Claimed by a Demon King

by Felicity Heaton

  Probably through portals. Demons could teleport too.

  Sable closed the door after the last demon had left and turned to the bed.

  A beautiful sky-blue dress lay on top of the furs. She crossed the room to it and gazed down at the gauzy layers of fabric and the elegant silver metalwork of the corset beside it. It took her breath away. She had never worn anything so beautiful or so feminine.

  A vision of her walking into the great hall and Thorne going wild for her the moment he set eyes on her rose into her mind.

  She shut it out. She couldn’t let things go that way. She was here on an important mission, one that would decide the fate of Thorne’s kingdom. She couldn’t let her desire get the better of her. She couldn’t become a distraction for Thorne.

  She couldn’t give him the impression that she wanted him, even when she burned for him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thorne was finding it impossible to concentrate. He stood in the middle of the great hall of his castle, fighting the worst case of nerves he had ever experienced. He hadn’t felt this uneasy when he had gone into his first battle at the tender age of five hundred.

  His father should have warned him that females were this complicated, confusing and dangerous.

  He tried to focus on what Lord Van der Garde of the vampires was telling him about his latest victory on the battlefield and instead ended up wondering if the handsome, dark-haired male had much experience of females.

  Thorne would bet good grog that he had much experience of the fairer sex.

  Even now, some of the court females were clinging to the vampire commander, hanging on his every word as they stroked his arms through the sleeves of his crisp black knee-length jacket and teasingly caressed the shiny silver clasp on the front of the stand-up collar.

  They seemed impressed by the tale he recounted, talking of the Preux Chevaliers corps and how they had decimated an entire legion of the Devil’s minions in return for a handsome reward from the Seventh Realm.

  If Thorne told Sable of his many victories on the battlefield, would she look upon him in such a favourable and enraptured manner? Would she stroke his muscles through his loose white shirt and tease the laces across his chest with a soft caress?

  Thorne’s second in command, Fargus, glanced his way as he passed by with the leader of the werewolves, Kincaid, heading towards their group on the other side of the room. Thorne desired to speak with his old werewolf friend but knew it would be unwise to bring the male to him while he was talking to the vampire commander.

  The feast this eve was about breaking every species in slowly, giving them time to adjust to the presence of the others. It was a complicated, dangerous and delicate matter, and one he had been dreading since gaining pledges from the different parties.

  Werewolves hated the vampires.

  The elves hated the vampires.

  The vampires hated the werewolves and the elves.

  The vampires and werewolves looked upon the mortals with scorn, and so did many of his own men, a matter that greatly displeased him.

  Lord Van der Garde laughed at something one of the females had said and looked at her in a way that left Thorne in no doubt that she would bear a pretty set of marks on her throat before the night was through.

  The male certainly knew his way around females.

  Thorne’s thoughts wandered to one female in particular, one he would never allow this male to near.

  Sable.

  Just running her name through his mind, carefully intonating it to draw out the pleasure of hearing it, had him aching to see her again.

  He had hungered to return to her many times over the lunar cycle. The separation had been torturous and the thought of that wretched elf male being near her had almost driven him mad, invading his dreams of his little huntress and tying him in knots.

  Many times, he had come close to teleporting to her while she slumbered and bringing her to his realm. Only the knowledge that she would not understand and would fight him if he did such a thing had helped him refrain from making such a terrible move.

  She was not like the mates of many of his warriors, all of which were from a time long past. Their world was different to the one Sable had grown up in. This modern mortal world had moulded her into a fierce and independent female.

  It was part of the reason for his uncertainty. The other part?

  He had never had a female.

  Had never wooed one.

  Had never lain with one.

  He had waited for his eternal mate and that wait had been worth it, because it had brought him Sable.

  His gaze roamed the crowded room, scouring it for her. She had been as feisty as he had remembered and just as beautiful as she had leapt into the fight at his side this day, taking on his men without thought for her own safety and without fear. Her heart had been steady, her sword hand firm.

  She had been breathtaking.

  A scowl drew his eyebrows together.

  He had not expected her to arrive with that wretched elf touching her though, gazing at her with possessive eyes that had lingered too long upon her body. She seemed unaware of the male’s attention to her, but that didn’t stop Thorne from wanting to wrench his head from his body.

  “King Thorne?” Lord Van der Garde said, his own scowl knitting his dark brown eyebrows and making his ice-blue eyes glitter with frost.

  He was being rude. The vampire most likely thought he was angry with him over something he had said.

  “My apologies. There is much on my mind this eve.” Mostly a slender golden-eyed siren and a bastard unmated elf.

  Putting them together in one sentence only darkened his mood. He wanted to kill the male. Thorne curled his fingers into fists, tightening them until his claws bit into his palms. It was difficult to control his mood when thoughts of Bleu and Sable plagued him.

  They had appeared close this day, much closer than before. The male had laid a hand on her and she had not shirked his grip as she had in the mortal world. He feared the male had already begun to win her and that he was behind in the race to claim her.

  Thorne ran a hand over his left horn, a nervous trait he could normally hide, but one that ruled him this night. He snatched a mug of mead from a passing servant and knocked it back to steady his hands and his heart. The servant waited, clearly sensing his need for more than just one. Thorne placed his empty mug down and took another. The male offered the drinks to Lord Van der Garde.

  The vampire curled his lip and waved the man away. The servant moved towards the werewolves.

  “I see you invited the dogs,” the vampire commander said and Thorne frowned at him.

  “I expect no quarrels between your men and theirs. We are here as one. I will not tolerate any fights between the gathered species.”

  Lord Van der Garde bent his head. “It is my turn to apologise. I will see to it that my men are informed of your wishes and will do my best to tolerate the werewolves… even if I do despise having to breathe the same air as them.”

  Thorne sent a prayer to the gods for patience.

  He needed to keep these men in order, without stomping on the pride of their commanders, but he could already see it was going to be difficult and an added burden to the one already firmly settled on his shoulders.

  He had been fighting this war for twenty-one lunar cycles and everything rested on this coming battle.

  He had lost too many good warriors over those months, males he considered family, commanders who had seen many more seasons than he had. It had taken its toll on him.

  So many widows to care for now.

  Females he had pledged to look after as he held his friends and watched them draw their last breaths.

  Many of the women lived in the castle now, but many more had decided to remain in the villages where they had lived happily with their mates.

  Thorne took care of them all, ensuring they had enough food and their offspring were well, and they were all looked after by the other villagers.


  He took a long drink and then frowned into the bottom of his mug. What was he doing, bringing his fated one into this war and wanting to bring her into his life?

  So many widowed. So many more suffered the same fate in the war before this one, and more in the war before that. He had only lived for three thousand five hundred cycles of the Earth around the sun and had reigned for only two thousand seven hundred and fifty, yet he had witnessed over two thousand wars and had seen thousands more males die in battle and scores of kings fall across Hell.

  The Fifth King was relentless too.

  Every time Thorne drove him back, losing many good warriors in the process, the Fifth King always came back stronger, and with darker allies.

  Recently, his army had grown too strong and had begun to attack from several points around the border with the Fifth Realm at once, making it difficult for Thorne to defend the villages closest to the frontline because he didn’t have enough men to form into smaller armies.

  Thorne knocked back the rest of his drink and crushed the mug in his fist. Shards of clay bit into his hand and scattered on the flagstones at his feet.

  He hated being on the defensive.

  He wanted to be the stronger male, the stronger kingdom, and the Fifth King was driving him towards failure, battering his pride along the way.

  He opened his hand and stared at the splinters of mug embedded into his palm, feeling the vampire’s gaze on it. Crimson pooled in the creases of his hand. It was foolish to allow himself to bleed around so many vampires. Especially around Lord Van der Garde.

  The vampire was afflicted with bloodlust.

  Thorne raised his gaze to the male. Hungry scarlet eyes locked on Thorne’s palm, their narrowed elliptical pupils speaking of Lord Van der Garde’s dark desires. He wanted the blood.

  Thorne signalled one of the servants he knew carried blood on his tray of drinks. The male hurried over and hovered near the vampire, looking as on edge as Thorne felt. Lord Van der Garde’s gaze remained rooted on Thorne’s hand, transfixed, as if he had cast a spell upon him, and then the vampire blinked, shot his left hand out and snatched a cup of blood, lifted it to his lips and drank the contents in one go.

  “Never bleed around me unless you are meaning to offer up your jugular to my fangs,” the vampire growled, slammed the mug down on the tray, causing the others to spill, and stalked off.

  Thorne plucked the shards from his hand and dropped them onto the tray, and then nodded to the servant. The male moved away, leaving him alone by his throne. He licked the blood from his palm. This was never going to work. He was fooling himself if he thought this army he had assembled could work together and save his kingdom.

  He growled.

  This never would have happened in his father’s time. His father had been strong and powerful, and had reigned in an era of peace because of that strength. His might had driven all other demons from his realm and kept the borderlands safe. None had dared rise up against him. All had respected him.

  Thorne wanted to be like his father, a good king for his people, and he was failing. More now than ever, he feared he would lose to the Fifth King and condemn his people to a brutal end.

  This war was life or death to him, but he didn’t care about his own life. He cared only about his people. He couldn’t fail them.

  He couldn’t let those who viewed him as a youngling unworthy of his kingdom be proven right.

  He had fought them for twenty-seven centuries and he would not give up now.

  He would become the stronger male and protect his kingdom.

  It was the reason he had gone to the mortal realm to seek the advice of the magic bearer, Rosalind. He had asked to see his future and had instead seen Prince Loren’s, and a chance to gain a powerful ally. With the elves pledged to bring one thousand men to his realm, he had found hope again.

  He had convinced the werewolves to assist him by sending two hundred men and had sought the aid of the Preux Chevaliers. They had pledged to send their First Legion, the finest in their corps. Over one hundred strong vampire males in total.

  He had gathered every demon of fighting age in his kingdom and posted half of them at the border villages to protect them, and had sent his best commanders to train them. The other half had come to the castle.

  He had amassed an army, a force strong enough to drive the demons of the Fifth Realm back for good. When they next attacked, he would be ready for them and he would seek out the Fifth King and claim his head and his heart as his prize.

  He would end the threat to his kingdom by ending the Fifth King.

  His sensitive hearing picked up some curses off to his left, at the far end of the room near the doors that led to the mortal and elf quarters. His pulse doubled as his gaze scanned the gathered humans and then settled as he realised that Sable was not among them.

  The mortal hunters broadcasted fear.

  Archangel had sent only fifty but it had given him something more valuable than their strength.

  They had brought him Sable.

  Just thinking about her lifted some of the weight from his shoulders, relaxing him yet at the same time increasing his tension. It wasn’t only nerves about seeing her again. It was nerves about having her here as part of his army.

  She was a warrior though, and as strange as that was to him, he had to respect it. He had witnessed how she reacted when coddled by a male during a fight and knew not to belittle her abilities as a hunter. Loren had often spoken of her during their meetings, slipping information to him, telling him of the powerful creatures that she had fought and defeated in the mortal world. She was a capable and skilled hunter, and a determined female, and he admired her for it.

  He moved towards the gathered men and women, desiring to calm them and make them feel they were safe among so many species they probably viewed as enemies.

  Sable would be here soon to take command of them. She would be pleased if she found him conversing with her people, putting their minds at ease.

  The females among the group wore the same battle clothing they had been earlier.

  Would Sable be dressed in such a manner or would she have a garment more suited to her rank and the occasion?

  He tried to picture her in a dress of mortal fashion, one he had seen on females at social gatherings in the human world. The image that popped into his head was one of her in her black leather trousers, knee-high boots and tight little top that emphasised her breasts. He groaned and rubbed his mouth, fighting for control over his body as he recalled his dreams of her, lifelike visions of stripping her slowly before he claimed her as his forever.

  A scuffle broke out behind him, pulling his attention away from thoughts of Sable and from her band of mortals.

  He turned to see the source of the commotion. A few werewolves and vampires were engaged in a fistfight. Kincaid and Lord Van der Garde were already among them, both males looking as if they wanted to throw punches rather than stop their men from doing so. He took a step towards them, intending to intervene, and then stopped himself. It was better he allowed their commanders to deal with it so he didn’t appear to be interfering in their business.

  A ripple of heat travelled through his muscles, sending a shiver of awareness through him.

  Sable.

  He was turning before he knew it, his gaze seeking her, drawn to his little female.

  When it found her, his blood chilled and then burned for a different reason.

  She was beautiful, resplendent with her long black hair twirled and clasped at the back of her head and her lips rosy, but she did not wear a dress of mortal fashion.

  The long flowing blue garment reached her ankles, the sheer layers parting as she walked, revealing glimpses of bare thigh through the gauzy material that made him want to growl at every male in the room who dared to look upon his female. In contrast to the loose skirt, the top was tight, the blue bands of material held in place by elaborate arcs and swirls of brushed silver metal that acted as a corset
over them.

  An elven dress.

  The wretched elf male beside her raked an appreciative glance over her body, blatant hunger in his purple eyes.

  Thorne’s lips peeled back off his fangs and his horns curled in front of his ears.

  He stormed through the crowd, shoving demon, elf, vampire and werewolf out of his path, picking up speed as he neared her and the male. Sable’s golden eyes met his, a smile rising onto her lips. It faded when he growled low in his throat. She tensed, her eyes going wide, and backed off a step. He pushed the last obstacle aside and seized Bleu by his throat, barely registering Sable’s gasp, and kicked forwards, using all of his speed to slam the male against the stone wall behind her.

  Thorne’s muscles ached, beginning to expand as his fury took hold of him, ruling his actions. His dragon-like wings burst from his back and tore through his shirt and his muscles strained against the now-tight white material. His horns grew, curling around themselves and flaring forwards into deadly points. His fangs descended, his lower canines sharpening to match them.

  He heaved a breath and roared in Bleu’s face as he hauled the male up the wall so his legs dangled above the floor.

  Rage burned in his blood, the sounds around him drowned out by the rush of it in his veins and the thunderous beat of his heart.

  Bleu coolly stared down at him.

  Thorne cursed him for it when a familiar burn raced through him. Sable. She stared at him.

  He slid his gaze to his right, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Her horrified expression spoke of her desire to separate them.

  To protect the elf.

  Her male.

  Thorne tightened his grip on Bleu’s throat and snarled in the demon tongue, “She is not your ki’ara. You would know your fated female and would be unable to ignore the urge to fight me. How dare you dress her as your ki’ara!”

  Bleu’s hand calmly encircled his wrist and he looked as if he would allow his armour to transform his fingers into claws and wrest Thorne’s hand from his throat, yet he made no move to fight him.