Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(33)

When she gave an unconcerned shrug—she couldn’t care less that he’d killed those mortals—he ushered her to his pallet, then went to fetch wood for a fire.

The demon had demonstrated courtesy when he’d introduced himself. Now he was displaying hospitality. Yes, he had a tendency to growl at her repeatedly and snap his fangs, but she kept thinking about that head he’d tossed at her.

Since she now knew it’d been a gift of value, she concluded this brutal demon had made an attempt at . . . courting her.

If only she could understand him better. The language barrier was a problem. But he knew at least one word of English. Maybe he comprehended more? She needed to find out.

When he returned with the wood and hunched down by the pit, she gazed on, helplessly captivated by his body. The worn leather of his pants lovingly hugged those muscular thighs and narrow hips. His fingers were long and blunt-ended under his black claws.

As he started the fire with practiced movements, the sculpted ridges of his torso flexed under his chainmail, making that winding tattoo shift intriguingly.

That body is too, too much.

But, gods, the rest of him was a disasterpiece of hair and paint. Those braided hanks wouldn’t do, hanging over his Valvoline-streaked face like a ratty curtain. And that scraggly stubble on his face? She’d kill to see what lay beneath.

He soon had a blazing fire started, and she leaned forward to luxuriate in the warmth, lids growing heavy. He exhaled, his eyes darkening on her, and a sudden jolt of power hit her like a Mack truck. He was satisfied merely having her here.

And just a thread of his happiness had powered her like this?

He was stronger than any other Lore creature, his kind the most vicious. Everything about him was magnified. It figured that he would be able to give her the most power.

She’d bet sex with him would make him very satisfied.

The demon was turning out to be an unpredictable, feral, bone-and-head-collecting, sexually ravenous happiness battery.

She swallowed. All I have to do is plug him in.





13




My female, in my home. No longer would he pass nights alone down here. He had a mate, a companion.

As she leaned closer to the fire, the light flickered over her raven-black hair, the flames reflecting in her green eyes. She had the sultriest eyes. And he couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away.

At last, his woman was with him. Here to be sheltered by him, to be claimed by him.

The idea of protecting her aroused Malkom. As did the idea of providing food for her. He could imagine her expressing her gratitude with her body . . . or her mouth.

Eyes locked on her full lips, he stifled a groan, recalling what she’d said in Demonish. He envisioned her asking once more when she was on her knees, naked before him. In their negotiation earlier, she’d said nothing about his using his mouth on her—or her doing the same.

Malkom had never had his member sucked, had never received that pleasure. No matter how many times I was forced to wring it from another, he thought darkly, his muscles knotting with tension before he shook away that age-old resentment.

He’d always wondered how it would feel—wondered what was so remarkable about the act that it could make a male weak in the knees, could make him crave it again and again.

Could she be coaxed to satisfy his curiosity once and for all?

Maybe she would let him do even more this night? Yes, she’d stipulated no intercourse, but only out of fear that he’d hurt her. Naturally, he’d made no vow about that, because as soon as he’d proved he could touch her without paining her, he intended to take her body.

But he had vowed not to drink her, and he would try to honor his oath, at least until he could explain what the act meant to him, and why she could deny him no longer.

On the hike here, he’d realized that with this woman, the Thirst didn’t rule him.

The sense of connection did. As he’d taken her neck, he’d never felt more bound to another in his entire existence.

But did I really make her head hurt from drinking her? He thought back to his youth, trying to remember his own reactions . . . .

For now, he’d sate himself on animal blood, would be forced to even this night. Though he’d drunk her blood, he’d lost still more defending her.

Her stomach growled then. Reminded that she must be starving, he shot to his feet, promising to return with a feast of game birds for her to cook.

He held up his forefinger, telling her she should wait there. She would be safe within his den. Beasts avoided this place instinctively. And his foes like Ronath couldn’t trace. Even if the armorer had learned that skill in the intervening years, he couldn’t teleport directly into the mine shaft, a place he’d surely never been.

When she gave no response, Malkom scowled and held up his finger more insistently.

With a roll of her eyes, she gestured to the fire, plainly saying, As if I’d leave this.

Filled with a new purpose, he set out into the night, hunting swiftly, determined to provide for her. A half hour later, on his return, he stopped at a small collection pool to refill the canteen. As usual, he was uneasy beside the water. He began to sweat whenever he neared anything larger than a puddle, had since he was a boy.

For the first time in centuries, he forced himself to kneel so he could look at his reflection. Wondering how she saw him, he peered down.

He had horns and fangs; she did not. While her skin was smooth and clean, his was dirty, his face covered with stubble. His clothes were rough-hewn and tattered.