The Darkest Wolves - A.K. Koonce Page 0,21

he wants to hear.

Yesterday I held this man in my arms, and today I tell him he’s worthless.

If I wasn’t already in hell, I’d have just reserved my seat with that single comment alone.

It works perfectly though. The corner of the Prince’s mouth angles up in a hard, pleased smirk.

“Beauty and brains. No wonder my brother likes you.”

Brother.

That word circles over and over and over again, and I grow sicker and sicker with each and every round it makes. Roman is the Prince of Hell’s own flesh and blood.

And judging by last night’s whippings, I’d say he’s punished frequently simply because of that blood.

I don’t dare look at him. As tight as my throat is and as painful as my heart feels, I won’t dare risk a look at him.

“Kiss him,” the Prince says suddenly, his words ringing out among the watchful crowd, and I nearly stumble in my desire to look to Zilo for guidance.

I don’t. I hold that charmed dazed smile in place and try to blaze through all the possible outcomes of this test.

Is it a test? For me? Or for Roman?

I should refuse. I should appear appalled.

But to be uncertain is to fail.

And I don’t fail.

I turn on my heels, and my lips lock with the softest waiting mouth. I expect no reaction from the magically bound man held in place.

To my surprise, his warm tongue slides over my lips. And I open to him in a gasp of surprise and need. Strong fingers shove through my long hair, and he pulls me to him harder, kissing me so deeply he steals the air in my lungs.

Along with every logical thought that was previously occupying my dense little brain.

A growling groan turns to agony so fierce I can taste it against his tongue. Every part of his body tenses as some kind of pain takes over. But still he kisses me like I’m the only thing keeping him from dying.

It’s the strangest thing to feel like someone needs you. It isn’t like being wanted at all.

Desire. Longing. Lust.

They’re nothing compared to love.

And that’s oddly what this demanding passionate kiss feels like.

And that’s why I jerk away from him, shoving my hands between us to accommodate even more space between me and that consuming sensation of being cherished. The moment I do, he falls to his knees. His head lowers, and he trembles in torment, curling up on his side as unseen violence rains down on him.

“She tasted good, did she? The things you can’t have always taste the best.” The Prince’s smile is still in place, and his eyes burn with shining magic as he glares down on the man lying at his feet.

“Fucking delicious,” Roman taunts, his own smile curling his lips through the pain that covers his face. “I bet when you finally taste her, she’ll taste like mine,” he spits just before a hard tremble overtakes him and he swallows back a scream stuck in his throat.

It’s that comment that finally shatters the amusement in the Prince’s eyes. With a deadly scowl, his boot collides with Roman’s ribs, and then he turns abruptly away before the gasping pain even leaves his brother’s mouth. Prince Ravar storms through the aisle without looking back. “Punishment, Zilo! Punishment!” he beckons over his shoulder before shoving open the heavy double doors and exiting entirely.

I stand there looking at one man while worrying over another. I don’t help Rome. I can’t.

Instead, I walk right back to my seat with that sickness clawing at my stomach. With all eyes on me, I cling to that unimpressed look hiding my emotions.

And then I pick up that disgusting fucking meat.

And I eat it.

I eat it like I belong here.

I eat it like I love it here.

I eat it like I’m the most devout little follower of the Prince of Hell.

And later, when I’m finally alone, I’ll vomit all of the disturbing things I’ve taken in tonight right back up.

Eight

It’s Getting Hard

It’s odd to be alone in the night. The three of them never came to bed. And I never slept.

So I wait. My legs are curled tightly beneath the gown that I came here in. It’s thin and tattered, but it gives me a weird little sense of comfort that I didn’t know I needed until now. It doesn’t relax me enough to ease how hard my hands are clinging to my arms as I hold myself on the small black velvet settee. The pretty cloth no longer smells like mother.