Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(49)

Spell school? His mate was a witch, a channa. Which meant that just because fate had marked her as his, she wouldn’t necessarily want him back.

“Then I’m going to run away with a pirate,” Carrow said. They didn’t respond. “I’m going to jump off a bridge and steal your sole heir from you. That’s why you had me, isn’t it? For an heir? I can’t think of another reason—”

Carrow’s father snapped his fingers, and two similarly dressed women seized her under her arms.

As she was dragged away, Carrow screamed to her parents, “Look at me, look at me, look at me! What is wrong with you?” Her voice breaking on a sob, she said, “Wh-what is wrong with me?”

Malkom woke from the dream in a rush, agitated, feeling as if he were behind in some task.

I want to make up for how they treated her. She’d been devastated, truly heartsick. My mate, ignored, hurt.

Rolling onto his back, he pressed her sleeping form against his side, and she curled into him with a sigh. He drew her tight against his chest, her body molding so perfectly against his.

He’d had no family. Hers didn’t deserve her. Then we will be family.

Never will I be separated from her. His voice hoarse, he told her, “Carrow is mine.”

He didn’t realize until long moments had passed that he’d spoken her tongue.





21




H-o-m-e. With a stick, the demon painstakingly scripted the letters in the sand.

“That’s perfect, Malkom.” He groused at the praise, but she could tell he liked it.

Three nights ago, he’d taken that stick, twirled it in the sand, and then handed it to her, saying, “Carrow.”

And that was how his lessons had begun. In front of the fire, he’d learned to write her name, and she’d taught him how to write his own. This morning, they were working on home and food.

Carrow had spent these last few days in the mine with him, fed, loved on, protected, and empowered—literally—by his satisfaction.

Though that first morning, she had woken with a heavy sense of guilt. The demon had given her the sexual night of her life—even without actual sex—and had been gazing at her with that same wonder in his eyes.

She’d thought, Never was he supposed to be like this. Betraying the crazed vemon who’d attacked her would have been easy. Betraying this tender, proud lover, however . . .

In stilted English, he’d grated, “God morn.”

“Good morning?”

He’d given her a patronizing expression as if saying, That’s what I said.

Carrow had remembered the isolated report of his speaking English. “You know more of my language than you let on, don’t you?” What if she could explain to him why she was here, even ask for his help? Would she dare risk it?

“Did you once speak English? We’ve got to talk a lot, then.” Like in Dances with Wolves, multiple walking-and-talking montages. “Do you like to make the talk?”

He’d understood nothing. So she’d spoken more slowly while assessing his reactions. She’d been able to see recognition with some words, but not enough to truly communicate.

Yet with each hour, he was recalling more. He’d begun speaking haltingly, in that thick Demonish accent.

He knew please, thank you, are you hungry/tired/thirsty? He could understand just about any one or two syllable words. When she’d told him what she was, he’d even understood the word witch.

He could also ask her if she was needing, as he put it. She refused to teach him the word horny. Of course, by now he’d heard her telling him she was about to come so many times that he could inform her of the same in English.

They were rubbing along but not able to talk freely, definitely not enough to test the waters, to see how he’d react to her predicament.

There was a translation spell she could use, but it would take a lot of power and a ton of skill, was considered a three-out-of-fiver. Even with all the power she’d been harvesting from him, she wouldn’t have enough juice. Short of a raucous crowd, she’d be a bust.

So she’d been using the power he provided to reinforce her body for his constant—and welcome—attentions.

Aside from some early stumbling blocks, the demon loved to touch and be touched. For some reason, this had made her think of Declan Chase, with his aversion to contact. Both males had evidently been tormented, but Malkom still craved physical affection.

Sexually Malkom was a dominant demon to the core, but he was inexperienced as well. Which made for more than one tricksy situation.

Still, he’d given her mind-blowing climaxes and a feast of happiness. The more pleasure she felt, the more satisfaction he enjoyed, which in turn made her even stronger.

And everything about her seemed to make him happy.

His reactions to her were so intense, he truly was like a giant battery for her.

Feeding her from his hand? Made him happy. Waking up next to her? He always looked vaguely surprised that she was there. Then his face would relax into that self-satisfied expression, and his happiness would flood over her like a warm blanket.

Watching her bathe? Made him ecstatic.

He’d joined her every time. Any lingering hesitation about getting in the water was dwindling. He loved to bathe her just as she had him, still learning her body as curiosity lit his eyes. She’d let him examine her freely, glad to give him at least that.