To Win a Demon's Love

by Nadine Mutas

  Interesting choice of a comparison. She studied him for a moment, giving in to the spark of appreciation for the masculine profile of his strong jaw and nose while he kept his attention on the road. “You don’t like working for Arawn, then.”

  “Can’t wait until my tenure with him is over.”

  “When’s that?”

  “In a month.”

  “Why do you hate him?” And yep, her social filter had fled the car.

  He glanced at her, flecks of red glowing in the silver of his eyes. “You are inquisitive, aren’t you?”

  “Pathologically curious. It’s a flaw.”

  Looking back at the road, he said, “Just because I’m demon doesn’t mean I feel any loyalty toward Arawn beyond what is required of me by my contract with him.”

  “But he’s the Demon Lord. Shouldn’t that…” She waved her hand. “…mean something to your kind?”

  He took a deep breath. “First, he’s not lord of all demons. That’s a misconception on the witches’ part. There are many demons and otherworld creatures who don’t belong to him. Second, he’s not even a demon. Why anyone would think to dub him lord of a species he’s not even part of is beyond me.”

  “He’s not a demon?”

  His face shadowed. “No. And don’t ask me what he is. No one knows. The only thing that’s clear is that he’s unlike anything most of us have ever seen or felt.”

  “And he wants Maeve.”

  Her thoughts, bleak as they were when talking about a being as obscure and dangerous as Arawn, darkened even more when she remembered the ordeal of her best friend’s little sister, the girl who was as much of a sibling to Lily as she was to Merle. They’d all but grown up together, what with the Murrays and the MacKennas so close as to almost count as one family. When Maeve was kidnapped by a demon, Lily had shared Merle’s pain, her heart aching for Maeve, who’d long been believed to be without powers.

  As it turned out, Maeve did have massive powers, but they were bound inside her. In fact, she possessed a magic so great, that Lily’s aunt Isabel had instigated the abduction to use the demon to harvest Maeve’s powers for herself. That such devastating betrayal of the sacred witches’ code to never harm each other had been perpetrated by someone from her own family had shattered Lily’s heart.

  Never was a witch to hurt another of her kind. It was anathema, the highest sacrilege.

  “I’m only tasked to watch her,” Alek said, yanking Lily from the painful past to the present. “I don’t know any more than you do about his grand scheme.”

  “He wants her for her powers, obviously.”

  “Everything Arawn does is meant to increase his power.”

  She peered at him. “But you’re not privy to his plans.”

  “If I were, I couldn’t tell you.” He glanced at her a fleeting moment, a grin flirting with his mouth, before he focused back on the traffic. “But as it is, I’m only one of his enforcers, not his right hand. I’m not involved in governing his dominion. I get my orders, I follow them.”

  He steered the car onto St. John’s Bridge, passing underneath the lofty pillars of the bridge’s gates. To their right, the lights of Portland twinkled in the night, reflected on the black waters of the Willamette River. Late as the hour was, there were still people awake, buildings lit, the city big enough to join the club of those that never sleep.

  “Where do you live?” she asked without taking her eyes off the haunting beauty of a heart of concrete and stone, a city pulsing with life, even in the dead of night.

  “St. John’s. We’re almost there.”

  A few minutes later, he pulled up into the driveway of a cottage-style home in a quaint neighborhood.

  “This is…nice,” she said as he turned off the engine.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am.”

  He faced her, one corner of his mouth tilting up, a glint in his eyes. “What did you expect? A ramshackle shed in a rat-infested dump?”

  She cleared her throat, her cheeks heating. “Not that bad.”

  He stared at her, unblinking.

  “Just a little bad,” she murmured.

  Shaking his head, he opened his door. “You seem to have a lot of misconceptions about demons.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.” She tried not to ogle his butt while he got out of the car. Really did. And failed. But damn, those jeans fit him like nobody’s business.

  With a sigh, she pushed open the passenger side door and swung her legs out, wanting to slide down from the high truck seat, when he appeared in front of her and grabbed her waist.

  “Nice try,” he said and hefted her over his shoulder. Like some bad-mannered firefighter. That scoundrel.

  “Oy.” She tapped his back with her palm. “You’re overdoing it, Mr. Duho-crutch. Put me down.”

  “Duhokrad.” He continued to haul her up the stairs to the front door.

  “Did you know,” she said, bouncing with his steps while he unlocked the door and walked inside, “that Wife-Carrying is a sport? Originated in Finland, but they’ve got championships here in the US, too. You should apply.”

  He set her down on a couch in the living area, and lingered after placing her on the sofa, his arms on the cushion on either side of her, his face close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He had a strange expression, features tight and gaze searing, as if her blithe words had affected him somehow, had hit on something he hadn’t expected.

  Longing pulsed between them, so strong, and yet so fleeting, Lily wasn’t sure she’d interpreted it correctly. She blinked, sucked in air, and the next second he shifted away, leaving her shaken and wondering if she’d imagined whatever had passed between them just now. Well, going by how fucked-up her system and senses were, it very well could have been her mind playing tricks on her.

  “Sit tight.” Alek walked over to a door toward the back of the house. “I’ll be right back.”

  She took advantage of the moment to study the room. Always one to catalog every new place, she was inherently curious about how other people lived, about the details that made up their personal space. She took her time perusing the puzzle of things that made up Alek’s.

  A large flat screen TV—naturally—dominated the opposite wall next to the front door. Shelves framed the media center, filled with books and DVDs. Behind the couch she was sitting on stood more shelves on the wall, holding more books, and what looked like picture frames and knickknacks that seemed more suited for a person older than Alek, and with a definite feminine touch. He’d mentioned his mother was dead. Wasn’t hard to guess he’d kept some of her belongings in his home—which had probably been his parents’ before him.

  To her right was the kitchen area, the cupboards painted a bright green, with a small dining table set to one side. One door led to the back of the house, where Alek reappeared, holding two bowls, a washcloth and a towel slung over his forearms.

  After setting the equipment on the table, he knelt in front of her and tapped her right shin. “Lift your foot.”

  “You really have a fetish, don’t you?”

  He shot her a look that was all kinds of dark and hotly bothering at the same time. “Your wounds need cleaning.”

  “Well, if you insist.” She raised her right foot. “Makes me glad I get regular pedicures and painted my toenails.”

  He set one of the bowls on the floor. “You’ll need to soak your sole in here for a minute so the worst of the dirt can come off.”

  She gingerly lowered her foot into the bowl. The water was pleasantly warm, not searing, but still the contact stung her to the point she locked her jaw to keep from uttering a sound of pain.

  Alek’s eyes flicked from her foot to her face, narrowing on whatever tiny clues she hadn’t managed to hide. Damn perceptive predators. He didn’t comment, however, just calmly studied her expression in a way that had her almost squirming with the impulse to finger comb her hair or fix her makeup. Which probably resembled the J
oker by now.

  “You’ve got…” He wet the washcloth, and reached out to her, wiped at her forehead before she could jerk back. He lingered close for a moment, his focus intense, consuming. “Blood,” he said, leaning back again. “You had some blood there.”

  “Yeah,” she croaked, her breathing flat. “Thanks.”

  He gave a nod, then gestured for her to raise both feet so he could switch the bowls. While her left foot was now soaking, he dabbed at the underside of her right, his face serious, entirely focused on his task. His movements were careful, gentle, his hand holding her foot up by her ankle branding her with his heat. Every now and then he glanced at her face.

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head, biting the inside of her lower lip as a counterpoint to the pain in her sole.

  “Liar,” he said, his tone as gentle as a caress, a smile in his eyes. He switched to the other foot. “I’ll be more careful.”

  “Really, you don’t need to…” She trailed off, unsure how to talk to this male who treated her with a kind of tenderness that rattled her, toppled all sorts of firmly entrenched opinions she’d held for so long. Her heart thumped madly.

  He raised his eyes, the gold a luminous ring around the silver. “You’re not used to having someone take care of you, hm?”

  “I’m not a kid anymore, so no. I can take care of myself quite well.”

  The nurturing warmth of her mom had been curbed by Aunt Isabel’s drive to make sure Lily would grow into a witch strong enough to one day inherit the family’s power, even though she’d never been first in line as heir. Isabel’s own daughters were slated to carry that responsibility. Until they were murdered, one by one, by vengeful demons. With the irony of fate, her aunt’s foresight in training Lily as a future Elder witch had almost become just that—foresight, or an especially cruel self-fulfilling prophecy.

  “I know you can,” Alek said. His thumb stroked over her ankle, sending a pleasant shiver up her leg. “Sometimes you want to take care of someone else, not because you think the person can’t do it themselves…” he dabbed at the arch of her foot, gentle, so fucking gentle “…but because it soothes a need inside you.” The look he sent her shot straight through her defenses. “And it’s your way of showing you care.”

  An inexplicable lump formed in her throat, and suddenly the only thing she could think about was swallowing past it without choking.

  The slow clicking of claws against wood startled her. She tore her gaze away from Alek’s sincere expression and twisted to look behind her. An old dog trudged through the open door leading to the other rooms and made his way to the couch. He stopped next to Alek, who set down the washcloth and ruffled the mutt’s fur.

  “Hey there, buddy.” Alek’s voice lowered to a soothing pitch, his words infused with warmth and affection. “You want to take a look at our guest, hm?”

  The dog—probably at least partly a German Shepherd-Labrador mix, his dark brown fur graying around his muzzle—sat down and licked over Alek’s hand.

  “This is Grant,” Alek said, still scratching the dog’s flappy ears. “Grant, this is Lily.” He took Grant’s head in both hands and gave him a hard stare. “She’s off-limits. You hear?”

  “I’m not sure I want to know why you need to tell him that, or what exactly that means.”

  Alek shrugged one shoulder, rubbing his neck, his face coloring. “He likes to hump people’s legs.”

  “Charming.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, well, he’s fixed, but he still thinks he’s got the right equipment. Although he never seems to remember how to go through with it. He starts humping and then just stops with a confused look on his face…”

  Lily snort-laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

  Alek’s grin made her chest flutter with tingles. “’Sokay. It is kind of funny.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed Grant’s neck and scratched under his muzzle, a tender gleam in his eyes as he looked at his dog. “I’ve had him since he was a pup.”

  Another misconception toppled. Learning a demon would have a pet, and display this kind of affection and attachment to it corrected her perspective by several notches. “You’re really not what I thought you should be,” she said quietly.

  A side glance from this unconventional demon. “We’ll have to work on your flattery skills.”

  She wanted to smile and shoot back a quip, but a wave of nausea made her gasp, the room spinning too fast around her.

  “Lily?”

  His face, his form, were a blur, while darkness crept in from the edges, and somehow the couch threw her off.

  “I’ve got you,” was the last thing she heard before heat and autumn winds engulfed her, her mind slipping into the black silk of oblivion.

  Chapter 6

  Lily jerked awake, coated with sweat, her heart pounding madly in her chest. She blinked, her breath coming in pants, her mind entangled in the lingering images, sounds, and sensations of the dream. Nightmare, more like. Gasping, she clutched the sheets as the full extent of the horrid memories flooded her consciousness.

  Her hands around Baz’s neck, claws breaking his skin. His eyes, bloodshot and wide with terror. He paws at her to let him go. A dark whisper deep inside her enjoying his struggle. A drumming force within, lusting after the inevitable end to his struggle.

  Kill.

  A whimper tore from her throat. What had she done? What had she become? More than anything, she wanted to see Baz, tell him how sorry she was, make sure he was okay. And yet, trumping that urge to make amends was a shame so devastating it shriveled every good intention she had.

  She couldn’t face him. What if he looked at her with disgust, or hate, or…worst of all…fear? She couldn’t bear the thought. Not when they’d always been so close they finished each other’s sentences, could hold entire conversations just by exchanging looks.

  Fighting down the corrosive hurt spreading from her heart, she took stock of her surroundings. A darkened room, its one window heavily shielded, with only a minuscule glow around the edges giving away that it was daytime outside. She was sitting on a sofa bed in the corner, the rest of the room dominated by workout equipment—a weight-lifting bench in the middle, a punching bag hanging from the ceiling in the other corner, a treadmill on one wall.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and paused. Ugh, she still had on her once-sexy, now-filthy dress, plus the grime and dirt accumulated during one hell of a night. And not the good kind of hell. Grimacing, she glanced at the markings covering her cleavage and shoulders, then looked away quickly. It’s still real. It had really happened.

  Swallowing hard, pain lancing her chest, she stood and walked out of the room. She followed the narrow hall to the front of the house. The scent of coffee, bacon, and something fried tantalized her senses. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled on cue.

  When she entered the main living area, Alek was at the stove, turning something in a pan. The kitchen light lent his hair a glow like dark, burnished gold. She paused with her full focus locked on his form, her breath stalling in her lungs.

  His dark red T-shirt seemed to hug his shoulders and back just so, as if caressing the taut muscles that bunched and rippled with his every move. From underneath the short sleeves flowed the symbols of his demon tattoo, down to his elbows. The sight of those elegant lines curving over his biceps, running over his tan skin in strokes of light-brown henna, it stirred a primal appreciation in her. Credit where credit was due, and those symbols, the way they adorned his arms, they were beautiful.

  As was he.

  He was cooking with the same concentration he’d applied to washing her wounds, and she guessed he’d bring that kind of attention to every task he did. It lent him an air of focused control and security, and damn if that wasn’t sexy as fuck. Her stomach fluttered, and heat pooled between her thighs.

  �
�Hungry?” he asked without taking his eyes off the stove.

  “More than you know.” And for far more than just food.

  “Dinner will take a few more minutes. You can jump into the shower in the meantime.” He pointed at the door to the other rooms with the spatula, muscles flexing in his forearm. “Bathroom’s the first door on the left. I laid out towels for you.”

  “Um. Thanks.” She pressed her lips together, remembering she had nothing else to wear after taking the shower. Just the thought of having to slip back into this dress…

  “Oh,” he said, “and I figured you might want to change into something else, so I ran over to my brother Dima’s and borrowed a few things from his mate. She’s about your size, give or take an inch, so maybe it’ll fit you.”

  “You—you ran out?” Her eyes flicked to the heavily covered windows blocking out the day. “Isn’t sunlight lethal to duho-crayons?”

  His lips twitched. “Duhokrads,” he said, not looking up from the frying pan. “And it’s not immediately fatal. It just drains us of duh more quickly. We can stand a few minutes of full exposure, and when we’re covered from head to toe, we can stay out a bit longer, though it’s a risk we rarely take.”

  But he had. For her. Just to get her some damn clothes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky.

  “My pleasure.” He met her gaze for a searing moment then nodded toward the couch. “I put the clothes over there.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes trained studiously on the pan again. “Uh, Tori said the panties are brand new, she just bought them recently and washed them, but they haven’t been worn yet.”

  She pressed her lips together, a grin wanting to steal across her face. “That’s, um, good to know.”

  She was about to flee for the emotional safety of the bathroom when he asked, “How are your feet?”

  Taken aback, she stopped mid-stride. That’s right, her feet. She hadn’t felt any pain or discomfort padding across the hardwood floors after waking up. Lifting one foot, she inspected the sole. Smooth skin, unscarred.

  “Healed?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, baffled. “Not a scratch left.”