Demon from the Dark

Carrow's parents had given it to her on her twelfth birthday, directly before they'd abandoned her at Andoain.

Her father had visited there once, years later, to get her into college. Upon leaving, he'd absently patted her on the head, saying, 'Send us report cards, and we'll continue sending money.'

When she'd dropped out—because there was little happiness to be found on campus during finals—she'd sent a letter to her parents instead of a report card. In it, she'd written: 'If you're actually taking the time to read this, then go to hell and shove your money up your asses.'

Without fail, the next check had come.

I'd never treat Ruby as they did me. Reminded of why she was here, Carrow tried to reason out a game plan.

Since this demon was violently out of control, she couldn't even approach him, much less communicate with him. The Order's plan—witch lures vemon to portal—was laughable.

She narrowed her eyes. Had those mortals known she was Slaine's mate? How could they have? Unless they had an oracle or some sort of immortal stoolie slipping them intel.

Maybe that was why Carrow had been chosen so specifically for capture. It wasn't as if they'd just stumbled across her and decided on a nab. They'd sprung her from County.

If the Order had known, then she surely couldn't trust them.

Yet she had to operate under the assumption that they would let her go. Again she thought, What are two witches to them? And Carrow still had no idea where their island was. The Order wouldn't suspect she had the wherewithal to lead anyone back to the facility.

Because she didn't.

Now, Mariketa on the other hand...

In any event, this plan of theirs needed tweaking. They were fools if they thought Slaine could be controlled. They wouldn't be able to predict his strength—even an immortal like her had been shocked by it.

Carrow raised her fingers to her neck, to her healing bite mark. It fully sank in then that Malkom Slaine had taken her blood. There were repercussions from that act so risky she couldn't bear to think about them yet.

Which meant the demon was even more dangerous than she could ever have imagined.

Malkom yanked off the last ghoul's head, already scanning for something else to kill.

Seven ghouls he'd destroyed this night. With no sign of her still. The drive to mate with her was there, but something else—some unfamiliar feeling—weighed on him.

He felt as if he were losing his mind, knowing she was near, yet finding no tracks, no scent.

Over the course of his search, he'd located only her belongings. Her food, water container, and bag had been scattered in the brush among the demon gang's corpses.

He'd collected all her possessions for her, puzzling over the strange tube of food she'd packed and the peculiar canisters and bottles. But he'd stowed everything near his mine, carrying her full water canteen with him in case he should find her.

Seeing that water container had reminded him that she would already be suffering the dangerous effects of thirst. Dizziness, delirium. Suffering needlessly. Malkom was rich in water.

What he wouldn't give to go back to last night. He wouldn't have frightened her, wouldn't have uncontrollably slaughtered those demons.

He tried to tell himself he wouldn't have stolen her blood, but at the memory of that pleasure, he knew he would be lying—

Her scent.

At last! For hours, he'd been unable to detect her, but now he charged headlong in her direction.

As Malkom closed in, he slowed. Better not to make his presence known—she might turn herself invisible again or blast him with her hands.

So he scaled a cliff to follow her from above. At his first sight of her, relief soughed through him. But he kept a vigilant eye on her, ensuring that she didn't come across one of his many traps or some maurading beast. He followed, observing her behavior, puzzling out the foreign little succubus.

Always observing. But this time he enjoyed it. He could watch her for hours, her expressions were so revealing. And though her mutterings were incomprehensible, he recognized the tones. She was no longer afraid—she was vexed; kicking rocks, then seeming to curse them.

Even when so visibly exhausted, she was still lovely. Satisfaction swelled his chest as his gaze moved from one exquisite feature to the next. Her lashes were long, her cheekbones high and elegant. Her lips were full.

Before he'd encountered her, he'd never comprehended why males mused on what their mates would look like, what color hair or eyes they might have. As if a male should care more about his female's coloring than he should a fine horse's! Now Malkom experienced an unknown-before pride that his woman was a black-haired beauty.

Though he might have imagined his fated one would be a match for him—a weary and hardened demoness used to deprivation—she was his opposite in so many ways.

She had no fangs or claws, and her skin looked as if it'd never once seen the harsh sun. Whereas he was the son of a whore, he believed she'd been raised as a noble.

Yet she wore a collar, as slaves did. At the thought of owning her that way, his member stiffened. He imagined selecting her, expending as much wealth as necessary to secure her, then taking her back to his lair to enjoy.

In the past, his discipline had kept him from obsessing over intercourse. Now that there was the possibility of claiming her, his eagerness couldn't be stemmed. He wanted the use of her body at his will, wanted to learn her female form.

If he studied her enough, he could figure out how to pleasure a woman. As it was, he didn't even know where he'd begin touching her. He'd never felt a female's body, much less fondled one's sex.

But he had to believe he could find the key to her desires. One of the earliest lessons he'd learned as a youth was that everyone had a key. Were his woman's ears sensitive? Her neck? He imagined piling up that mane of hair and placing his lips on her nape. Would my hands covering her breasts make her tremble?

She hissed in a breath, her limping more pronounced. Whether noblewoman or slave, she was clearly not accustomed to a place this harsh. She rubbed the back of her neck, pinching the muscles there. At least her wrist seemed to be healing.

Eventually, she hobbled over to a bone tree stump, sinking atop it. With a look of dread, she peered at her boots. As she gingerly drew off the first one, she bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

The short black hosiery beneath was affixed to her blisters. As she removed the second boot, he winced for her, but she never made a sound. His female was strong in resolve, if not in body.

When she twined the length of her hair into a knot atop her head, he saw the faint outline of his bite. The night before, she'd sneered the word vampire just before she'd sent blazing shots to his chest. If that was how she saw him, perhaps she hated them as much as he did.

She'd seemed more furious about his biting her than his shoving against her body for release. He understood her aversion. He'd been drunk thousands of times.

It had never grown any easier to take.

Yet it would be impossible not to enjoy her neck again, now that he'd experienced the bliss of it. He narrowed his eyes. Give and take. For years, he'd ceded his blood. I wear my scars—I am owed! Her blood would be a small price to pay for his protection.

Malkom didn't know how she'd gotten herself exiled into these infernal wastelands; he did know that she was damned lucky to have a strong arm to protect her here, considering her fragile nature and inconsistent power.

Perhaps she needed a token to remind her of how much she needed him.

Chapter 9