Page 28 of Devil's Deal

I said no. And in doing so, I wiped his self-satisfied smirk right off his face.

Mortal or not, I won with the devil. Except, that was just one battle. Something tells me he’s ready to wage a war.

Woland confirms my suspicions when he answers, “Tell me why you want to travel to the past, and I’ll share my reasons with you.”

His gaze is cold and calculating. My body tightens with distrust so strong, I feel it like a tingle across my scalp.

“You have no honor and you don’t respect me,” I say slowly. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

His mouth tips up just a tad and he nods once. “You don’t. So we dance.”

The protest is already on the tip of my tongue when he twists his hand in the air, making the music louder and faster. The drums become feverish, the flutes shrill and anxious, and soon, other sounds flow in, seamlessly joining the melody, making it rich and resonant. Around us, the circle suddenly fills with more creatures.

I look around in awe at the crowd of beings I only know from stories. There are young maidens in flowing, white dresses, their faces so beautiful, they are unreal. Shaggy, fur-covered beasts with bright, canny eyes, wearing clothes like people. Creatures large and small, some flying around on moth wings, some so tiny, I can barely make them out in the grass.

All of them laugh, squeal, and move in a feverish, carnal rhythm.

When Woland grabs my waist and turns us both to the fast, breathtaking melody, I follow his lead. The music seeps into my bones and my body answers, and so we do just what he said.

We dance.

Chapter ten

Outcast

Woland moves with surprising grace for someone of his size and bulk. He leads me effortlessly through the grass, turning me until my skirts flare. The flowers in my chaplet brush his chin when he pulls me close.

I am rigid in his hold, clearly unwilling, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Please, just let me go home,” I finally grit out after he turns me fast, his hooves closely avoiding my bare feet. He hasn’t stepped on me even once. He’s a skilled dancer while I’ve only danced a handful of times in my life and feel unsure of my every step.

And yet, as he leads, I follow flawlessly. The dance is fast, matching the rhythm of the wild, intoxicating music.

The fact I move with ease is another proof of his skill, I grudgingly admit. It doesn’t make me hate him less, though. Now that he’s no longer controlling my body’s reactions, all I feel at his touch is revulsion.

“No. I always get what I want, poppy girl. You’re no different.”

I snort at the arrogance in his deep, resonant voice. As if I hadn’t just proven that he cannot and will not have me. As if I hadn’t resisted him so well, he was dumbfounded.

“You doubt me,” he says, an edge of amusement creeping into his voice. “But I know how to bend mortals to my will. By the end of the night, you will beg to be mine.”

His confident words startle a laugh out of me, and it’s so loud and hearty, it turns heads. Strzybog, who’s dancing nearby with a willowy girl in a skimpy garment of woven flowers, shoots me a curious look.

“You make my skin crawl with disgust,” I say, looking up into Woland’s yellow eyes. “And you know what? I don’t respect you, either. Just like you have no respect for me.”

His eyebrow rises in question, but the amused expression stays. He clearly has no regard for my opinion of him, and suddenly, I want my words to cut him, even just a little. I want him to hurt.

“You don’t respect me? I am a god and your better.” There is not a crumb of doubt in his voice. He sounds dismissive.

So full of himself. I laugh bitterly, my skirts flaring as he turns me before his warm palm settles on my waist again.

“And yet, you’re just like every pathetic, little man living in this village. So similar to weak, mortal men who are good for nothing.”

His mouth purses, eyes narrowing. I swallow down my fear and celebrate. My aim was true, my words hitting a sore spot.

“How am I like them?” he grits out, turning me so fast, I almost lose my balance. When I am in his grip again, tighter this time because anger guides his touch, I catch my breath before I answer.

“Because just like every other gutless, stupid man I know, you can’t control your temper. When someone makes you angry, you hurt them. There is no finesse, no control. You’re so pathetically weak.”

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