Shadow's Seduction (The Dacians #2)(43)

My mark.

What if Cas seized what was right before him? His mate. Their future. I could claim and mark him as soon as he wakes.

But if the vampire later strayed . . . There was supposed to be no greater pain than a fated one’s betrayal.

A mate’s death? That pain would be short-lived because a demon would follow.

Yet a rift in the bond between mates delivered anguish without equal.

His arousal flagged. The prince will leave me broken.

Before Cas did anything stupid, maybe he should explain to Mirceo the harsh realities of matehood.

The totality of it. The eternity of it. The monogamy of it.

He’d have that vampire running in the opposite direction.





TWENTY-FOUR


Mirceo dreamed. Even in sleep, he knew he was experiencing his mate’s past.

A memory arose from a time years ago when the demon had been just a pup—a time before he’d been known as Caspion. . . .



Standing on his toes, Beggar stared through the tavern window as a barmaid brought steaming food to a nearby table.

Why was he doing this to himself? Seeing what he could never have just made his hunger worse. Look away.

From a tray, the female set out platter after platter. Haunches of venison. Fat sausages. Juicy suckling pig and roasted boar.

He’d just lost a baby fang, but his other one sharpened as he imagined what that meat would taste like. When the scents reached him, his mouth watered. So did his eyes.

If I could have just a shred of that meat . . .

Those demons—a group of five males—were so lucky. They chose when to eat and where. They read symbols on a menu, then picked whatever they were in the mood for. They decided if they would like the table beside the hearth fire.

Beggar wanted to choose. Anything.

He didn’t pick which clothes he wanted to wear; he had only the rags on his back. He didn’t choose among which shoes he’d wear; he had none at all. The snow and ice bit into his bare feet.

Everyone called him Beggar, because that’s how he’d survived. But only in the past. Now he’d learned how to scavenge too.

Cheeks heating, he admitted to himself he’d soon go back to shameful begging if the weather got any colder. One day, when he never had to wear rags or beg anymore, he would give himself a new name, a proud name—

A customer inside met gazes with him, a demon with gouged horns.

Now I’m in trouble! Last week, the tavern owner had chased him off with a broom! Beggar darted toward the back-alley crate he considered home.

“Hold there, pup,” a male called in a nice-enough tone.

Beggar slowed and turned warily.

The demon with the gouged horns was crossing the icy street toward him. “Come here, son.” Gouge carried a piled-high platter!

Sidling closer, Beggar stayed ready to bolt.

“You surely are a filthy little thing. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, sir.” His stomach growled loudly, but he was too dazed to be embarrassed. Just a shred of meat . . . He could almost taste it. Beggar was so focused on the platter that he barely noticed Gouge’s four friends emerging from the tavern as well.

“Do you want this meal, boy?” Gouge asked. “I’ll let you have it.”

“Y-you will???” This would be riches beyond his imaginings! He was ashamed when tears of gratitude welled in his eyes.

“In exchange for something.”

Beggar drew back. He’d learned to hate the wealthy. They amused themselves with people like him, playing games with the poor just because they could. “For what?”

Gouge shared a smirk with his friends, then faced him again. “Follow us, and I’ll tell you.”

Chills raced over Beggar, but the scent of that food made him trail after the demons. Why were they heading toward the necessary? Nothing good could come from this.

So why am I still following?

Inside the stinking latrine, Gouge said, “If you want this feast, Beggar, you have to eat it with a little spice.” He held up the platter.

Tears spilled down Beggar’s face, because he knew what would come next. No, no, no—

Gouge turned the platter over, precious food dropping into the latrine.

Steam from piss rose along with the steam from food.

“I wouldn’t tarry a moment, whelp,” Gouge said, to his friends’ laughter. “Each moment fouls your feast even more.”

Sobbing, Beggar went to his hands and knees. Vowing that he would never know this humiliation again . . . he ate.



Mirceo shot upright, fangs and claws as sharp as razors. He darted his eyes, surprised not to be in that reeking latrine.

He would find those fucks, and he would godsdamned slaughter them!

Where was Caspion now? He surveyed the room, then scented the air for him. Not here.

But he’d return soon. Surely.

Grappling to rein in his emotions, Mirceo scrubbed his forearm over his eyes, recalling every detail of what he’d just experienced.

Caspion had been such a tiny pup, his emaciated body and rags no match for the cold. Mirceo now knew what it felt like to be chilled to the bone and wracked with ceaseless hunger. He now understood torment.

And then those demons had exploited that pain, adding more. Those dead demons. I will stalk them as mist and sever their fucking heads.