Page 23 of The Demon's Queen

As if I could. I lie there and watch him pad naked to a doorway that obviously leads into his bathroom. He returns a minute later with a damp washcloth.

Even with the balm having chased away the worst side effects of taking him so recklessly, I still ache a little when he presses the cloth to my pussy. His onyx eyes miss nothing. “The balm will continue to work. You shouldn’t be sore at all in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

He frowns but finishes cleaning me up and tosses the cloth into a short bin I hadn’t noticed before. “Stay.”

I shouldn’t. I’m already feeling vulnerable and raw in a way that has nothing to do with my body. He protected me today. He didn’t hesitate to give me exactly what I asked for—what I needed—when I came knocking at his door at an indecent hour. More than that, he’s submitted to my anger, to my punishments, without complaint.

He lied to me. Tricked me. Essentially kidnapped me. He...choseme. That shouldn’t matter—I didn’t ask for this—but it does.

I’m softening. Damn it.

“I’ll stay.”

He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He’s too smart for that. Instead, he gets me a glass of water, watches closely as I drink it, shows me where everything is in the bathroom, and when I’m finished there, bundles me up in a blanket and sprawls us out in his bed.

Itshouldbe uncomfortable. I don’t sleep with clients, and I haven’t dated anyone in a truly spectacular amount of time. Butthe moment I close my eyes, Azazel’s steady breathing relaxes every tense part of me as his warmth cocoons me in safety.

It’s a lie.

The voice is faint, toothless. I’ll work to get my barriers up tomorrow... maybe.

But when I wake up, it’s to an empty bed.

I blink a few times, wondering if I imagined the whole thing. The faint ache in my body gives lie to that thought immediately. I sit up slowly, my head spinning faintly. “How long did I sleep?” Even knowing it’s foolish, I can’t help calling, “Azazel?” Silence is the only response.

There’s no reason for the spike of hurt that realization brings. I’ve spent every moment since I arrived here pushing him away. Why should I expect he’d give me the courtesy of at least writing a note or something to greet me when I woke?

But Iamhurt.

I climb off the bed and look around. His room is a larger version of mine, the color scheme dark—deep-blue walls, copper accents on the furniture, all of which is some kind of black wood I don’t recognize. The temptation rises to snoop, but my bruised pride... bruisedheart... can’t stand the thought of being here a moment longer.

“I’m overreacting.” The words feel faint and insecure in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Azazel is not my boyfriend. He’s my captor. Just because we’re fucking, just because he demonstrates care when he’s with me, does not change that fact. I know Stockholm Syndrome doesn’t exist exactly, but if it did, the sheer power of the orgasms he gives me would be enough to scramble my brain.

I shove through the door and out into the hall. I almost snap a command but force myself to pause and moderate my tone. “I’d like to go back to my room. Please.”

With every step I take down the long hallway, I berate myself for my recklessness, for letting pheromones and hormones make me forget exactly what brought me here in the first place. For... a lot of things.

Homesickness rises, so strong that I press my hand to my chest as if I can soothe the feeling with touch alone. It doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t help. I don’t even know what I’m homesick for. My empty apartment? New York? Pope and the few friends I’ve allowed myself over the years? The clients who will just move on to other professionals once they realize I’m no longer around? I may have built up the fantasy that I’m irreplaceable, but it’s not the truth. That realization hurts almost as much as Azazel’s betrayal.

I’m in a magical realm a million lifetimes from everything I know, and I can’t stop jumping on my captor’s cock. I’m giving him exactly what he wants. It’s easier to be angry with Azazel than to examine all the ways I feel hurt and foolish right now.

The first corner brings me back to my door. “Thank you.” I can’t quite make my tone be gracious. I shove through my door and head directly to the bathroom. I’m going to shower and then...

The rest of my life stretches out before me, with me lonely and alienated. I’ve been here over a week. That’s barely enough time to adjust, but trying to explore feels like giving in. I wrap my arms around myself, more conflicted than I’ve ever been. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what tofeel.

Showering does nothing to clear my mind. Getting ready usually creates a calm space inside me, the motions familiar and comforting. Not today. I give up halfway through and march out to the wardrobe to pull on a black wrap dress. It’s beautiful and fits perfectly, which only worsens my mood.

I have to get out of here.

Even if that means seeing him before I’m ready. This room is massive, but the walls feel like they’re closing in. I have to go... I need to...

I push through the door. “Please.” It’s getting easier to talk to the castle, feels less like I’m talking to myself. Or maybe desperation has a way of cleaving through things that don’t matter. “I need to get out. Just for a little while. I need...”

Walking helps keep the buzzing feeling that’s beneath my skin at bay, but only barely. It’s so much worse than it was last night, but I’ll throw myself out a window before I beg the castle to send me to Azazel.

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