Page 166 of Devil's Deal

I dismiss that thought as soon as it appears. No. He doesn’t do anything for the simple reason of giving another person pleasure. Everything serves a goal. Some kind of ulterior motive.

But I remember that I have a goal, too, and I shouldn’t make him angry. Besides, I do love his gift, even though it still makes me suspicious.

“I told the rusalkas I thought these things were romantic, not that I wanted them,” I say calmly. When he looks at me, I smile. “I have little appreciation for romance. My father was a bard, did you know? He left my mother on her own after I was born and then died like the useless maggot he was. So, please, don’t try to sing me songs, or you’ll completely spoil the mood. But the flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”

I set them aside by a tree, my eyes lingering on their magical glow.

He bares his teeth in a wide grin and then swoops in, picking me up like I’m his bride. I gasp, surprised, and hold on to his neck for support. Woland spins us slowly, and as we turn, the forest illuminates with tiny gold and silver lights dotting the trees and undergrowth. A diaphanous veil that glitters in the light appears above us, spreading around where we stand like a magnificent tent spun of moonlight.

“Look down,” he whispers.

When I do, I see countless cushions and soft blankets appear on the forest floor, making for the best bed I’ve ever seen. I yearn to lie down among those cushions and surround myself with softness, though I can’t shake a nagging feeling that this is all wrong.

When Woland stops, I stare at his face with wide eyes, speechless. He laughs, pleased by my awe.

But I am not awed. I’m terrified, because this isn’t him, and I wonder if it’s a stranger wearing Woland’s skin.

The devil I know is the man who created a throne for himself and made me kneel in the cold grass to pleasure him. He brought forth lights so he could see the tears on my face when he fucked my throat, not to impress me with silly displays of magic.

The bed of cushions is jarring, too. The last time he was about to take my virginity, he had me down in the grass, no magic bed, no flowers, no twirling around. He didn’t try any “darlings” or “loves” but threatened me with a punishment, and honestly, I wish he did the same thing right now.

This is uncanny. My desire dissipates, because I’m too spooked by all this.

When I fail to speak, Woland frowns again, watching me closely.

“You don’t like it,” he states flatly.

I purse my lips and take a big breath. I could pretend to be impressed to stroke his ego, but that’s not who I am.

“I’m unnerved,” I admit. “I wonder if it’s really you, because the devil I know would never do this kind of thing.”

Woland exhales in annoyance, looking away. “The one time I make an effort,” he mutters angrily, his jaw clenching. “Let’s get rid of it, then.”

I shake my head frantically, squeezing his nape where I still hold on for balance.

“No! It’s very pretty,” I say, because the soft blankets beckon. “Just… No more. And be yourself.”

His annoyance gives way to something harder when he looks at me, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. “Be myself? You mean the evil liar who killed all those people that now stand between us? That’s who you want?”

He’s bitter, throwing my honest words back in my face like he’s spent a long time thinking about them and raging. I breathe with relief when his shadows coil loosely around my throat, his tail lashing with anger. This is the devil I know and want.

“Yes, please,” I say with a grin, welcoming his fury like a familiar lover. “You being nice is getting me all dry. It’s not you.”

He blinks at me, surprised, and then finally, his anger melts away. He laughs warmly, making my heart flutter, and rearranges me in his arms until I straddle his waist, his clawed hands on my ass, my dress hiked up.

“All dry? We can’t have that, little witch. So you like it when I take from you what I want?”

My core spasms with need, and I nod eagerly, breathing faster. His eyes flash with heat, and then he tugs me roughly up until his mouth is on my neck. He bites down hard, making me scream in surprised pain, and sucks my blood.

That long, hungry pull colors the pain with pleasure. I feel it in my toes, in my heart, in my clit, tugging and bringing my desire to the surface. Woland drinks again with a low growl, and I moan, bucking against his torso in search of friction.

He tears his lips away from the wound and looks at me, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.

When he kisses me, I taste my blood on his tongue. I writhe and buck against him, my body taking the lead. Arousal pools low in my belly, because this is him, and it’s what I want. The devil drinks my moans from my mouth just like he drank blood from my vein, and soon, I shake with the need for more.

He tears away, his eyes hooded, lips swollen from my kisses.

“This is what my poppy girl likes? To be devoured? To be…”

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