Kiss of a Demon King

'I think so.'

Omort smiled, revealing flawless white teeth, but the expression never reached his cold eyes. 'How disap­ pointed the demon must be.' He sat down on the bed beside her.

Calm . . . calm . . . distract him. 'What happened that night you faced him? When the kingdom fell? I've read what's been recorded, but the details are hazy.'

'I'd made a secret pact with the Horde king, Demes-triu. He aggressed Rydstrom, depleting his armies, then launched a surprise attack. Rydstrom was forced to jour­ney away to defend. That's when I captured Tornin. The castle was unprotected because Rydstrom's heir Cadeon refused his summons to defend the holding.'

'Why would he do that?' From everything she'd heard about the mercenary Cadeon, he was fearless.

'Who can understand demons? I find great pleasure in knowing that Rydstrom blames Cadeon for turn­ing his back on his kingdom. What Rydstrom doesn't understand is that I well knew the importance of Cade-on's presence in the castle. That's why I had five hun­dred revenants waiting to ambush the prince. If Cadeon had obeyed his brother, he and his guard would've been slaughtered.'

Interesting. 'And you personally faced Rydstrom.'

'He's the only being I've ever fought that lived. Instead of merely burning him to ash, I played at honor,

facing him in a sword duel in one of his strongholds. He beheaded me-the blow was true, and deadly for any other. But I rose. He used his brute strength to topple the roof, trapping me inside, and was able to escape.'

Omort's hand was inching closer to her covered ankle. 'Sabine, how much can I trust you?'

'Probably not as much as you can Hettiah. Shouldn't you be with her now?'

'She doesn't understand things as you do. And as much as I will it differently, she is a pale comparison to you. A dim shadow to your light.'

'Did you come into my room just to state the obvi­ous?' Her brother's attraction to Sabine wasn't fueled only by her looks. She believed Omort secretly hun­gered for death. In lieu of that, he hungered for her, a woman who knew death so intimately.

When he grazed his forefinger over her covered ankle, his eyes slid shut and drool collected at the cor­ner of his lips. Stifling a shudder, she hastily rose, then crossed to the seaside balcony.

This place always calmed her, like a balm for her mind. During most of her sleepless nights, she stood out here, watching the sea.

Omort moved behind her, not touching her, but standing far too close. No warmth emanated from him. He was cold and deadened like a corpse.

Rydstrom had been all inviting heat.

'You should go, brother. I have a challenging day tomorrow. I'll need to be on top of my game to be the first to break the iron will of Rydstrom.'

'I'm glad that you've ceased underestimating him.'

When she could feel his cold breaths on her neck, she whirled around, hastening to her chamber's drink service. She poured sweet wine-only for herself-then held up her goblet to Omort. 'Brother, do be a dear and poison me.'

Every month, Omort gave her and Lanthe the mor­sus, literally the 'stinging bite poison.' The power of the morsus was that it didn't cause pain upon ingestion but upon withdrawal.

Weaning from the poison was supposed to be so excruciating that she and Lanthe were considered per­ petually 'condemned.' Without an antidote, the pain would be so great they'd eventually die from it.

The morsus kept them from leaving Omort and from rebelling. For the most part.

He exhaled as if she were putting him out, then rotated the thick ring on his forefinger. As he snapped open the jeweled covering of his poison cache, she stared at the ring. It held so much significance for her. It was the source of life, the enforcer of her obedience.

And the ring told her when Omort lied, as he'd unconsciously rotate it.

When he poured the black granules into her wine, a hiss sounded and smoke tendrils seeped upward. But once it settled, it would be odorless and tasteless to those who weren't trained to detect it.

Ages ago, he'd slipped the morsus into their wine before they'd learned to identify potions by smell and taste-and before they'd learned to create their own to counter him.

Sabine nonchalantly held up the goblet. 'Slainte.' She drained the contents. 'Now, I really need to get some sleep. Remember, Omort, I'm doing this for us. And I know you want us to succeed.'

'Very well, Sabine.' With a last lingering gaze, he finally exited, but not before she heard him murmur, 'Soon.'

Alone once more, she returned to the balcony. As she surveyed the tumultuous sea and breathed deep of the salt air, she mused over her current situation.

Plots and subplots. She wanted Tornin for herself and for Lanthe. Yet after tonight, she suspected Omort would try to force her to surrender before she ever even got a chance to make her play.

She shivered. He'd been emboldened to come into her room, bringing with him coldness and misery hang­ing over him like a cloak. She felt pensive, unclean.

For the first time ever, Sabine's gaze wasn't held fast by the sea. She turned to the south, toward the dungeon tower.

The demon was such a force of nature, she imagined herself getting lost in him. Ultimately, she found her feet taking her in his direction, her heart aching for ... something.

9

Without a word, Sabine climbed into bed with the demon.

Though she sensed his instant tension, she lay on her back beside him, not touching him, but close enough to feel the heat from his big body.

For long moments, they lay side by side in silence, as if they'd called an uneasy mice. They both stared at the ceiling, so she made it appear to fade away, revealing the night sky.

He tensed even more. 'Your power is great.' His voice was rumbling.

In the dark, she seemed to feel it. 'It is.'

'Is this all illusion or did you make the ceiling disap­pear?'

'My vanity tells me that you're impressed with my goddesslike gift and curious about it. Experience tells me you want to learn my strengths and weaknesses so you can kill me.'

'I'll spare your life, if you free me now,' he said.

'You've served me ill. But you've done nothing irrevocable yet.'

'Demon, give me time.' How could he be so warm? Unbelievably, she felt herself growing relaxed. 'To answer your question, all is illusion. Optical and auditory.'

'You can't make others feel things?'

'I have no tactile illusions. Not yet. Which is a shame because I could decimate an army with anows I imagined. But I can make others feel things, just the same.'

'Like what?'

'I can make you see your worst nightmares or your most coveted dreams. And I can control them.'

'Do you have other abilities?'

'Dozens,' she lied. The only other one was Lanthe's birthday gift from so long ago-communicating with and mesmerizing animals. 'I wield many.'

He seemed to take that in. Finally he asked, 'Have you thought about what you seek to do? What it would be like to bear and raise a demon child?'

In truth, she hadn't thought much about that what­soever. She didn't allow herself to imagine her preg­ nancy, delivery, or the upbringing of a demon prince. If she ever began wondering what their halfling would look like, she forced herself to think of something else.

The agenda had been set, the plot hatched. The rest was just details.

But Omort's visit was throwing a kink in her plans.