Chapter 13
Aryana
When the shadows stopped shifting, Aryana and Zarathos were in a secluded forest area. Aryana looked around, not recognizing anything that might give her a clue as to their location.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“We are a short distance from my castle,” Zarathos said, dropping her arm and stalking forward through the trees.
“It's better that nobody knows that you are my kalator, yet.
And I cannot shift into the castle because of the magic wards, though once we are past the boundary line, it isn't a problem.
So I'm bringing you in a hidden route that few know of and none can pass through except myself.”
She moved to follow him, clutching his cloak around her, and picking her path more carefully through the pine needles and twigs. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at her, his gaze going to her bare feet.
She froze as he stalked toward her and lifted her into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she snapped. His granite chest pressed against her, and his glowing eyes gazed into hers.
“We will go faster if I fly.”
And like that, his wings formed at his back.
They spread wide, long and dark, with high curves that came to intricate points.
And although she wanted to demand he set her down, another part couldn’t help but admire the span and elegance of his wings.
They were striking, almost majestic, reminding her of a finished tapestry where all the threads converged in just the right way, leaving the beholder in awe and breathless.
He lifted her into the air and skimmed over the ground, effortlessly dodging trees until they arrived at an outcropping of rock covered by moss and vines. After setting her down, he whisked his wings away and led her into a narrow cave. “This will take us underneath the castle.”
They walked in the darkness, but that wasn’t a problem for her, her eyes adjusting to the dark without a problem so that she didn’t fall or cut her feet on the rocks below.
“I thought you said only you can pass through here?” she asked.
They rounded a corner, and he nodded to the enormous jagged boulders from a cave-in that filled the tunnel from floor to ceiling. “Only someone who is capable of shifting through the shadows can make it through.”
He held out his hand and with less hesitancy than before, she took it. Her world shifted as the shadows closed around them.
When the world came back into being, they were standing inside a hallway made of obsidian. Large brass double doors stood in front of her.
Zarathos opened the doors. “I grant you permission to enter, Aryana.”
“You know that the whole invitation-for-entry thing only applies to turned vampires. I was born, so that rule doesn’t affect me.”
“It applies to everyone, even demons.” He gave her a curious glance. “My room is warded. Only those I give permission to may come inside.”
She stepped into his bedchambers. It was unlike anything that Aryana expected from the demon arch king.
She didn’t know why she envisioned torture chambers instead of the red satin sheets and unmentionable devices.
She picked up a phallic shaped bone carving with clear ridges that rested on the mantle and her core clenched as she replaced the item.
She noticed Zarathos’s heated smirk as he watched her, and she quickly averted her gaze and moved away.
At the moment, she would have been more comfortable in a torture chamber.
That was when she noticed the chains hanging from the ceiling and wondered if he used those for torment or pleasure. Maybe a little bit of both.
A dining and study table sat to the left of the room, while a fireplace, armoire, and several racks of women’s clothing occupied the right.
A tapestry depicting a stream glinting under the moonlight hung on the wall.
The shimmering water, woven with threads of silver and blue, mirrored the soft glow of the moon, while delicate flowers, intricately crafted, bloomed along the banks.
The craftsmanship captured not just beauty, but a sense of tranquil harmony, the kind only the careful hand of a skilled weaver could convey.
It was more than simply a scene; it held an unspoken calm.
Perhaps that was the oddest thing about the place. She never thought the dwelling place of a demon might contain art. At least not pretty art.
In the center of the room, a massive king-sized bed dominated the far wall, clearly the space’s main feature. Above it, resting in a glass case, lay the demon scepter—cracked and incomplete. Broken into five parts, it appeared hastily assembled, dull and unfinished, missing its final piece.
The vampire section of the scepter.
Zarathos fiddled with the fireplace. After lighting the wood ablaze, he straightened, setting aside the strikers, a satisfied look on his face. He turned to Aryana.
“Come.” He gripped her arm and tugged her to an opening in the opposite wall across from the bed.
They stepped into a new room, and she discovered a large copper basin at its center, its surface gleaming softly in the dim light of a couple of lanterns resting in indentations along the wall.
On a small table next to the basin, a collection of finely crafted soaps, brass pitchers, and delicate glass bottles filled with scented oils sat beside neatly arranged towels.
A square metal contraption hung over the basin with a trunk coming off it that disappeared into the ceiling. Zarathos reached up and touched the side and muttered some words. Then he turned a knob.
He frowned. “It will take a minute. When the water is heated, you pull this chord. We’ll find you something to wear while you wait.”
She clutched the cloak tighter around her naked body, feeling oddly exposed near him. He cast a look at her as he returned to his chambers. “If you want some say in what you wear, I suggest coming along.”
With a sigh, she hurried to meet the demon king, who was already at the clothes rack and sifting through the gowns.
“Your bedchamber is… unexpectedly decorated,” she said.
Zarathos pushed a yellow floral dress to the side, then followed her gaze to the chains and sex toys. “Is a king not allowed to have some pleasure?”
Her stomach twisted as she looked at the rack of gowns. “From how many dresses you keep on hand, I’d say you get more than a little pleasure.”
He chuckled as he went through his rack of dresses. He pulled out a purple chiffon dress with a deep v that would cut to her navel. “Here. Clothes for you to wear.”
Aryana stared at the scandalous gown. “I can’t wear that.”
He held it up with a critical eye. “Why not?”
“Because I’d have a hard time explaining to my uncle why I showed up dressed as a common woman of pleasure.”
He looked over the skimpy outfit. “Hmm, yes. I suppose vampires are a bit stuffy and drab in their dress, aren’t they? All grays and blacks.”
“And red.”
He snorted. “You won’t like the red pieces I have in here.”
It took him nearly to the end of the rack, but he lifted a lengthy elegant velvet ebony gown.
It would pull somewhat off the shoulders and be quite form fitting, but she liked the long, drooping sleeves and the heavy skirts designed to hit around her ankles.
That garment should allow her to move more freely than any of the other configurations she saw him shifting through.
“That will have to do,” she said.
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic.” He handed her the dress. “The water in the washroom should be warm.”
“Are there no undergarments?”
Zarathos blinked at her as if it was the last thing he’d expected her to ask. But then a slow, salacious smile crossed his lips. “I’m afraid those I bring here don’t have much need for undergarments.”
She huffed. Snatching the dress, she stomped away from him into the bathing area.
She set the gown next to the folded towels on the table and moved to the contraption above the basin.
Reaching up, she pulled on the cord. The contraption opened like a dragon’s jaws, gaping wide and steaming water poured out.
Aryana had seen nothing like it before.
She released the cord when the tub filled, and the enormous mouth snapped shut, staunching the flow of liquid. She eased to the washroom entrance and peered out as she secured Zarathos’s cloak firmly around her.
“Enjoy your bath, Vampress,” Zarathos muttered and the next thing she heard was the bedchamber door closing behind him.
Finally alone, she dropped the cloak and slid into the warm water.
A low moan escaped her as the blood caked on her body from several days washed off her.
The small table filled with soaps and towels sat to her right.
The miniature soap pieces smelled of lavender and honeysuckle.
Her lip curled at the thought of smelling good to Zarathos, of smelling like one of his girls.
But she needed to wash, so she grabbed the lavender and ran it over her skin, washing away the last of the blood clinging to her flesh.
When she got to her thigh, she paused, examining the Bloodbound mark etched there for the first time.
The mark was unique to the couple. Two serpents curled inward.
They coiled together in a constricting loop, their eyes burning with heated hunger, two predators circling, ready to devour each other whole.
She looked away as thoughts of her body twining with Zarathos’s filled her veins with an unexpected searing, and the mark on her leg started to burn. Zarathos was a demon, a monster. No matter what it felt like to feast on his blood, she refused to ever again seek him out in that way.
He was hers to protect. And in the end, he’d be hers to kill.
When she finished with the bath, she rose, grasping a towel and wrapping it around her bare body. Once dry, she grabbed the dress and walked behind a folding screen. Lifting the fabric, she stepped into it.