Defy Me: A Paranormal Demon Romance (The Demonology Series Book 2)

by Felicity Brandon

  I nodded, my gaze lowering as I fought to compose myself. This is what I’d come for, why I’d spent so many hours hunched over those dusty books. This was what it was all about.

  Vaguely aware of Solomon’s voice washing past me as he ordered, and the wine was poured, I tried to focus my thoughts. All he wanted was to know what I had in mind, and that wasn’t such a big task. I had been playing out the various scenarios in mind for fucking years.

  “Tara.”

  I blinked at the sound of my name, my chin raising to acknowledge him.

  “Yes, Master?”

  “Have you had a chance to decide?”

  “I...” My focus fell to my hands, folded in my lap as I stroked the satin of my dress. The gown was incredible, more than anything I could have imagined ever being able to wear. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Look at me then.”

  My head ached as I lifted my gaze to meet his.

  “Tell me.”

  “What if someone hears?” I could sense people in my peripheral vision—the waiters flitting between tables and other customers as they passed to the restroom.

  “Forget other people,” he told me, his voice firm. “No one will remember anything said at this table. I guarantee it.”

  Pressing my lips together, I reached for my glass of wine, inhaling the incredible bouquet as I brought it to my nose.

  “The wine smells amazing, Master.” My gaze flitted over the top of the wine glass to his eyes, but for one disconcerting moment, I couldn’t tell if he was amused or merely irritated by my stalling tactics.

  “Tara.” His timbre was lower now, and I flustered at the sound.

  “I’m sorry.” I breathed in the wine, taking one large gulp before I placed the glass on the table. “I just want to hurt him, Master, genuinely hurt him. Make him pay.”

  “Yes, you said, but how?”

  My attention settled on the shiny silver fork at my place, and my head started to swim as though that one tiny quantity of wine had already gone to it.

  “I want to make him bleed.” I hardly recognized the voice that replied to Solomon, but it was mine, I knew that much. “Not enough to kill him, but enough to weaken him. I want to make him feel it.”

  “Do you want me to kill him in the end?” Solomon inquired, reaching across the white linen for me. My hand rose, though he never commanded it, meeting his large palm, and allowing him to envelop it. “Do you want me to send him onto others of my kind in perdition?”

  I met his glittering eyes warily. He seemed excited at the prospect.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “For Gavin, I mean. What would happen to him?”

  “He would be made to suffer for all time.” Solomon tilted his head. “And since he has a proclivity for making sexual demands, I know just the demon to deal with him.”

  “Who?” My heartbeat had picked up its pace, his eagerness infectious.

  His lips twitched. “Likely, you will not have heard of him. His name is Asmodeus. He is the king of lust where I come from. One of the seven princes of hell.”

  “Asmodeus,” I said the name as if I were trying it for size. “He sounds perfect for Gavin.”

  Solomon laughed. “In the end, yes,” he agreed. “But first, he is mine.” He paused, eyeing me intently. “Tara, do you want me to do to him what he did to you?”

  I swallowed at his query, knowing precisely what he referred to. The hand not cradled in Solomon’s grasp began to shake.

  “I don’t know what to say.” As my eyes fluttered, I hoped he knew that was the truth.

  “You said you wanted to make him feel it.”

  Solomon squeezed my hand gently, the heat of his flesh covering me—even though that didn’t make sense. Demons had no flesh—not really—but his guise was so wonderful, it was easy to forget that sordid reality.

  “I can peel his flesh from his bones and rip him limb from limb. I can cut him up so small, the insects will not even have to chew, but this isn’t about me.” His brow rose. “It is about you. This is your fantasy, Tara. Your vengeance.”

  “I know.”

  “I want it to be everything you imagined and more.” He smiled at me. “I want your anger to be satisfied.”

  At that moment, it hit me.

  He was the seven deadly sins, sitting in a suit which I couldn’t even afford, debonair and distinguished, his expression unfaltering as he discussed the ways he could destroy my twisted fuck of a stepfather.

  Solomon was the dark angel I’d always dreamed about.

  “Yes.” I breathed the word out in the end. “Yes, Master.”

  “Yes… what?”

  “Yes, I’d like you to do to him the things he did to me.” I lifted my chin, empowered by the decision. “I want him to know what it feels like to be powerless, to not have control, then to be used. To be hurt.”

  My voice threatened to break, but I fought to compose it. I wouldn’t give in to tears again. Gavin didn’t deserve another single drop.

  “No, he does not.” Solomon nodded in acquiescence. “And yes, I will make sure he is even more helpless and pained than you were.”

  “That’s saying something.”

  I reached for my glass again, gripping the stem as my quivering hand brought it closer to my mouth. At that moment, I could sense the anger simmering within—a lifeforce, the thing which had been keeping me alive for so long. What would it be like when he’d condemned Gavin to the fate he deserved, and that need was no longer there?

  What would occupy my time then?

  My lips curled before I sipped at the Shiraz. What a ridiculous question. I already knew what it would be. It was Solomon.

  “It’s what I want. I want to see his anguish, hear his screams. I want it all.”

  He smirked in my direction, collecting his own glass from the table and offering it in some type of perverted toast.

  “Here’s to that, Tara,” he purred. “No one ever died from wanting too much.”

  Chapter Eight

  Solomon

  The more she talked, the more intoxicating Tara became.

  It was the queerest thing. This little mortal who had so unimpressed me at our first encounter was now tantalizing, and as the courses of food came and went, I found myself enthralled.

  “You have been waiting for this a long time, haven’t you?” I peered at her through the candlelight. “It’s been driving you.”

  “Yes.” She licked her bottom lip, collecting the residual red wine. “It’s been all I had, Master.”

  “Not anymore.” My tone was triumphant. As I grasped my wine glass and eased back in my seat, I realized it was an accurate reflection of my feelings. Tara Levinson had unexpectantly become the most beguiling woman I could recall, and the odds were in my favor. She already agreed to serve me—to be mine. Now, she just had to fall for me, and in all my years, I never had any trouble manipulating mortals.

  “Yes.” Her gaze flitted north to mine before returning to the burgundy liquid in her glass. “That’s true.”

  I inhaled, an unnecessary gesture physiologically—demons did not require oxygen—but one which allowed me to take in the delightful aroma of the wine. I did not often indulge in such mortal luxuries but glancing at Tara, I had an idea that might all be about to change.

  “Do you regret the vow you made to me?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, Master.” There was conviction in her voice. “I made my choice, and I’m all in.”

  “All in?” My brow arched. I liked the way that sounded, and momentarily, an image of her bared and bound, appeared in my head. My fingers let go of the glass, afraid my strong grip would inadvertently break the delicate stem.

  “Yes, Master.”

  What was that in her eyes? A flash of wanton need?

  Desire?

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  And I was, though I still could not fathom this rush of new emotions. Things had always been so clear cut and straightforward in the past. The
re had been anger, the raw passion of it, the burning direction it offered, and it had always been enough. More than enough, actually.

  That was what had drawn me to Tara. I sensed that craving in her. I recognized it, but now it was morphing. It was there, primal and as fervent as I had known for decades, but it was coupled with something else—burgeoning arousal, evident in her quickening heart rate, her dilating pupils, and in the way her nipples had tightened under that dress.

  She did not only want to hurt Gavin, to destroy him.

  She wanted me.

  My brow rose in acknowledgment—Tara wanted me. The prospect did not make me want to shun her and return to hell. The possibility was downright alluring. The idea of having her bound to me, serving me, yearning for me at the same time, was powerful. I would have her on her knees, laced in my binds, and ready for my next command.

  It would be perfect—sublime.

  “Would you like to work on a plan for Gavin, or would you rather I dealt with the details?” My gaze drilled into her as I eyed her responses carefully. Nibbling at her lower lip, I saw the lust subside for a moment while she considered the question.

  “I always thought I’d want to be involved in the minutia,” she admitted.

  “But?”

  “But now, I’m not sure, Master.” She sighed. “Perhaps you should just take care of the detail.”

  “If that is what you want.” I paused. “It is, as they say, where the devil is.” I flashed her a devastating smile, reveling in the way the color in her cheeks deepened at my quip.

  “True,” she breathed. “There is one thing, though.”

  “Go on.”

  “I want him to know it’s me who has brought him down.” She sucked in a breath as though the thought was illicit. “I want the last face he sees before he passes out to be mine. I want him to know, weak as I am, I’m the cause of his suffering.”

  I grinned at the passion in her tone. It was formidable, radiating from her in waves, I could actually feel.

  “Got it, that is not a problem. In fact, I would think less of you if you did not want to be identified as the architect of his downfall.”

  “Thank you.” She breathed out, the tension slipping from her shoulders. “I don’t want to lose sight of what this is about, Master.” Her gaze darted around the restaurant before returning to me. “I mean, this is all amazing, more than I could ever have imagined, but it’s not what I wanted you for.”

  “I understand. You conjured me because of your pain, the hurt he created all those years he tormented you.”

  “Exactly.” There was a tremor in her voice, but it didn’t break, and as I stared into her eyes, I could see the resolve burning in them. It was palpable.

  “Your pain is powerful, Tara. I want you to remember that.”

  Her eyelids fluttered at the statement.

  “Is it?” She swallowed at her own question. “Because it doesn’t feel that way, Master. All those years, he touched me…” She squeezed her eyes closed. “The years he…”

  Her breath caught then, and it was the damndest thing, but I wanted to go to her, to reach across the table and hold her, comfort her.

  The thought was perturbing.

  “Anyway.” She drew in a deep breath as her eyes flickered open. “I’m just saying, it didn’t feel powerful, being his victim.”

  “Of course, not,” I said soothingly. “But you know why that was, do you not, Tara?”

  She blinked at me, her expression vacant. “No, Master.”

  “That is how he wanted it. When you felt that way—every time you felt it—that is what made him stronger.”

  Tara exhaled, but there was a trace of recognition in her gaze like she understood precisely what I meant. I hope she did because it was true. That philosophy was what monsters lived for, what they were driven by—target their victims, acquire them, and exploit them. I imagined the younger version of Gavin doing just that. The draw of Tara’s mother had been her daughter. I bet he salivated the first time he ever set eyes on the girl. Next, with her mother already on his side, he would have oppressed her. Tara’s memories confirmed the techniques Gavin had used—the surreptitious notes he’d handwritten her, the games they’d played she wasn’t to tell Mummy about.

  Their little secrets.

  That was when he’d truly had her. When there was no pretense.

  As Tara had grown, she realized how wrong the relationship had been, but she had no way to control it. Perhaps her mother had truly been ignorant of the abuse, but somehow, I doubted it, and even if it was true, it was no excuse. The woman had let Tara down, just as much as her husband—maybe more since she was the one person who should have protected Tara.

  “I suppose so.” Her voice was weak. “That’s why he wanted me that way.”

  My gaze fell over her small palm again, the fingers crunched into a ball as she recalled the years with Gavin she had been forced to endure, and all of a sudden, I wanted to hurt him. Not just because Tara wanted me to or because it was the culmination of her vengeance, and not just because that is what I did—how I got my kicks—but because of her.

  I wanted to do it for her. To never see that glimmer of injury in her gaze again.

  Unless I invoked it. Unless I was the cause.

  “Do not worry, Tara.” Succumbing to the need gnawing at me for the last few moments, I reached for her hand, encasing it in my palm. “Your revenge is coming.”

  “Thank you. I need it. I need it like the deserts need the rain.”

  “I know, I can sense it, and soon, so will he. Let Gavin enjoy the final few days of his freedom. Soon, he won’t know what the hell has hit him.” I laughed at my joke, and slowly, her lips curled in response.

  “That sounds good.”

  Better than good, actually, her thoughts revealed.

  “It will be,” I promised. “You are stronger than you know, Tara, and together, we will take the man apart.”

  Chapter Nine

  Tara

  I don’t remember the meal concluding. I don’t recall finishing the second bottle of wine or how we left the restaurant, and I certainly don’t remember any onward journey, but when my eyes flickered open in the dark, I knew all of those things must have happened.

  I was sprawled out on something soft, but firm—a mattress perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure—and I seemed to be naked. Lifting my hand to my temple, I rubbed at my throbbing head. How much fucking wine had I drunk last night?

  Desperately, I tried to remember, but my head was a thick blur of intoxicated fog. It wasn’t just the dehydration and hangover, causing the memory lapse. It was more—something greater, something…

  “Tara.”

  My heart leapt at his voice, the hand at my head shifting to cover the gasp which escaped my lips.

  Solomon! Oh, crap, Solomon was here.

  I turned in the direction of his voice, my free arm covering my breasts out of instinct. Why was I in bed with Solomon? Why was I naked and in bed with him, and why the hell couldn’t I remember anything that had happened between us?

  “Stop worrying.” He sounded amused. “Nothing happened, little mortal.”

  My brow furrowed. “Oh.”

  “And remove your arm,” he instructed, stirring beside me. “You are beautiful, Tara. Anyway, it is nothing I have not already seen.”

  “Oh God…”

  Solomon’s laughter echoed around the room.

  “Stop it,” he chastised. “We did not fuck if that’s what you are worried about, and not because I did not want to, darling, but you were a little too worse for wear, and…” He paused, considering what to say next. “And for the first time in my existence, I did not want to just take what I wanted or want you to wake up feeling like a dirty whore.” He exhaled in the darkness, and I sensed the weight of his stare on me.

  “I mean, maybe that is how you want to feel.” He sniggered. “We will talk about that later, but it is not how I wanted our first time to be. I want you
to remember how I feel in your hot little body, Tara.”

  My cheeks burned at his words.

  I’d conjured him, his presence born of my utter desperation, yet now, there was more going on between us, chemistry I could never have imagined. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Does it have to make sense?”

  A small honeyed light glowed from behind him as his query resounded around me, and I glanced in his direction. Solomon was rolled onto one side next to me, his muscular form nude except for a cotton sheet, which just about preserved his modesty. My breath caught at the sight, my gaze drinking in every inch of his body.

  I’d never seen anything like it.

  Solomon was like one of those male models in Men’s Health magazine—toned and strong, every visible aspect of him taut. When I finally persuaded my eyes to rise to his face, I found him grinning.

  “Does everything have to make sense?”

  “I guess not, Master.”

  It was more difficult calling him that now that we were both bared and in bed together. Much harder than it had seemed during the meal. Forcing my gaze away from his body, my brows knitted again.

  Whose bed was this? It was certainly too big to be mine, and wherever this place was, it didn’t have the lingering smell of damp, which so easily characterized my room.

  “It is not your place.” Once more, he answered the question I was yet to vocalize. “It is mine.”

  “Yours?” Where did a demon live when he wasn’t residing in hell? Where did he eat? Where did he fuck?

  He laughed again. “Wherever he likes!” he answered my scattered thoughts. “Welcome to my penthouse, Tara.”

  My head ached at his verdict. Too many things were happening all at once for it to keep up.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, though I couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “For getting into such a state last night. I don’t usually drink much, and…” I inhaled, trying to think of a reason that offered me even a shred of self-respect. “I guess now, I see why.”