Page 81 of Devil's Deal

“You can’t kill me or let me die. And you need my conscious, verbal consent. You can’t torture it out of me. I suppose you could trick me, but I learned not to trust you. Really, Woland.”

I smile, that power I hold over him surging within me like sweet victory. “A deal is your only option.”

He sighs, his breath hot on my skin, but there’s no anger in him. No resignation, either. His lack of reaction puts me out, and Woland grins, seeing my disappointment.

“Not my only option, no,” he says. “I can repeat what I did once already. You still mourn your friend, don’t you? She died because you didn’t treat me seriously when I said what I’d do, but now you know better. Well, Jaga, the way I see it, I only have to wait. You’re making so many new friends. It’s in your best interest to take my deal.”

I hiss and swing my hand away from his face to slap him but not fast enough. A shadowy rope slithers around my wrist in a flash, pushing my hand into the grass. I pant and glare at him, and Woland grins.

“Decide. Do we have a deal?” he says, infuriatingly smug.

But it’s not over. I’ll never let him win. So I return his smile and raise my thigh, pressing it into his still hard cock.

“No, we don’t.”

The change that comes over him is quicker than lightning. His smile vanishes, his teeth bare in a snarl, eyes darkening to a deep smolder. The hand cupping my face slides to my throat, his long fingers wrapping around it with ease. He squeezes, taking my breath away, and I arch into him.

The last time he choked me, I came.

Woland seems to realize it, too. He growls, his hold loosening, and then his mouth is on mine, teeth biting into my lip until it bleeds, long tongue pushing down my throat.

“It will be my cock next time,” he threatens, his voice pure magic, because he can’t speak while he kisses me.

Or is that a kiss? It’s so violent. My eyes roll back into my head, wicked, intense pleasure coursing through me in waves. I raise my hips, trying to get friction, but his shadows grab my legs and force them to the ground, laying me out flat, my body helplessly open for the taking.

Just when I’m about to gag, his tongue retreats. He slithers up, sinuous like a serpent, until the head of his cock nudges between my legs. He braces himself on his arms, looking down at me with feral focus.

“At least with my magic inside you, you’ll heal at once,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “But it will still hurt. This is a punishment, poppy girl.”

My eyes go down to his erection, and yes, he’s longer and thicker than any human man I’ve ever seen naked, and I’ve seen my share during my apprenticeship. But the thorns lining his base lie flat in a circular shape, like wheat pressed close to the ground by a strong wind. I’ve noticed that before. The thorns are harmless when he’s erect.

But yes. The first time is supposed to hurt, though I’m not sure this is what he means.

And yet, when Woland rubs himself against me, sliding through my wetness and teasing us both, I don’t care. He’s hard and heavy where I’m soft and needy. This desire has brewed in me since the night I met him, and it only grew hotter, hate and fear adding depth to my lust.

I moan, inviting him in. He releases a guttural sound, his shadows slithering over my mouth and breasts as he moves, coating his shaft in my arousal.

“I’ll have you,” he bites out, positioning his cock at my entrance. I feel every bit of skin where his wet, wide head touches me, teasing. Almost in. “One way or another, you will belong to me.”

He pulls back, preparing to thrust. I bite my lip, bracing for the pain, waiting for the pleasure.

Woland snarls, growing rigid. He trembles, his eyes going out of focus until a deep shade of red flashes in them for the briefest moment. I know something is wrong even before he climbs off me and stands, graceful and limber as always.

“I must go,” he says without looking at me.

I blink, and when I open my eyes, he’s gone.

Chapter twenty-seven

Stork

It takes me one full day to get my cottage sufficiently clean after Swietko’s amputation and his and Alina’s stay. This is my space, my only refuge, and it feels violated, so I work until nothing remains of my guests.

I scrub the blood off my floor and table, replace the straw in my mattress, smoke the interior with sage and tansy. It takes longer than it should because I’m interrupted every half hour. People are curious, so they visit under the pretext of getting herbal remedies for common ailments.

I keep my annoyance to myself and serve them with as much grace as I can muster, which is not much. The only thing keeping my foul mood in check is my goal of discrediting Czeslawa and taking her place. I will fail if I’m rude to my clients.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t make this huge interest in my whispering beneficial to myself.

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