The Darkest Wolves - A.K. Koonce Page 0,20

of.

Until now. There, cut into the hard stone of the wall, is a jutting balcony. And there, seated on the ground, with his legs hanging carelessly over the edge, is a crowned man who peers down on us.

The Prince of Hell.

“The Honor of the Moon festivities were salacious. A delicious night indeed,” the Prince says with a cutting smile slicing his lips. “Soon we will celebrate our new queen, whoever she may be.” The heavy attention of the royal man falls hard on me, and I force myself to hold the rigid posture of my confidence in place. “The High Hell have brought me a gift from the moon festivities, it seems,” he muses.

The tightness in my chest can only be explained as my body’s way of trying to stop my slamming heart from exiting my existence entirely. A chill washes over my skin in a cold douse of clammy anxiety.

Nonetheless, I lift my chin higher and look up at the eerie Prince without an ounce of that fear crawling over the face blessed by the Goddess herself. This is why I’m here: I’m here to seduce the Prince of Hell.

And hope he dies because of my good efforts.

With a leap that disrupts the current of the air in the room, that man pounces down before me. I bite my tongue hard to stop the gasp from leaving my lips as the plates and glasses rattle around him directly in front of me. He balances on the toes of his dirty boots as he hunches down, arms slung over his knees, and he stares wide-eyed at me.

Amazed. He looks at me like someone’s bottled dragon’s fire and sunk it to the bottom of the sea of Death.

He looks at me the way everyone does.

And I hate it.

“You look enchanting,” he whispers, skimming my features with a dark hungry gaze.

A bold idea flickers through my mind, and my hand drifts out between us before I can think better of it. My index finger brushes along his lower lip faintly, but I still feel the heat of his breath rush over my knuckles.

The space between us separates as I lean in to this daunting devilish man and whisper to him and him alone. “I taste even better.”

A chair scrapes so hard against the floor that the thing falls backward at my side. My attention isn’t on the chair though. I watch Roman storm away with lines cut along his back from both scars and tense muscle.

“Roman.” The Prince growls out his name with a dusting of sparkling black magic exhaling from his lungs.

And the beautiful, strong man who’s warred with me since the moment I met him in the window pane of another realm entirely, he halts.

Freezes actually. Every stiff muscle in his hard body ceases.

And the Prince jumps down and is striding toward him in an instant.

His long fingers taunt over Roman’s shoulders as he rounds him and then faces him head-on. “You like the pale woman? Blondes are your type? Sexy blue-eyed vixens are the key to your weak little soul?” The cutting smile on his lips makes me sick.

Or maybe the twisting of my stomach is because of the belittling way he’s talking to Roman…

“You think you’re deserving of such a luxury as a woman?” The Prince is so focused on Roman that his inky black eyes shine with excitement and danger.

I hate him.

I hate this man, and I know nothing about him.

“Come here.” He points at the spot just near his side. Everyone in the room passes a look.

To me.

He’s talking to me.

Even if he never so much as glances my way.

I’m standing without a second’s hesitation, and despite the seriousness slicing into this moment, I just know Avian is beaming with pride all because I followed a simple order.

Stop smiling, asshole.

It wasn’t some great accomplishment.

I do listen…ish.

The impassive look on my face is held tightly in place with a carelessness I’m summoning deep from my hard pounding heart.

It feels like every step is leaden. Time passes like I’m looking back on a decade of tragedy instead of ten seconds of casual walking.

And then I’m locking eyes with the cruelest gaze filled with so much manic destruction.

“Tell me, my sweet, is Roman appealing?” the Prince of Hell asks.

The use of that nickname slides over me like cold vomit hitting my face.

I smile the most charmed smile.

“Women do not love the weak,” I answer without hesitancy, and it hurts. It hurts so fucking much to say what I know