contacting him again?"
Those eyes narrowed. "I can ward the house. Stop him from getting through. Then the boy will think himself abandoned."
"Do it then." She didn't particularly care whether Sebastian broke or not. He'd betrayed her, his actions crushing her spine and costing her everything. All he was to her right now was simply a tool to be used.
The demon narrowed its eyes. "The other problem to consider is this: Could Drake use his link with Sebastian to find us?"
Morgana breathed out a gust of smoke as panic lit along her nerves. "We have to move."
"Yes. As soon as the guests depart."
Morgana peered impatiently inside then crushed the cheroot beneath her heel. "I'll get rid of them. You see to Sebastian."
* * *
The demon watched her go.
Patience, it told itself, peering out over the gardens and drumming its fingers on the balustrade, imagining her throat beneath its hands instead. Little pits formed in the marble beneath its fingertips. The demon stopped. As much as it wanted to snuff her life from her veins, Morgana's arrogance and determination to thwart her ex-husband played directly into its hands.
As soon as Drake was his, then he could remind her of the consequences when a sorcerer tried to dabble with a demon and control it. In fact, it would take great pleasure in doing so.
"No," said Noah, swimming up inside him. "You promised—no more killing if I helped you."
The demon made its body blink. It quite liked being alive. This plane of existence had so many possibilities. "Be quiet," it said, and crushed Noah back inside the little dark box imprisoning him. "Or you'll never be free of me."
Chapter 24
"YOU'RE AVOIDING ME," Verity murmured, watching as Bishop paced around the billiards table.
He chalked the cue mechanically, his face expressionless and closed off. "I'm... tired, Verity. There's a lot on my mind."
"We have the Chalice back," she pointed out, resting her hip against the edge of the table. "Which means Morgana can't use it for any more mischief. Lady E is safe and whole, and bossing poor Marie around like she can't wait to get back on her feet. I'm alive. You're alive. We should be celebrating."
She made the mistake of reaching for his hand where it rested on the mahogany frame.
Bishop stared at it for a second, then subtly removed his hand from beneath hers. "Ascension is two days away. We still don't know what Morgana and Tremayne are up to, though if it involves Sebastian we're in trouble. Horroway is still out there somewhere...."
Verity curled the offending limb in against her chest. There was a pit opening up inside her chest. What she wouldn't give for him to open his arms wide and curl her up within them right now. "Can't we deal with all of that tomorrow? Can't we just have tonight?"
Her skirts brushed against his shoes as she followed him, but Bishop turned. Every line of his body told her to back away.
The pit in her chest became an endless gaping chasm that threatened to swallow her whole. She came to an abrupt stop. "Please don't," she whispered.
"I just want to play a round of billiards," he replied. "It helps to clear my mind. If you want, I'll wake you early enough for us to get a head start on Morgana's plans. Now that we know you can find her, thanks to Horroway's ring...." He leaned over and set the balls up properly.
Reaching out, Verity set her hand on the white ball. "No, I don't want you to send me off to bed like a good little girl, waiting for you to pay me some small scrap of attention. I want to talk about this now. I want.... I want you to h
old me."
She held his startled gaze. He looked younger in that moment. Perhaps it was the way his hair desperately needed a trim, the sun-bleached tips of it brushed behind his ears.
"Ver." His mouth twisted in a scowl as he stared down at her hand and the captured ball. "You have to know what the future holds. I know you felt it."
She shivered a little. How could she not have felt it? How could he live with it? A dark mantle that threatened to smother him at any turn. "There has to be something you can do," she protested, forcing away the feeling. "I won't believe that this is inevitable."
Bishop set the cue down, staring blankly at the table. Even before he murmured, "Ver," in a hopeless tone, she knew the answer to her question.
"I'm not going to let you face this alone."
That roused the ire in him. "You don't have a choice." Bishop straightened.
"So you'll make my decision for me?" she replied tartly. "Like Murphy did? Like Guthrie wants to?"
He looked confronted. "Verity—"
"Why can't I make my own choices?" Taking a step toward him, she fixed the collar on his coat. "You promised me that when you offered me a new path, a place inside this Order of yours. Please don't take that away from me."
Bishop set the cue down on the table. "I just... I don't want to hurt you."
Swallowing hard, Verity reached out for his hand. "I want you. I... I love you." She knew now why he secluded himself. Why he roamed these halls at night, unable to sleep. "You don't have to be alone. Not tonight."
His breath punched out of him on a loud exhale. "Jesus. Do you think I don't want this?" His hand lifted, hovering in the air between them. "I'm trying to do the right thing."
"You're trying to protect me from a broken heart," she whispered. "Well, that's just too bad. My heart broke long ago." With her mother's death. Her father leaving. "I didn't let that destroy me then, and no matter what happens between us, I won't let it destroy me now. Do you know what got me through the bad moments when I was a little girl?"
His eyes met hers.
"The small moments," she admitted with a wistful smile. "The day after my mother died, I found a kitten in the workhouse. I stayed in bed all day with him tucked in against me. Two orphans in the world, both of us half starved, bedraggled little fighters. But together... we were no longer alone. And every time I thought of my mother, I could feel him purring against my throat, because he was happy to simply be warm and held, nice and safe. And it was a nice feeling, that moment, without all of the weight of the world against me. So I focused on that.
"And then I met Mercy, and she didn't have any parents either, so we decided we were going to be sisters. And we would share a bed, and I was never alone then. Sometimes she would bring me presents. She had a thing for little glittering scraps of metal. The first time I translocated; that breathless rush of landing. The first meal at Murphy's, when he tried to lure me to the Crows. It was the best thing I'd ever eaten in all my life." Verity bit her lip. "The other night, when you let me love you. That's what gets me through the dark days. Because I know there is another moment of joy somewhere in my future, just waiting to be lived. I'm not afraid of the dark times. I can survive them, Bishop. I can survive anything. But I need these small moments to get through them."
He swallowed.
"Give me another moment," she whispered, leaning against him. "Give me an hour of happiness. That's all I ask."
Bishop cupped her face, tilting his forehead down to hers. The move was oddly intimate. "I can't promise you forever," he said bluntly.
"I never asked for forever," she whispered, tilting her face up toward him. "Small moments. Day to day. That's all I ask for: the here and now."
He shut his eyes. A look of pure thwarted need crossed his stark face. "Ver. I felt it. I know what you want. There's no hiding anything from me when we're linked."
He might not have been able to promise her a future, but he wanted it just as much as she did. The thought softened the blow of rejection. He wasn't doing this because he didn't want her; he was trying to soften the eventual blow.
And maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe there could never be a them. She'd felt the dark that haunted him, those demons that lurked within his soul.
And she didn't care.
Perhaps taking this step would have scared her a year ago. She knew now what she had to lose in life, but not daring to live it would be a greater tragedy. "Be here with me," she whispered, reaching up to brush her lips against his. "In the here and now. We'll let the future sort itself out."
Hands slid up and down her side, so gently he might have been calming a flighty horse. His eyes were closed, as if he drank in the sensation. Verity kissed him again and slowly closed her own eyes.
Capturing her hands in his, he tugged her firmly against him, the hard press of his erection digging into her stomach. Verity moaned, then drew back. She caught a glimpse of his dark, serious eyes, then she slid her hand behind his neck and dragged him back down for another kiss.
His lips were so soft. He kissed as though he had all the time in the world, as if just tasting her was pleasure enough. "God. I want to take you again, and never stop."
She smiled into his mouth as she slid a hand down his waistcoat. "That sounds more like it. Please ravish me." Her hand dipped between them, cupping the bulge in his pants. "Most thoroughly, if you would."
Hands caught her up under the bottom, lifting her into his arms. Verity flung her arms around his shoulders, meeting his heated kiss with a muffled laugh.
Balls scattered as he shoved at them impatiently. Then she was sitting on the billiards table as Bishop slid his hands up beneath her skirts.
He never broke the kiss. It was as if he drowned himself in the sensation, as if he needed this so desperately, needed to cling to her like a life raft to stop himself from going under.
And she held him too.
She wanted this man. Wanted him now. Forever. Dreams were always risky, but she had finally come to realize that this one was worth going after.
And Verity had always been a fighter.
One step at a time, however.
Verity tugged at the buttons of his trousers. The firm length of his erection strained behind the buckskin flap, and then the flap gaped. Verity dove her greedy little hand inside, fisting the length of him, pumping his cock in small motions. "Yes," she gasped as he bit her throat in reaction. "Yes!"
Her back would have hit the green felt of the tabletop if she didn't have such a stranglehold on his coat collar. Bishop's mouth grazed her chin, then slid down her throat. Suddenly, her breasts were under siege. All she wanted was to get out of this dress. Out of her corset. Too many cursed ribbons and ties. Verity gasped and fisted his cock again.
"I don't want to wait," she gasped as teeth nipped at the slope of her breasts. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she dragged his face up to hers. "Now. Take me. Please."
Those dark eyes glimmered with heat. She'd thought them cold once upon a time, but the obsidian depths of his irises were like banked hearths, embers smoldering just beneath the surface.
He didn't offer to link with her. Not this time. And she didn't ask for it. The last thing she wanted was for him to know what she was planning.
Instead, she slid his cock through the slit of her drawers, rubbing the head of it through her wetness. A shiver ran through her at the sensation. Her skin drank in the feel of him; the rasp of his trousers against her inner thighs where her stockings ended; the blunt tip of his cock gently parting her; the abrasion of his coat against her fingertips.
Verity let her head sink back as Bishop half thrust. What she wouldn't do to have this man forever.
However, she'd settle for tonight.
"Do you like that?" he breathed, thrusting again as his cock slowly filled her.
"You know I do." Verity slid her hand through the silky hair at the back of his skull. Their eyes met. "No talking. Not tonight."
And then she kissed him
again as he finally sank home within her, obliterating every other thought of the world around her.
* * *
He'd dreamed of fucking his way inside her. Dreamed of the trace of her skin under his hands, and the silk of her gown abrading his fingertips.
Those dreams paled in comparison to reality.
Bishop couldn't get enough of her. He lost himself in the wet-slick thrust and glide of this ancient dance as she ate at his mouth. There was a wildness about her tonight, as if she clung to him with every inch of her being.
Everything was that thrust and pull. He groaned as his hand found her breast and his tongue tangled with hers. Why had he ever waited for this? Sexual energy danced over his skin, almost as tempting as the maladroise. There was no psychic connection between them tonight, but he felt as though their bodies joined, becoming one. Tugging at her ribbons, he pulled her bodice loose enough to reveal the creamy slopes of her upper breasts, and then his mouth was there. Licking. Nibbling. Jesus. Why had he waited for so long? This was intense. Amazing. The best bloody thing ever.
But it wouldn't have been the same if it were not with her.
Bishop curled his fists in her skirts. What a truth to behold, but it struck him straight through the heart.
Every moment of waiting had been worth it. For her. For this. Every aching moment of loneliness had led him along this path, and now he couldn't dream of anything else.
He wanted to please her. Wanted to hear her scream his name on her lips. The heat flushing through his cock and balls, however, promised that his pleasure would come before hers.
Grasping her by the hips, he withdrew briefly and turned her over.
"What are you—" Her words turned into a moan as he slid his hand beneath her mound, cupping her through all the layers of silk.
"Did you know in the Orient there is a book called the Kama Sutra, full of all of the philosophy and theory of love and what triggers desire."
