Wicked Abyss
Page 33
He’d been so enthralled with her looks, he’d almost forgotten about all the weapons she carried. “You can lift your skirts, or I will do it for you,” he said. “And I won’t be as considerate of the fact that you might not be wearing undergarments.”
To her credit, she remained unfazed, even sighing. “What are you going on about now, demon?” She gave him an assessing glance.
For the first time in ages, he’d taken care with his appearance, having a valet help him since he refused to look at his reflection. Sian thought he’d detected her approval earlier. “I’m talking about your abuse of my gifts.”
“You were spying on me?”
Constantly. But once she had finished with her escape preparations, he’d given her privacy to bathe and dress. “I can scent something is amiss with you.”
She turned from him with an irritated huff, then raised a dainty foot to the chair. After reaching beneath her skirts, she turned to toss her hidden bag onto the table.
He reached inside it and pulled out a weapon: a shard of glass with cloth wrapped around the base to create a handle. “A fair enough knife.”
She jutted her chin.
A smaller drawstring bag held an ashy powder. “I suspect you used the mirror and sunlight to cook the fire vine into a portable toxin. Had you intended to throw that in my eyes?”
Shrug.
He pulled free a set of sharpened sticks that she’d threaded into a swath of cloth for accessibility. “You used the boning from your corset to make throwing sticks.”
She crossed her arms over her chest.
With a wave of his hand, he disposed of her bag and implements. “Save yourself any future efforts at escaping. Your ring”—he pointed to the gold band on her finger—“has a confinement spell as well as healing. As long as you wear that, you can’t exit the castle.”
She scowled at the ring, then at him. “All you’ve done is give me a problem to solve.”
The little firebrand was just getting warmed up. His pulse quickened at the idea.
Smoothing her hair, she asked, “What are you going to do to me now?”
“Nothing. Though I won this round, I’ll replace these items in your room, and we can start this evening over.”
What’s his game?
The demon had just caught her red-handed, yet he wanted to continue their dinner? “Sure. Why not?” What else could she do? All her efforts had been wasted.
And sneaky fucking Abyssian had shoved at least two spells into her ring. She could have burned herself on the fire vine for weeks, and she still wouldn’t have been going anywhere.
But she had to believe another chance to escape would come her way. Tonight she would learn as much as she could. Tomorrow she would regroup.
After seating her, he traced to his chair at the opposite end of the long marble table. Even the table surface had chiseled Demonish inscriptions. Would he notice if she read them? “Is all the furniture stone in this castle? And the doors gold?”
He nodded. “We have only one slow-growing forest here, with trees so large lumber production would be difficult. But we have limitless igneous rock and ore.” As a golden goblet appeared before her, he said, “Try the wine. Unless you’d prefer demon brew.” He raised his own cup.
“I don’t drink.” She’d never been able to afford a misstep in the mortal realm.
With steel in his tone, he said, “You do tonight.”
Pick your battles. She took a sip. Nice enough wine, she supposed. She gazed around the room, then back at him. In the firelight, he looked less monstrous. Surprisingly, she found aspects of the king . . . not off-putting.
The flash of white teeth against his reddened skin. His prominent cheekbones. The clarity of his gaze.
Even his large black horns were striking. They emerged from his temples to flare back along his head. Ridged at the base, the lengths grew smoother toward the tips.
Naturally the king of hell would look to his best advantage by firelight.
He might be beastly, but he had pride in his bearing. He should; he was a king, a primordial—and a member of the most powerful alliance in existence.
A Møriør sat right down the table from her. Though she was boldly assessing him, he said nothing, letting her look her fill.
His lips even curled. “That color suits you.”
Compliments and wine? Again, he was putting forth an effort to make her more relaxed. At any moment, she expected him to say, And for my next trick . . . Her gaze flicked upward. “The crown of the hell demonarchy is understated.” Unlike Saetth’s fey crown.
“Because it serves little purpose. The demons of Pandemonia instinctively recognize and revere a monarch’s horns. Mine are identifiable to them above all others.”
She’d never read that. “I’m surprised His Highness invited me tonight. We didn’t seem to get off on the right foot.” She bit her lip and took a sip of wine. He might not have feet, Lila.
“I want you to call me Abyssian.”
Another order. “Very well, Abyssian.” She had a brief thought that he was trying to seduce her—he must want to be free of his demon seal—but she dismissed the idea. She’d made no secret of her hatred of him.
“I am curious about my prisoner.” With a wave of his hand, he made the table shorter, teleporting her chair closer.
“Oh!” She blinked.
He noticed her hand shaking on her cup. “Nervous?”
“I’m suspicious. Before the night’s through, you’ll probably make me run for my life from hellhounds or something.”
“You’re in no danger this evening. I vow to the Lore that you’ll be safely returned to your tower after dinner,” he said, adding, “And there’s no outrunning hellhounds.”
Dick. “Good to know.”
“Where did you live before your current home?” He sampled his drink. For a sinister demonic king, he had nice lips.
She dragged her focus back to his intense green eyes. “I was born in Sylvan.”
“Are you close to your parents?”
“I wanted to be.” Her upbringing had been so different from the ones she’d read about among other species. Maybe that explained why she wanted children so much: to shower them with the love she’d been denied. “But it wasn’t in the cards,” she said, her voice sounding sad, even to herself. Her scheming and cold parents had been consumed with acquiring ever more power. “They died years ago.”
To her credit, she remained unfazed, even sighing. “What are you going on about now, demon?” She gave him an assessing glance.
For the first time in ages, he’d taken care with his appearance, having a valet help him since he refused to look at his reflection. Sian thought he’d detected her approval earlier. “I’m talking about your abuse of my gifts.”
“You were spying on me?”
Constantly. But once she had finished with her escape preparations, he’d given her privacy to bathe and dress. “I can scent something is amiss with you.”
She turned from him with an irritated huff, then raised a dainty foot to the chair. After reaching beneath her skirts, she turned to toss her hidden bag onto the table.
He reached inside it and pulled out a weapon: a shard of glass with cloth wrapped around the base to create a handle. “A fair enough knife.”
She jutted her chin.
A smaller drawstring bag held an ashy powder. “I suspect you used the mirror and sunlight to cook the fire vine into a portable toxin. Had you intended to throw that in my eyes?”
Shrug.
He pulled free a set of sharpened sticks that she’d threaded into a swath of cloth for accessibility. “You used the boning from your corset to make throwing sticks.”
She crossed her arms over her chest.
With a wave of his hand, he disposed of her bag and implements. “Save yourself any future efforts at escaping. Your ring”—he pointed to the gold band on her finger—“has a confinement spell as well as healing. As long as you wear that, you can’t exit the castle.”
She scowled at the ring, then at him. “All you’ve done is give me a problem to solve.”
The little firebrand was just getting warmed up. His pulse quickened at the idea.
Smoothing her hair, she asked, “What are you going to do to me now?”
“Nothing. Though I won this round, I’ll replace these items in your room, and we can start this evening over.”
What’s his game?
The demon had just caught her red-handed, yet he wanted to continue their dinner? “Sure. Why not?” What else could she do? All her efforts had been wasted.
And sneaky fucking Abyssian had shoved at least two spells into her ring. She could have burned herself on the fire vine for weeks, and she still wouldn’t have been going anywhere.
But she had to believe another chance to escape would come her way. Tonight she would learn as much as she could. Tomorrow she would regroup.
After seating her, he traced to his chair at the opposite end of the long marble table. Even the table surface had chiseled Demonish inscriptions. Would he notice if she read them? “Is all the furniture stone in this castle? And the doors gold?”
He nodded. “We have only one slow-growing forest here, with trees so large lumber production would be difficult. But we have limitless igneous rock and ore.” As a golden goblet appeared before her, he said, “Try the wine. Unless you’d prefer demon brew.” He raised his own cup.
“I don’t drink.” She’d never been able to afford a misstep in the mortal realm.
With steel in his tone, he said, “You do tonight.”
Pick your battles. She took a sip. Nice enough wine, she supposed. She gazed around the room, then back at him. In the firelight, he looked less monstrous. Surprisingly, she found aspects of the king . . . not off-putting.
The flash of white teeth against his reddened skin. His prominent cheekbones. The clarity of his gaze.
Even his large black horns were striking. They emerged from his temples to flare back along his head. Ridged at the base, the lengths grew smoother toward the tips.
Naturally the king of hell would look to his best advantage by firelight.
He might be beastly, but he had pride in his bearing. He should; he was a king, a primordial—and a member of the most powerful alliance in existence.
A Møriør sat right down the table from her. Though she was boldly assessing him, he said nothing, letting her look her fill.
His lips even curled. “That color suits you.”
Compliments and wine? Again, he was putting forth an effort to make her more relaxed. At any moment, she expected him to say, And for my next trick . . . Her gaze flicked upward. “The crown of the hell demonarchy is understated.” Unlike Saetth’s fey crown.
“Because it serves little purpose. The demons of Pandemonia instinctively recognize and revere a monarch’s horns. Mine are identifiable to them above all others.”
She’d never read that. “I’m surprised His Highness invited me tonight. We didn’t seem to get off on the right foot.” She bit her lip and took a sip of wine. He might not have feet, Lila.
“I want you to call me Abyssian.”
Another order. “Very well, Abyssian.” She had a brief thought that he was trying to seduce her—he must want to be free of his demon seal—but she dismissed the idea. She’d made no secret of her hatred of him.
“I am curious about my prisoner.” With a wave of his hand, he made the table shorter, teleporting her chair closer.
“Oh!” She blinked.
He noticed her hand shaking on her cup. “Nervous?”
“I’m suspicious. Before the night’s through, you’ll probably make me run for my life from hellhounds or something.”
“You’re in no danger this evening. I vow to the Lore that you’ll be safely returned to your tower after dinner,” he said, adding, “And there’s no outrunning hellhounds.”
Dick. “Good to know.”
“Where did you live before your current home?” He sampled his drink. For a sinister demonic king, he had nice lips.
She dragged her focus back to his intense green eyes. “I was born in Sylvan.”
“Are you close to your parents?”
“I wanted to be.” Her upbringing had been so different from the ones she’d read about among other species. Maybe that explained why she wanted children so much: to shower them with the love she’d been denied. “But it wasn’t in the cards,” she said, her voice sounding sad, even to herself. Her scheming and cold parents had been consumed with acquiring ever more power. “They died years ago.”
