Chapter 13
The airport was a blur of announcements, neon lights, and too many bodies moving in every direction.
Merrik met them there with a card for money and gave Síofra a long, concerned look.
His eyes went to the bruises showing at the base of her neck and then he gave Morgan a searching look.
Morgan could not help the smugness that crept onto his face as he pulled Síofra closer with a possessive paw.
Síofra blushed and tugged at the hem of Morgan’s T-shirt, wishing she had something else to wear.
Her shorts were damp from all the extracurricular activities and uncomfortable against her skin.
In the end Merrik left, promising to put in Síofra’s sick leave request and explain the situation to his parents.
Reading her expression correctly, Morgan dragged Síofra into one of the duty-free shops. He moved with a grim kind of purpose, ignoring her protests as he pulled handfuls of clothing from racks.
“Not my first choice,” she muttered, staring at the short, flowing skirt he held out, “but better than nothing. At least I finally have some dry underwear.”
Ashmedai stirred instantly, his voice silk over stone. “Yes. Underwear. Preferably the lacy scrap in crimson.”
Síofra nearly dropped the hanger. “Absolutely not.”
Morgan glanced over. “Which one?”
“The one full of holes,” Ashmedai replied smoothly. “The one that would disappear between her arse cheeks the instant she bends over.”
Morgan, maddeningly, nodded. “Yeah, that one makes sense.”
Síofra glared at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Morgan said, not meeting her eyes as he shoved the offending scrap into the basket. “But he’s not wrong.”
Her cheeks burned. She turned only to find Ashmedai’s reflection grinning from the chrome trim of a display. “Ah, progress. My queen dresses for her king.”
The rest of the “shopping” was no better. Every time Síofra reached for something practical, Morgan vetoed it, and Ashmedai swooped in with suggestions.
“That tiny black dress. Barely there fabric. Perfect.”
Morgan, grimly: “He’s right. That’ll do.”
“That red one too. Slit up to the hip. She should wear that when we need free access.”
Morgan again: “Yeah, not bad.”
By the time they were done, the bag held three provocative little impractical dresses, one skirt, two shirts which left little to imagination, two indecently delicate sets of lingerie, and-at Morgan’s insistence-a puffer jacket.
He held it up like a prize. “At least one thing to keep you warm.”
Ashmedai sniffed in disdain. “You bury her in feathers like a goose. Disgraceful.”
Síofra groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I hate both of you.”
Then she proceeded to stuff jeans, t-shirts and normal underwear in and aggressively challenged Morgan to try her.Morgan only shrugged and said, “Lets see if you get to wear any of that.”
Then he hurried her into the dressing room and passed her clothes of his choice.
As they walked out, Morgan muttered, “Still got the thong, though.”
Every moment they spent together ,the bond grew stronger. They could read her thoughts and emotions. Every spike of irritation, every flicker of embarrassment… and the curl of warmth she tried to smother when their attention lingered too long.
She caught herself smiling, small and secret, as Morgan handed over the shopping bag as if he’d just bartered for survival supplies instead of lingerie. Their intense focus on her was maddening and overwhelming… and yet some treacherous part of her liked it.
Ashmedai’s voice whispered in her neck, rich with mischief. “We should go into the dressing area. She should model each piece. The shadows would approve.”
Síofra nearly tripped over her own feet. “Absolutely not.”
Morgan cleared his throat beside her. “Actually…”
She froze. “Actually what?”
He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his dark hair. “For once… I think he’s got a point.”
Her head whipped toward him, scandalized. “You agree with him?”
Ashmedai’s laughter rolled through them both, smug and jagged. “At last, the vessel shows sense. Even a wolf can recognize the wisdom of a king.”
Síofra groaned. “Oh, don’t start, Ash.”
“Do not call me Ash,” the demon snapped suddenly, his golden eyes flaring in her mind. “I am Ashmedai. King of demons. Do not whittle me down to a pet name.”
Morgan’s mouth twitched as if suppressing a grin. “He hates it when you call him Ash.”
“Good,” she said tartly. “Then I’ll keep doing it. Ashmedai is a mouthful.”
Ash’s growl reverberated like thunder and made the shop girl jump mumbling nervously about thunder, but it only made Morgan huff a laugh. For once, the wolf and the demon were aligned, their agreement humming comfortably between them.
“Still,” Morgan muttered, glancing at the bag, “maybe… trying things on isn’t the worst idea.”
Síofra stopped dead in her tracks, glaring at him. “You’re impossible. Both of you. I thought we should be focusing on the quest.”
Ashmedai purred, satisfied. “She will come around. They always do. I think I will permit you to call me Ash when I am pounding your pussy. Yes, this pleases me.”
Síofra blushed scarlet.
Morgan gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t look at me like that. I can tell you like the idea. I’m just saying-what if the fit’s wrong?”
Her cheeks went scarlet. “I hate you.”
“Sure you do,” Morgan said, from behind her.He pressed against her back and she could feel the outline of his manhood.
Ash’s voice slithered up from the back of her mind, smooth as oil. “A skirt. Yes. At least you look less like a peasant.”
She clenched her jaw. “I wanted trousers.”
“And I want a throne carved from the bones of my enemies, flame-haired goddess. We cannot always have what we want. The skirt suits you. Easy access for us.”
Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Shut up,” she hissed under her breath, earning a smirk from Morgan, who was juggling boarding passes.
By the time they boarded, Síofra’s nerves were frayed. Morgan had managed to buy out the four seats in their row, which meant no strangers would wedge themselves between them. Still, economy felt like a metal coffin with wings.
Ashmedai grumbled immediately. “A king forced into a sardine tin. Truly, your world is barbaric.”
Morgan dropped into his seat with a sigh.
“Get some sleep,” he muttered, tucking a blanket around her once they had made short work of the meal.
She curled into the window seat, wrapping the blanket tight. Exhaustion pulled at her bones, and for a moment she thought she might actually rest. Morgan leaned his head back, eyes closed within minutes.
The cabin dimmed as the engines hummed and people settled.
And then… the whispers started in her ear.
“So close. I can hear your heart beating.”
Her breath hitched. She glanced sideways. Morgan’s chest rose and fell in a deep, even rhythm.
“He sleeps while I watch. ”
She swallowed hard, pulling the blanket higher. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Nothing.” His laugh purred through her. “Yet. But your skin… is delicious. The heat still coils inside you. Do you know how loud your body is? How it sings?”
She pressed her thighs together, furious at herself as a shiver ran through her.
Ashmedai hummed, smug. “Ah. There it is. You betray yourself.”
She clenched her fists under the blanket. “Stop it.”
The presence eased back, but not without a parting jab. “Very well. For now. But know this, goddess -you may resist me with words. Your body will not.”
Beside her, Morgan stirred faintly, head turning toward her as though some part of him felt what was happening even in his sleep.
Síofra stared out the window into the endless dark sky, heart hammering.
Suddenly the air felt laden with electricity.
The blanket moved as though guided by unseen hands, a brush against her thigh, light as a tease.
Ashmedai’s presence enveloped her, not as heavy as when he manifested in flesh, but palpable and strong.
His claws weren’t there, but she felt them - the impression of strength, the heat of something other. Her thighs parted under the pressure.
“Good,” he purred. “You have chosen. Now I will show you what my vessel never could.”
Under the blankets, a thick finger slipped underneath her skirt to pull her panties to the side.
It traced her clit with a featherlight touch to then sink into her and move in and out sluggishly.
Her lips parted, a soft gasp slipping free.
She turned her face toward the window, hiding behind the blanket as her body arched into invisible touches.
Ashmedai’s voice deepened, resonant inside her. “Yes… give me your moans. Give it to me.”
Morgan shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.
Síofra gripped the armrest hard, trembling. Her inner muscles clenched, each wave of pleasure tearing through her more sharply than the last.
At last, she sagged back into the seat, chest heaving, her skin damp. The blanket clung to her legs.
Ashmedai’s chuckle reverberated low and triumphant. “Sweet flame. Remember this. You asked and I delivered.”
She swallowed, eyes fluttering shut, exhaustion pulling her under. But even as she drifted, the mark of him lingered, undeniable.
The drive west through the Irish countryside should have been peaceful - rolling green hills, stone walls, sheep scattered across pastures. But the atmosphere in the little car was tense.
Síofra pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window, watching the scenery blur past. Morgan’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles pale. And in the back of his skull, Ashmedai sighed like a king forced to travel in a dung cart.