Page 32 of Inflamed By an Incubus

Aderyn had fallen for him again.

She had ended up killed by a mage, ripped from Fenix to reincarnate somewhere far from him with her memories missing.

The lights suddenly dropped, blanketing everything in darkness.

Fenix tensed and immediately went on high alert, cocked his head and listened as the occupants of the cells around him grew restless and wary, all of them as on edge as he was.

“What is happening?” the fae across the corridor asked.

“Don’t know.” Fenix listened harder as a siren wailed, trying to hear over the infernal shrieking sound, and flinched as a red flashing light punched back the darkness.

Revealing glimpses of the black-haired male across from him.

The fae covered his ears with his hands and glared at the ceiling, the red lights that chased over him catching on his silver irises and making them look crimson.

Fenix arched an eyebrow as he covered his own ears to protect his sensitive hearing.

Or perhaps his eyes were now crimson.

He moved closer to the glass of his cell, narrowing the gap between him and the fae, curious as to what the male was. His irises weren’t entirely crimson. They were jagged silver in the centres around his now-elliptical pupils.

The fae bared his teeth at the wailing siren.

Or more accurately, bared fangs.

A whole set of them. His canines were the longest, but the incisors next to them were sharper and longer too.

Not a vampire. Not an elf. This male was something else. Something Fenix had never seen before.

His skin paled, the tips of his ears growing pointed, and his lips darkened towards black.

In the flickering crimson light, inky markings curled around his biceps to sweep around his shoulders and trace the line of his pectorals from his armpits around the square slabs of them and up to his collarbones where they curved around and faded into a point. These markings weren’t the fae tongue people spoke these days, the language of Fenix’s own markings.

This male’s markings were ancient fae. A dialect lost in time.

Although Fenix would bet his left nut that the male spoke that tongue too.

Fenix had seen it once, in a tome owned by a witch in the fae town near where he lived. Abigail treasured that book as if it was special, even though she couldn’t read the damned thing. He shook his head. She would love to get her hands on this male and convince him to translate it for her.

The male slid him a look, his voice a black snarl. “I want out.”

Fenix bet he did.

He didn’t only want out either. He wanted out and he wanted to rip into every hunter who came to an abrupt halt to cast a fearful glance at him before hurrying off to wherever they were heading.

The fae pressed his ghost-white palms to the glass. The top thirds of each finger were as black as night and the lower parts were marked with another line of inky symbols that tracked downwards to the edge of his palm.

Son of a bitch had black nails that were an inch long and as sharp as claws too.

“We must leave this place.”

Fenix wanted to ask whether the male was talking about we as in Fenix and him leaving together, or whether he was talking about the nice friendly guy he had been a few minutes ago and this darker version of himself.

He kept his mouth shut though.

Mostly because the alarm fell silent.

“What is happening now?” the fae growled, flashing those killer teeth of his.

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