by Rhyll Biest
She looked him up and down. Spend several hours held to his chest feeling that long, hard body pressed against hers? Never. ‘Let me ride with the supply. With Arvalis.’
‘You know Arvalis?’
He sounded surprised. She raised her chin. ‘She’s offered to teach me to skate.’
‘I bet she has,’ he muttered. ‘Tell her the captain’s wife is off limits.’
Like I’m his property. She frowned. ‘I’m going to take her up on the offer.’
‘To play derby? You in a sawn-off miniskirt dealing death by booty to she-demons twice your size?’
Why did he immediately have to bring miniskirts into it? And her size. ‘You don’t think I have what it takes?’
He tilted his head back to inspect her through narrowed eyes. ‘If getting sweaty and grabby with me doesn’t appeal to you, why would you want to do it with a bunch of she-demons? Unless …’ His eyes gleamed with a wholly inappropriate suggestion.
Her blood simmered at the innuendo. ‘You’re right. I’d rather use sump oil for lubricant than get physical with you, but derby looks fun. It’s quite a strategic game.’
His lips twitched. ‘I thought those from your realm didn’t like games. Not the kind we like, anyway.’
A shiver went through her at his low, suggestive tone. Distance, she needed distance. ‘That’s a myth based on prejudice but I can’t say I’m surprised to hear it coming from your lips. Tell me, do you hug your ignorance tight to you like a child? Tuck it into bed at night beside your turnips?’
‘Right, that’s it, I’ve had it with your turnip jokes.’ He hooked an arm around her waist.
She gasped.
‘Intellectualise this.’ He jerked her to him and his kiss was rough and hard, harder than the steel armour crushing her breasts.
That his kisses were as savage as the rest of him was no surprise, but her response was. The rasp of his stubble against the tender, freshly healed skin on her face should have been nothing but painful, and yet her skin craved more, wanted to be used that way. And as for her lips, well, they should not have welcomed the thrust of his mouth against hers, nor the sly nips and tugs at her lips that caused her to gasp, allowing him to ease his way in deeper.
His sharp taste, the strong bite of provocation and male desire, seeped into her mouth.
And at the flick of his tongue against hers, desire, that creature which had lain curled up on the carpet for centuries, stirred and raised its head, and tested the air with a disbelieving nose before getting on all fours to shake itself awake.
He made a harsh sound as she leaned into him, slid a hot hand up her throat to cradle the back of her head and keep her from escaping the pressure of his mouth, his other hand splaying to rest as heavy as lust and conquest on her lower back.
Was it real? This frenzy of lips, pushy and demanding, tongues testing and teasing. Her hand crept to his face, felt his jaw work, the hard planes of his cheeks shifting beneath her fingers as he explored her.
Everything from the hard pulse at his throat, the taut thigh pressed against hers, and the slick heat of his mouth, screamed that she was in trouble.
Why him? Why, of all the demons out there, did he have to be the one with that fatal mix of pheromones that her own cocktail of chemicals found so pleasing? So very pleasing.
Even as she revelled in his lips and hands bruising her in just the right way, she grappled with the speed at which desire had slipped its leash to run away from her. The collar removed, she could have called upon her reserve of elemental power to overpower him, but a strange weakness stopped her, an unwanted voice reminding her how he had pulled toxic quills from her face with great gentleness.
Plus, her once-sleeping body was curious about his, about his and hers together, and what would happen if they slipped free of their everyday skins for just a few hours to simply explore one another. How would they fit together? How did he like to be touched? How would he want it?
She pulled away from him to study his face, took in his heavy lids and the way his chest rose and fell rapidly with his flaring breaths.
He stilled completely as she took him by the chin and grazed her lips over his before capturing his lower lip to give it a teasing tug.
She braced herself for a savage response, but instead of punishing her, he gave a low groan and allowed her to take over, slowing the restless stroke of his hands up and down her back and slowing time itself so that each bold sweep of her lips against his lasted an eternity. And desire, that faithless, shameless hound, wagged its tail and rolled onto its back in welcome as his hand, gentle as though it had never worn a midnight steel gauntlet and ripped still-beating hearts from chests, traced the curve of her jaw, careful to avoid the spots still tender from the slezak quills. His fingers, bare and warm, dipped down to trace her neck as she breathed him in—leather, armour, seduction and death—and shuddered in anticipation of his next touch. The graze of his fingers across her ribs drew a sharp breath from her.
He outlined the curve of her breast. ‘Go with this. Don’t fight it,’ he murmured, silver eyes mere slits beneath heavy lids. Her lips parted at his touch, his words, and the delicious heat curling in her belly. She wanted more, so much more; she wanted to feel his skin and the jagged thud of his heart in his chest, but his armour frustrated her touch.
He mirrored her frustration and made a muffled sound of discontent as her tunic refused to give his hands more access to her body, and she nuzzled his throat in commiseration before giving in to the temptation to lick the beating pulse below his jaw.
He drew a harsh breath before his lips brushed her temple in a distracted gesture, his hands fumbling with the tunic fastening at her nape.
It was clear where they were headed, yet she didn’t want the moment to end. Most shameful of all was the way her legs grew heavy so that she wanted to widen her stance. No points at all for guessing what that was about.
Her body wanted to connect with his.
Connection. The word slashed at her as bright as a knife. She pulled back. Something urgent—something hazy but sharp and lying just beyond the veil of her memory—warned her about what could happen if she allowed herself to feel connection. Those strong arms of his she liked so much? They could hold her down just as easily as hold her. Any bond with others was just that—something that fastened you to them and could not be escaped.
She retreated a step.
He didn’t stop her, just watched, his lids heavy and his breathing uneven.
They stared at one another as one by one she dragged all her defensive layers back into place. Once she trusted her voice she spoke. ‘I’m going back to camp now.’ Oh, the irony of those defiant words uttered through kiss-swollen lips.
His expression flattened out but he offered her his arm. ‘I’ll take you. Come on.’
His patient tone scraped against her like nails over chitin. ‘You don’t need to come with me, I can find the camp by myself.’ She ignored his extended arm.
‘Are you sure about that? If you’re allergic to the slezak toxin, then it should be starting to blur your vision around about now.’
And curse him if her eyes didn’t prickle with heat and begin to water.
He stepped closer to take her by the elbow and something flashed in his gaze. Pity, sympathy, compassion. All or none of those things. She didn’t want them, and looked away.
‘You can’t expect to control everything, princess.’ His lips brushed her hair as he whispered in her ear. ‘And, for the record, I fully support you playing derby. I can’t wait to see you in an abbreviated nurse uniform booty blocking a jammer.’
A stupid flash of heat slammed through her veins at the warmth of his breath and his soft tone.
Right before he snapped the collar back around her throat.
She jerked away, horror chilling her blood. A howl rose in her throat at his treachery. ‘I should have frozen you solid when I had the chance,’ she hissed.
‘Possibly.’ He smiled. ‘Ju
st think of this as me removing temptation from your path.’
She would have hit him but he and their surroundings were already a blur of jumbled colour and mixed-up outlines.
A centaur pox on him.
When he tugged on her hand she was left with no choice but to follow him, Moloss tagging along behind them.
Humming a tune, he led her over the broken terrain, all the time wildly oblivious to her fantasy of planting a long-handled dagger in his arrogant back—a much more wholesome fantasy than the other ones she’d briefly entertained. Never again. In fact, he’d be lucky if she didn’t cut off his wedding tackle in his sleep and toss it into the middle of the dead pool where it could float for eternity.
That’s what he deserved.
Chapter 9
Valeda slept off the slezak venom while riding in the back of Arvalis’s dread mare-drawn cart. She squeezed herself between two casks of ale and Moloss curled up by her feet. On waking she found Adriel’s healing had left her feeling better than she had for some time, and fired up with an inner determination to learn how to skate courtesy of his snide remarks. Despite her still-tender face she sought out the derby track, asking directions from other she-demons.
She stomped her way past hundreds of tents, Moloss at her heels, the captain’s face mocking her in her mind’s eye. Kiss her and belittle her, would he? Not only would she learn to skate, she would befriend his simple soldiers and sneakily teach them until she had enough juice to turn the tables on him. Perhaps she’d trick him into stripping and then freeze him in place. It would serve him right, the pillock.
Never had she been seduced and tricked in such a fashion before. The wretch. In fact, her brother had been the only male demon ever to get the better of her.
Her airway constricted and she raised a hand to her throat. Air, where had all the air gone?
She choked as a thick lining of foam filled her mouth, terror rolling up in her to stuff her mouth even fuller.
As air morphed into a thick, hot substance too solid for her lungs, she dropped to her knees. Even the silence around her became a type of pressure, driving her to the ground. She wanted to gasp but couldn’t.
The wall, the wall was killing her.
Pressure, bursting pressure in her head forced her to lie still.
Sweet Lilith, if she didn’t get help soon she was going to die in the middle of nowhere, choking on her precious tongue that spoke over five hundred languages.
Moloss licked her face and she managed to draw a gasping, whimpering breath. She curled her fingers in his coat as air returned to her lungs.
What, in the name of Lilith, was happening? The wall was meant to protect not kill her.
She crawled to a soft patch of dirt and drew a blood portal. Moloss watched with cocked head as she tossed a note into the portal reminding Lymenia about the books and asking her to bring outfits for the derby she-demons. If Lymenia delivered, the costumes would pay for Valeda’s skating tuition and persuade the she-demons to turn a blind eye to any teaching she did.
After taking a few more minutes to catch her breath, she got to her feet. Act like nothing happened, like you didn’t almost suffocate.
Her legs had stopped shaking by the time she found the new track where Fira, Missy, Arvalis and twenty or so other she-demons were stretching and lacing up their skates. There were fewer she-demons than usual. Had some players died in battle?
She shook the thought off, along with the sting of guilt. She was the one who’d die if Lore or Adriel didn’t heal her soon.
A free space on a boulder provided room to park her backside and she looked at the plump young demoness sitting beside her, her ankle swaddled in bandages.
‘Bad fall?’
The she-demon glanced at her, her deep purple eyes almost black under the weak light of the single moon. ‘I went in hard for a block and my skate met with a rock. I got three partial ligament tears, a minor fracture, a major sprain, a totally black foot and two months off skates.’
‘The captain can’t heal your injuries?’
The she-demon’s pale brows lowered. ‘I don’t think it’s fair to divert his healing from those wounded in battle to treat a sporting injury.’
Valeda blinked at the censorious look cast her way. ‘Oh, okay.’ Probably best not to mention that he’d healed her on two occasions already.
‘What happened to your face?’
Valeda scowled. Obviously she was still a little puffy from the slezak quills. ‘Nothing. Why do you still come to the track if you can’t skate?’
‘There was no way I was going to miss out on this scrimmage. Loose-screw Lucy’s back for the first time after breaking both legs and she’s gonna give Madam Maim-ya an epic beating for steering her into that rock.’
Valeda nodded. ‘Right, that’s what I came for too, the epic beatings.’
She received a disbelieving stare that only shifted from her when another she-demon skated by. The newcomer’s turquoise hair was combed into a high quiff that defied gravity, and her ample curves filled out her sailor girl costume in the most wicked way. The sailor girl rolled to a stop. ‘Hey, Lotta Butt, long time no see. You think your ankle’s bad, check out the bruise on my arse.’ She hiked her skirt up to reveal a fist-sized green bruise.
Lotta Butt whistled. ‘Nice shiner, Spark. Nice arse, too.’
The other she-demon nodded at Valeda. ‘This who I think it is?’
‘Yeah, but just treat her normal like. Princess, meet Spark. Her derby name is Razorclit, though.’
Razorclit. Really? Valeda nodded in greeting as she eyed the faint electric blue aura around Spark. Her own demon power stirred in her veins as she registered that the she-demon had juice and plenty of it. Envy reared its ugly head.
‘Nice to meetchya.’ Spark winked and skated off.
Valeda watched her go, only distracted when Lotta Butt put one finger on her nostril and blew a snot rocket.
A disgusting habit, to be sure. But learning to skate would require help, so friends she would make, no matter how vile their habits. ‘So, Lotta Butt, what position do you usually play?’
‘Pivot. Because why choose between leading jams and blocking? Ya gotta love a bit of booty action.’
‘True that.’
Lotta Butt inspected her through narrowed eyes. ‘I didn’t know royals from your realm played or watched derby.’
‘Well, you know, when in Rome and all that.’
Lotta Butt frowned. ‘Where’s Rome? That a village somewhere?’
Go for the sneaky teach? Yeah, why not? ‘It’s an ancient topside civilisation. Long fallen.’ Zap, zap! The sparks of maleficent energy tweaked her nerves. ‘But some demons like to re-enact Roman-style orgies.’ Zap! No need to mention that the ‘some demons’ included her sister. ‘Maybe you’ve been to a toga party or two?’
‘Oh, those.’ Lotta Butt nodded. ‘Yeah, those are all right.’ She looked Valeda up and down. ‘Are you saying you like them too? I didn’t think those from your realm went in for that sort of thing.’
Valeda forced a smile. ‘Do you know who my sister is?’
Lotta Butt shook her head.
‘Semya the Voracious.’
Lotta Butt squealed. ‘Oh, wow! Do you think she’d sign my copy of Topside is My Brothel if I gave it to you?’
Once again Valeda had to wonder if there was a picture book version circulating Hell. ‘Sure. Want a dedication?’
‘A what?’
‘You know, the bit that says “To Lotta Butt, may your butt always reign supreme, love Princess Voracious”.’ Zap! More juice. The conversation was proving worthwhile.
‘Oh, ah, yeah, okay, that sounds good.’ Lotta Butt nodded and winced as she moved her ankle.
Valeda frowned. ‘You guys seem to get knocked around pretty good. Doesn’t it interfere with your battle readiness?’
‘Sometimes.’ Lotta Butt’s tone conveyed little concern.
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’
; The demoness shrugged. ‘Nah, it makes you tougher, increases your pain tolerance.’
‘So it’s worth it?’
‘Shit yeah. I’d play even if I got hurt all the time, which I don’t.’
‘You really love it, huh?’
‘Fuckin’ oath. The two things in life I love most are a well-timed butt push and good head.’
Me too, Valeda almost said. No, Lotta wouldn’t buy that.
‘Plus, they say Lilith herself loves roller derby, so it’s like worship on wheels.’
Valeda raised a brow but said nothing. She didn’t believe the demon gods existed anymore. Once maybe, since Lilith’s tears of maleficence were proof of that, but she doubted they were around anymore. And if they were, they obviously didn’t want anything to do with demons.
Unwilling to enter into religious debate, Valeda instead tuned into the heated discussion between Missy and Fira as one kneeled before the other to lace her skates.
‘You’re tying them too fricking tight,’ Missy complained.
‘Bollocks, they’re just right.’
‘I can’t feel my feet anymore.’
‘Whaddya need to feel them for?’
‘So I can fricking skate, you dim nymph twat.’
‘Trust me, sweetie, the fewer body parts you can feel, the more you’re going to enjoy this training session.’
Arvalis slid to a stop and eyed the team seated around her. ‘Okay, Club Thump, a couple of comments on our last scrimmage. Blocking pack, I love you but you’re going to severely shorten your jammer’s life if you keep friggin’ blocking her. Don’t just skate along daydreaming about big dicks and donuts, and don’t be concentrating so damn hard on holding the line that you block your own mother-loving jammer, or I’ll tell her to shove you face-first into a rock myself.’
Her threat was met with sheepish laughs.
‘And always try to be aware of where your jammer is. No, better still, let’s work out some kind of code that the jammer can scream in your ear to make you move your butt. So, say I’m the jammer and Slamzilla starts blockin’ me. What can my code word be?’ She looked around at the others.