Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(12)

“I … I only sought to warn you, my lord,” the Fox said, his head lowered in submission.

“Of course,” the Dionysus said, gentling his tone smoothly. “I know you are loyal to me.”

“I am,” the Fox said, raising his head cautiously. “Dyemore wants your throne.”

The Dionysus sighed silently. Of course Dyemore wanted his throne. Everyone wanted his throne. Most, however, hadn’t the brains or the ruthlessness needed to challenge him.

Dyemore, however …

If nothing else, the Dionysus liked to keep his enemies close under his eye to better understand their plans.

“You cannot trust him,” the Fox said, his tone whining. He’d crept nearer. “Please, my lord, beware of Dyemore.”

“Your concern is sweet.” The Dionysus saw that the Mole was watching them from behind his pillar. “Come. Let us partake together. Bring a sacrifice and we will share.”

“Oh yes, my lord,” the Fox said eagerly. He darted away and was soon dragging back a drunken wench, her hair the color of burgundy. “Does this one please you?”

“Indeed,” the Dionysus lied. He drew his finger down the woman’s slack face—watching as her eyes widened in fear—and then drew the same finger down the Fox’s freckled shoulder.

The Fox shivered at his touch.

Over by the pillar the Mole started forward, then froze.

The Fox thrust the woman down before the throne so that her face was between the Dionysus’s legs, her task obvious.

The Dionysus sighed silently. His prick was limp—and would remain limp for her mouth or any other’s were that the only thing available to stimulate him.

But needs must. A show was important—to him, the Fox, and, perhaps most importantly, the Mole.

So his fingers found the small dagger hidden in the side of his throne, and he palmed it in his fist and drove it into the inside of his right thigh, perilously close to where an artery ran just under the skin.

Pain blossomed and bright blood gushed over his fingers.

His prick awakened.

He took his bloodied fingers and daubed them about the stunned woman’s mouth before meeting her terrified eyes. “Begin.”

As she bent her blood-painted mouth to his genitals he dug his thumb into the wound, sweet, blissful agony shooting through his body.

The Fox was already grunting over her back.

The Dionysus glanced up once to make sure the Mole was watching, his fingers clenching the pillar, before he closed his eyes.

Yes, he’d have to look after Dyemore. Make sure he’d gotten rid of Lady Jordan.

And nullify him as a threat to his throne.

*

Iris awoke the next day to sunshine.

She blinked.

Sunshine seemed most inappropriate, considering the ghastly events of the night before, but there it was, all the same. A merry little beam of sunlight danced across the ancient wooden floor of the ducal bedroom, almost to the huge bed she lay in. She could see the window where the sun was coming in—made of stone, with a severely pointed top. The surrounding wood paneling was a dark, reddish brown, intricately carved into vertical points and honeycombs. The paneling continued all the way up to the ceiling. If she tilted her head, peering past the heavy purple canopy of the bed, she could just make out the edge of a carved medallion in the very center of the ceiling.

Iris let her head drop back on the pillow.

She could hear Dyemore breathing beside her, even and deep. It was actually rather comforting, knowing he was there with her. Knowing that he’d given so much to protect her.

Iris frowned at the thought. She really oughtn’t to feel safe with Dyemore—she knew so little about him, and what she did know was suspect—and yet she did.

Carefully she inched from her side to her back, the sheets bunching around her waist and rustling horribly. She froze for a moment, but his breathing didn’t hitch, so she rolled to face him.

Dyemore lay on his back, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks ruddy. From this angle his aquiline nose rose in sharp profile.

Iris propped herself up on her elbow.

Lines were drawn on his forehead, between his brows, and on the unscarred cheek from his nostril to the corner of his mouth. She didn’t think they sat there normally. He looked as if he suffered in his sleep.

She gingerly laid the back of her hand against his brow.

His skin was hot and damp and she frowned worriedly—had he started a fever?

He sighed and she snatched back her hand.

She might feel safe with him, but intellectually she knew she had no reason to do so. If she woke him, would he start ordering her about as he had last night?

Iris wasn’t sure she wanted to submit to this man’s rule. His husbandly right to do with her what he wished.

His right to bed her.

She shivered, staring down at him, forcing herself to examine the horrific scar that marred the right side of his face. The Duke of Kyle—Hugh, as she knew him—had been with her when she’d first seen Dyemore at that ball so many months before. He’d mentioned that there were rumors surrounding the scar. That there had been a duel between Dyemore and an enraged father because of a corrupted daughter. That Dyemore’s own father, the old duke, had carved the scar into his son’s face. Or that the scar was somehow the sign of a family curse.

That Dyemore had been born with half his face disfigured.