To Enthrall the Demon Lord

by Nadine Mutas

  The other Elders of the Aequitas strained against the peace vow as well, exertion hardening their faces.

  “Stop this!” Merle yelled. “Let him go!”

  At least it looked like the Draconians were indeed bound by the same oath—they had yet to attack the Aequitas.

  “You cannot fight us here,” Juneau said, much too calm for the uproar around her. “And I don’t want you to. I want you to consider the consequences of your refusal to uphold our laws. We will leave here, and so will you, and you will take some time to rethink your irrational behavior. When you have come to your senses, we will be ready to accept your surrender to justice.”

  She nodded at the three witches holding Rhun. He had gone limp, his skin coated with sweat, and they had tied him up with what looked like magical shackles.

  “Meanwhile,” Juneau added, “we will take that obnoxious demon husband of yours. As an incentive, as a warning.” She tilted her head, raised her brows. “Agree to our terms promptly, and we might let him go. You will still need to divorce him, of course. But the longer you take to surrender to our laws, the more he will suffer.”

  Merle didn’t weep as they dragged Rhun away. She didn’t sob, didn’t crumple at the raging pain inside her. No. Her blood burning in her veins with the power of her line, she turned to Juneau, spit in her face and yelled, “I will rain hellfire on you!”

  Chapter 10

  By the time noon came around, Maeve had managed to convince herself that dreams were but shadows and lies, and she was going to be composed and rational and not be bothered by the illusions of some deranged part of her mind.

  And it all went to hell the second Arawn strolled up to her cabin.

  The sunlight filtering through the canopy stroked over his face, his neck, over the bit of skin exposed by the open top button of his dark green shirt. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows again, baring forearms twice the size of hers, a perfect example of muscle definition and brute beauty. He moved with lethal grace, every inch the predator, each step steeped in the sure knowledge he owned everything around him.

  Leashed power in the tension of his muscles, in the slow, controlled thrusts that brought her to the precipice, held her there, teetering on the edge, shivering under the searing focus that stripped her bare, soaked up every part of her, each tiny reaction, as if he were starving for grace and she his salvation…

  Her heart pounded so loud she didn’t even hear his greeting.

  “Hi,” she squeaked.

  Squeaked.

  Her face burned, the sweater she wore suddenly much too hot, in spite of the chill in the winter air.

  Arawn halted on the veranda, a few feet away, a curious glint in his eyes. He studied her, head to toe and back up again, undoubtedly noting every tiny tell.

  He cocked a brow. “More bad dreams?”

  Oh, gods, just kill me now… If her face got any hotter, she’d combust. Again.

  She simply shrugged. Didn’t trust herself to speak just yet.

  “You did not incinerate the cabin,” Arawn said, glancing inside. “I take that as an improvement.”

  “Um-hm.”

  Again, a probing look from him, those eyes of forest shadows far too discerning. “Ready for our session?”

  I’m still reeling from a wholly different session we had, so…no? “Sure,” she rasped.

  “Follow me.” His voice was a rumble in the quiet of the woods.

  She knew what the vibration of that voice felt like against her skin, against the sensitive spot at the apex of her thighs… No, I don’t! That was a dream, dammit.

  She bit back a frustrated sound, so irritated with that stupid brain of hers. How hard could it be to keep reality and fantasy separate?

  Fuming, she trailed behind him as he led her away from the cabin to a clearing with a waterfall tumbling into a small lake from a fern-covered ridge. A fox lay in the grass, her two half-grown pups tussling around her. When she noticed Arawn, the wild canine rose and trotted toward him. Her young followed her, tongues hanging out.

  The mother fox tapped her muzzle against Arawn’s outstretched hand and wandered on into the underbrush. The two pups jumped up Arawn’s legs until he patted their heads, then snapped his fingers at them to run after their mom. They dashed off.

  “In a movie,” Maeve muttered, “this would qualify you as a fairy-tale princess.”

  She gasped, clapped both hands over her mouth. She did not just say that. To Arawn.

  Breath paralyzed, she slowly turned her head to peek at him. Unforgiving hardness in his features, the tense line of his broad shoulders. Darkness misted his form, power pouring off him like steam.

  “It would not,” he said, his tone dangerously calm. “I have a terrible singing voice.”

  Her heart stumbled. Was he—? Was that—? Did Arawn just make a joke?

  A spark in those dark green eyes as he sauntered past her, hands in his pockets. “You can take a seat on that boulder if you wish. I will start looking into your mind for the threads of the spell binding your magic.”

  It took her a moment. Then the impact of his statement hit her. Looking into your mind… “No!” she squealed.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself if you would rather keep standing.”

  “No, not that.” Her heart pumped blood so fast she got dizzy. “Don’t look into my mind.”

  The things he’d see in there… Her fingers digging into his shoulders as she pushed against him, slinging her legs around his hips, relishing the abrasion as his stubbled jaw rasped over her throat…

  He turned to her, one brow raised. “It is necessary in order to study the spellwork. Part of it is rooted in your mind.”

  She shook her head wildly. “No. You can’t look in there.”

  “You agreed to cooperate,” he said, strolling toward her. “I could do this without your consent, but I would rather you give me permission.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  For a moment, he just stared at her, magic whispering about his massive form, echoing inside her. Her breath flattened out.

  “It seems you are unaware,” he murmured, “of what is at stake.”

  Maintaining eye contact with him was too intense. She lowered her gaze, lest the connection singe her from the inside out.

  “It is imperative,” he went on, prowling ever closer, “that I take a look at the spell keeping your magic contained, especially now it has begun to unravel. Those powers inside you…they are not witchborn.”

  She jerked her head up. “What?”

  “A long time ago, something took refuge in the magic of your bloodline.” He circled her. “Something feral, primal, too fierce and powerful to roam the earth unchecked.”

  Another round, and she pivoted with him.

  “The Powers That Be”—his tone dripped disdain—“decided the ancient beasts were a threat to humankind, their precious pets. They soon found they could not kill the beasts, for they are integral to the balance of magic in this world, their own immense powers woven inextricably into the fabric of all we know. So the gods forced them to sleep.”

  Her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her ribs.

  “Power draws power, and most of the ancients sought out places rife with magic to retreat to for their slumber. A volcano. A rift at the bottom of the ocean. A mighty river. Some of them, however, were drawn by the strongest sources of magic at the time, pooled in the bloodlines of witches. One of the beasts fused its essence with the magic of what would become the MacKenna family, and it has lain dormant in your line ever since.” He paused right in front of her. “Until you.”

  She might have made an undignified squeaky sound again.

  “Generation upon generation, this essence has been passed down, growing stronger yet again with the accumulation of power in your family, until it reached a saturation point where it would reincarnate in full force.”

  “In me,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “In you.”

  “And
you know this how?” Her voice was reed-thin, too many revelations pummeling her brain.

  A sly smile. “I was there when the beasts were forced to sleep. I have had a long time and many resources to devote to finding out what exactly happened to them, and where they are.” He cocked his head, the movement pure predator. “For a while now, the winds have been shifting. Magic is changing, and those who once were without power are finding themselves returning to old strength.” A gleam of hunger in his eyes. “The beasts are awakening.”

  Maeve swallowed hard, too thunderstruck to speak for a few seconds. “What does this mean for me?”

  “There are some…uncertainties. I have yet to see the reincarnation of an ancient beast awaken in a mortal body. The power inside your core is immense. If it were to break free all at once, either because the spell unravels completely in one go, or because I break it down by force…the beast would survive it. But you might not.”

  Her fingers had gone cold, numb, her chest tingling with chills.

  “Our best bet, if you are to live, is for me to study the spellwork and the power it keeps contained, so I can dismantle the spell in a controlled fashion and…guide the beast out, if you will. There is a chance its essence has fused with yours to the point that the two of you could coexist with a little assistance.”

  She crossed her arms. “W-what kind of beast are we talking about here?”

  The hint of a smile on his face, an age-old whisper of appreciation in his tone. “Humans spun tales about them, having seen the last of the beasts in the earliest times of burgeoning civilizations. They are still known in the modern world, though they are nothing but fables now. Can you think of one of them? Can you guess at what prowls underneath your skin?”

  Fire and smoke, talons stretching in the dark… Still, she couldn’t say it, the idea too absurd. So she just shook her head.

  And Arawn’s smirk clearly said he knew it for the lie it was. “Just as well. We will see it soon enough, I suppose.”

  “So the gist of it,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear—then froze and pulled it back in front of her face again, even though Arawn must have had ample opportunity to study her scar by now. “The gist of it,” she repeated, clearing her throat, “is that you’re trying to save my life by looking at the spell?”

  Eyes piercing with perceptiveness examined her every move, having surely noted her little gesture of shame. “Yes. For this reason, you might want to play nice and let me enter your mind. Seeing as it is crucial to your survival.”

  Well, crap. Let him look into her mind and see all the embarrassing details of her stupid sex dream…or take a ticket to a most certain death?

  “Maeve?”

  “I’m still thinking!”

  “What,” Arawn said, trying not to snap at Maeve, “is there to think about?”

  A blush darkened her cheeks, and she delicately angled her head away, as if wanting to hide from his scrutiny. “Maybe,” she rasped in that husky voice of hers that he had found himself looking forward to hearing all morning, “there are some things I’d rather you don’t see.”

  Understanding dawned on him as his attention snagged on the jagged scar crossing her face, only half concealed by the shining red strands of her hair. The stiff way she held herself, her shoulders slightly curved forward, arms folded in front of her chest… Anxiety vibrated around her, nearly visible in the air.

  He had long ago learned details of her ordeal, or at least as much as leaked out of the tight bubble of protection her family and friends drew around her after her rescue. He could very well imagine the rest, even if he didn’t much like it. He had seen enough over the millennia to have acquired an acute understanding of the many ways sadists enjoyed their “games.” And he had no desire to peruse that painful part of her memories.

  Seeing those might prove quite dangerous, since none of those responsible were left to torture to a slow, agonizing death, no one left alive on whom to vent his rage. His blood would boil, and he would not know whom to kill to cool it.

  “I will not touch your memories,” he said to Maeve, keeping his voice soft despite the churning of his powers. “I will not go rifling through your thoughts, and I will not look at what is not connected to the spell. Whatever you wish to keep in the shadows will remain there.” He paused. “I cannot help, however, glimpsing what you might throw at me.”

  Her ginger brows drew together. “Throw at you?”

  “You have a certain amount of power here. Whatever you bring to the forefront of your mind will be visible to me, even if I am trying not to look.” He shrugged. “Now, if you wanted to conceal a memory from me, all you would have to do is think hard about singing fairytale princesses.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched, and his magic quieted, his focus zeroing in on that fragile almost-smile. It occurred to him he’d never seen her laugh. All the times he’d gone to watch her himself while she stayed at the Murrays’, she’d always been serious, withdrawn.

  For a simmering second, the desire to coax a full smile out of her hijacked his senses.

  “Okay,” she muttered. “I think I can manage that.” She gave him a determined nod, though it looked like she did it to convince herself more than him.

  She walked over to the boulder he mentioned and took a seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs a couple of times, fidgeting with the seam of her sweater. Clearing her throat, she scratched at her chin.

  “Think of Snow White,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “Think of Snow White.”

  He prowled closer. “Ready?”

  She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Um-hm.”

  “All right, then.”

  And he dove in.

  Fire-edged darkness and sparks on ash, threads of emotion glowing like embers, whispers of magic… He moved to follow those traces of power—past the image of a dancing cartoon princess that made amusement curl inside him—when it slammed into him.

  The chain of thoughts, memories, impressions rolled over and through him like a tidal wave of sensation.

  “I want to see that wildfire of yours.” Spoken from between her legs, his lips feathering over the dark red triangle glistening with her arousal.

  Pleasure arced through her at the vibration and intent of his words, his touch, her mind shattering at the first stroke of his tongue. Her hands grabbed the sheets, her back bowed off the bed. Pulses of lust, zinging out from the throbbing center between her thighs, laid open before him. And he feasted.

  Her orgasm rocked through her, an explosion of bliss. Her sight still hazy from the storm of pleasure that ravaged her, she gasped as he flipped her onto her stomach, nipping her butt as he crawled over her. His weight bearing down on her in the most erotic pressure, he parted her legs with his knees.

  Ready, so ready for him, she arched her back, pushed her hips toward him.

  “Will you burn for me?” His teeth on her neck, his heat all around her.

  “Make me,” she whispered.

  Arawn blinked as a force kicked him out, the backdrop of fire-framed darkness falling away to reveal the reality of bright sunlight on the deathly pale face of the witch in front of him.

  Maeve sat so still she didn’t seem to breathe, her amber-gray eyes wide and horror-stricken. His own breathing unsteady, his body hardened to the point of pain, he stared at her. Raised a brow.

  She made a high-pitched sound, shook her head and buried her face in her hands. Muttered something that might have contained the words “hole” and “swallow,” and it took him annoyingly long to parse together the meaning of that as her wishing for a hole to open up and swallow her…and not the other things his mind had suggested.

  He cleared his throat. “That was…unexpectedly vivid.”

  She waved her hands, jumped up, and stormed off toward the path in the woods, her face the brightest shade of red he’d seen on her yet. It almost matched her hair.

  He remained where he was, hands in his pockets. “Where,” he said calmly
, “do you think you are going?”

  “To cloister myself in my cabin,” she hissed over her shoulder.

  “We are not done here.”

  With a flicker of his thoughts, he sent out a pulse of his power, tugged at the bond between them to bring her to a halt. Gently. Like the civilized brute he was.

  “As…entertaining and illuminating as this glimpse was,” he said, sauntering over to her, “I have yet to study the spellwork.”

  She still had her back to him, her hands clenched to fists at her side. “You are not looking into my mind again.”

  “Why not?” He fought a losing battle not to smile. “Is there more?”

  He could have sworn sparks erupted around her, and she shot a look at him over her shoulder that was nothing short of murderous. His magic purred in appreciation.

  “So there is,” he drawled.

  She rounded on him, her eyes a storm of fire in smoke. “You were not supposed to see that. You promised you wouldn’t look.”

  “It is incredibly difficult not to look when you are bombarding me with it.”

  “I was not.”

  “It would have had less impact,” he said, enjoying this far too much, “if you hit me with a shovel.”

  Her nostrils flared. Was that smoke rising from them?

  He shrugged. “Or run me over with a freight train.”

  “You are insufferable.” Gritted out through clenched teeth.

  “So I have been told.” He clucked his tongue. “I still need to look at the spell.”

  “No.” She crossed her arms.

  “You would rather die?”

  She turned around and tried to walk off again. To no avail. He still held her.

  “Right now,” she grumbled, “that seems like the better option, yes.”

  So obstinate. She could give Lucía a run for her money. And at the moment he was too enthralled by the surprising discovery of her explicit dream about him to press the issue.