Master of the Game

by Jane Kindred

  Belphagor’s odds had just improved.

  The angel went sprawling across the slush-dirty cobblestone while two of the angels holding Belphagor let go of him to converge on Vasily. Belphagor slammed his elbow into the throat of another on his left, simultaneously kicking sidelong against the knee of the angel on his right, dislocating it with a loud pop drowned out instantly by the angel’s shriek as he hopped backward. While the choking one on Belphagor’s left swung wildly at him, he grasped the wide-swiping arm and knocked the angel face-first into the brick wall of The Brimstone, punching him in the kidney for good measure.

  He turned and saw the two angels Vasily had grabbed scrambling away, badly bloodied, while the one on the ground dragged himself across the street with one arm at an alarming angle, howling like a child. Two others that had been behind him, and the first one Belphagor had punched, who now stood on the top step, wisely took off running, shouting racial slurs over their shoulders in cowardice.

  Belphagor wiped his fist across his bloody lip and met Vasily’s eyes. Flame sparked dangerously in them.

  “Sukin syn,” Vasily snarled. This was not the Russian Belphagor had taught him. “You think you own me, you son of a bitch? You think you can just march up and mark your property the moment someone else takes a fancy to me?”

  Belphagor’s stance was casual, but the set of his jaw was hard. “I told you.” He spoke calmly. Dangerously. “Angels are not to touch you.” Vasily had just dispatched a handful of angels in seconds, the same angels who’d been beating the snot out of Belphagor a moment before, yet his angry expression was now tinged with fear. Knowing he could strike that fear into Vasily despite his superior physical strength made Belphagor hungry to make good on the unspoken promise. “Did I not make myself clear, malchik?”

  “No—I mean, yes, you—” Vasily stopped and swallowed nervously, clearly trying to pull his defiance back on. “Why?”

  There are worse things to lose than one’s good name.

  King of Thieves

  © 2014 Jane Kindred

  Demons of Elysium, Book 2

  Belphagor can seduce demons with a look and bring angels to their knees with a single motion, but when it comes to being in love, the Prince of Tricks is out of his element.

  At every turn, Vasily rebels against the discipline he claims to want, even refusing to use his safe word. But when Belphagor uses a scheme to shut down an underage brothel to test Vasily’s limits, he loses Vasily’s trust along with the boys he intended to set free.

  Uncovering a smuggling ring that spans two worlds, Belphagor calls on a team of Nephilim mercenaries to rescue the “Lost Boys” from earthly gangsters. But his relationship seems beyond repair—and a heartbroken Vasily beyond his reach in the arms of a sensual demon named Silk.

  Belphagor has more than enough grand schemes up his sleeve to bring down the smuggling ring for good. But when it comes to putting things right with Vasily, his bag of tricks is empty. Except for trust…and a plan to teach his boy a lesson neither will soon forget.

  Warning: Contains two strong-willed lovers who will test the theory that without air, there can be no fire. Expect plenty of smoke, more than a few mirrors, and an old-fashioned Russian duel. You may need a shot of vodka when you’re done reading this one!

  Enjoy the following excerpt for King of Thieves:

  It would be an abuse of the term to call Vasily a submissive. Belphagor’s “boy” was about as submissive as a cat in a bathtub. You could hold him down long enough to accomplish the needful, but you’d damned near drown yourself when the contained outrage burst without warning from every limb, and you could count yourself lucky if all he did was draw blood. And yet he insisted this relationship was what he wanted, to belong so thoroughly to Belphagor that his will was no longer his own.

  Belphagor sucked on the end of his burnt thumb, shaking his head at the firespirit glaring flame at him from where he knelt on the floor. Vasily’s red matted locks had been enhanced to a molten lava shade, making it seem an extension of his radiance. Not that demonic radiance was visible in Heaven. Something about the aetheric content of the air here seemed to dampen it, at least for the lesser orders of angels and their mixed-blood Fallen cousins. It wasn’t until one fell to the world of Man that the elemental radiance of the lesser Host could be seen, most notably in the pair of wings composed of one’s dominant element.

  Belphagor had seen Vasily’s wings of fire on their last visit, and just the memory of his boy bathed in ruby light and soaring ecstatically against the northern sunrise with the magnificent wings outstretched was enough to send his own airspirit blood rushing to his cock with urgent need. Not that it wasn’t already. Vasily’s defiance this morning had him so riled he could hardly see straight. And Vasily knew it. It was a matter of perspective who was dominating whom.

  All he’d asked Vasily to do was drop to his knees and service him, something Vasily normally seemed quite happy to do—sometimes more often than Belphagor could even accommodate. But this morning, the boy had some kind of bug up his ass and had taken the request poorly. A chuckle rose in Belphagor’s throat at the phrase he’d conjured. He had better uses for Vasily’s ass than putting bugs up it. The little sound of mirth made Vasily’s skin flush red with fury. He hated to be laughed at.

  He’d knelt at Belphagor’s command but refused to open his mouth, and when Belphagor tried to open it for him, he’d gotten scalded by unrestrained firespirit spittle for his efforts. He certainly didn’t relish subjecting the sensitive skin of his cock to that. Vasily had excellent control of the level of heat he produced in his bodily fluids and usually kept them at a tolerable level.

  “What exactly is your problem this morning, malchik?” The endearment, Russian for “boy”, usually softened Vasily’s demeanor considerably. Today, it seemed to do the opposite. He let fly with a string of obscenities in the language of Men so colorful that even Belphagor had rarely uttered them. Where in Heaven did he learn these things? There seemed to be no coherent message to the barrage of profanity other than a general recommendation that Belphagor ought to perform any number of violent acts upon himself, followed by heartily consuming his own waste. At least it was in Russian. That one tenet of Belphagor’s rules Vasily had chosen to obey.

  “Are you quite through?” he asked at a lull in the verbal onslaught, noting with a rush of satisfaction that Vasily’s cock was fairly bursting from his pants.

  “Poshel na khui!”

  Lovely and erect as Vasily’s khui was, Belphagor was sorely tempted, but Heaven knew what temperature that would be right now. Instead, he picked up a large thornfruit from the breakfast tray, stepped in and shoved it into Vasily’s mouth when it opened on another imprecation. Purple-red juice burst from the ends and dribbled from the corners of his mouth into his long muttonchops. Belphagor suspected not all that was dripping was juice. As their name suggested, the skins were full of thorns.

  “I’m going to eat this breakfast now.” Belphagor sat at the vanity. “Which I purchased this morning in the market for you while you were snoring away in my bed. When you’ve finished having your tantrum and are prepared to do as I’ve bidden you—without damaging me—you may take that out of your mouth and beseech me to let you. And then we’ll see about your punishment.”

  He ate the curls of bacon as he spoke, licking his fingers and pretending not to look at Vasily, though he watched him out of the corner of his eye. There was no sign of capitulation, but Vasily was clearly uncomfortable, shifting position with one hand at his crotch to try to relieve the pressure of his jeans. “Go ahead and unbutton,” Belphagor mumbled with his mouth full. “Give it some air.”

  Vasily’s head shot up, his cheeks now pink with embarrassment at being caught out in his arousal in the midst of his fury. As if anyone could have failed to notice that. Belphagor chuckled to himself, starting on the buttered porridge, and was rewarded with a strangled sound behind the thornfruit that was no doubt a curse trapped on Vasily’s to
ngue. But despite his state—or perhaps to spite Belphagor—the firespirit dropped his hand to his side and stared straight ahead at the wall.

  Belphagor finished the entire tray of food—well more than he’d have preferred, particularly with an untended hard-on, and still Vasily hadn’t given in. Those thorns had to be stinging like mad now with the acidic juice soaking into the wounds. He had to resist the urge to relent and take the fruit from his mouth. Vasily knew it was within his power to end his suffering, and sucking cock wasn’t exactly something he hated. Whatever his problem was, it undoubtedly had nothing to do with the actual request and everything to do with the delicate firespirit feelings Belphagor was forever unintentionally wounding.

  But Vasily would have to tell Belphagor exactly what he’d done if he expected to get an apology. And in the meantime, the hard, bare chest heaving with anger, the orange glow of fire in the normally hazel eyes and the furious hard-on Vasily was refusing to acknowledge were driving Belphagor delightfully mad. He could wait all day if he had to. And it seemed he would.

  Belphagor let out a long sigh of disappointment and rose. “I have better things to do than wait for you to behave civilly.” He drew aside the curtain in front of the makeshift wardrobe, took Vasily’s prized velvet frock coat from its hanger and put it on, knowing it would infuriate him. It hung ridiculously long on Belphagor and the shoulders were far too wide, but fashion wasn’t the point at the moment. Showing Vasily who owned him, on the other hand, was. “Stand up.” He delivered the abrupt command in the hard tone that always prompted instant obedience.

  Vasily rose, glaring a good approximation of actual hatred down at him from his superior height. Though it might have been more impressive without his gob stuffed with thornfruit. Belphagor busied himself with yanking Vasily’s belt from its buckle and zipping it out of the loops, enjoying the deep intake of breath this induced. “Hands.” There was a slight hesitation before Vasily extended both fists, held together at the wrists to make Belphagor’s job easier. So obeying Belphagor wasn’t the problem. He’d knelt, he’d risen, and he’d given his hands to be trussed without resistance. It was just sucking cock he was taking issue with.

  Belphagor bound his wrists and drew the end with the buckle through the top with a sharp jerk, spinning Vasily about to hang the buckle on a hook above Vasily’s head. Having to climb up on the chair to accomplish it took some of the edge off the action, but when he stepped down, he was gratified by a little tremor shunting down Vasily’s spine. He kissed the center of Vasily’s back, causing the firespirit to jump and then shiver as Belphagor’s lips lingered there. It was good to keep the boy on his toes.

  Master of the Game

  Jane Kindred

  Love is the ultimate game changer…and this time it’s winner take all.

  Demons of Elysium, Book 3

  Now that his lover is back in his arms, Belphagor is taking his own sweet time to say the words Vasily longs to hear: “You’re my boy.” And savoring the sweet torture of driving the firespirit into a frenzy of unfulfilled need.

  As the undisputed master of Heaven’s gaming tables, Belphagor never plays unless he’s certain of winning. But this time, political machinations send the game—and Vasily—tumbling to the brink of even his formidable control.

  Vasily can’t deny enjoying their delightfully edgy play—until the airspirit auctions him off for a night to the one demon with a gift for taking things too far. Seductive Silk, tight-lipped about the end of his relationship with the sweet submissive Phaleg, may also be involved with a new faction threatening the pregnant queen of Heaven.

  Belphagor couldn’t be less interested in the games angels play, but when angelic and demonic intrigues overlap, he’s drawn in against his will. And forced to break his one inviolable rule: Never gamble what you can’t afford to lose.

  Warning: Contains more than a mouthful of m/m ménage, with intense D/s situations featuring intricate rope work, balaklavas, and a flurry of snow.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Master of the Game

  Copyright © 2014 by Jane Kindred

  ISBN: 978-1-61922-097-3

  Edited by Linda Ingmanson

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2014

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Pervaya

  Vtoraya

  Tretya

  Chetvertaya

  Pyataya

  Shestaya

  Sedmaya

  Vosmaya

  Devyataya

  Desyataya

  Odinnadtsataya

  Dvenadtsataya

  Trenadtsataya

  Chetyrnadtsataya

  Pyatnadtsataya

  Shestnadtsataya

  Semnadtsataya

  Vosemnadtsataya

  Devyatnadtsataya

  About the Author

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