Page 3 of Married to the Devil

There’s a lightening of his demeanor and a rush of warmth fills my chest at pleasing him. His hand continues to hover up my neck and the tips of his claws scrape over the delicate skin there.

“Are there any sexual acts off limits?” His question is frank.

“Uh—” My skin heats under scrutiny as I think of all the things I want him to do to me. Each action that my mind brews up only serves to distract me from his question. “I like all the usual things,” I whisper. “Other things can be discussed as they come up.”

There. That sounds reasonable and confident. Not like my thoughts are clamoring under the surface at all.

“You enjoy submission,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

My cheeks burn hotter when I nod.

“Sometimes,” I say instead ofonly with some peopleor the even more embarrassingonly with you. Because even though I’ve always had a little bit of thrill at the idea of dominance and submission, I’ve never been comfortable enough with anyone I’ve casually dated to try it.

I don’t know how he can even tell. I’ve never been called meek. I’m loud and curse as easily as I breathe. I’ve been calledchaosby one man in particular…

He drags his claws through my hair, and the impressive updo weakens under his attention. He pulls away, one of the blue flowers pinned in my hair between his claws.

A forget-me-not. I freeze before forcing my shoulders to relax. There’s no reason to react to it.

“Will your demon be a problem?” he asks, almost conversational.

“Demon?”

Stoneheart arches a sardonic brow but remains silent. He can’t possibly know what the flowers mean, but perhaps he’s picked up on the animosity toward him from Kalos’s right-hand man.

I shake my head to dispel the illusion that Stoneheart can as easily parse my soul apart as read my interest in submission. “Ben isn’tmydemon, and why would he be a problem?”

Stoneheart twirls the flower. “He doesn’t like me much.”

“He didn’t like me much either.” To start anyway. Over time, things became murkier. “Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re correct. It doesn’t,” he says, a satisfaction brimming the statement. He lets the flower fall to the floor between us before flicking his claw against the stone of the wedding ring he placed on my finger as if stating his claim. He doesn’t have to use words. I wear his ring now. Anything that could have possibly sprouted between Ben and me withered the moment I chose to marry Stoneheart.

There’s a pang of loss, but I smother it.This is what I chose.

Stoneheart’s hands return to my hair, tugging one of the many pins free before dropping it. His wings unclasp, and I jolt with surprise. His movements slow as if asking permission. He’s so much larger with them unfurled, like an impending shadow about to devour my soul.

The flesh is willing, and my soul? As nervous as I am, that bitch is craving this.

I nod for him to keep going, curious and a little surprised. I’ve never been with a paranormal who isn’t human-shaped. There can’t be all that many differences than being with a man, but idea of him involving his wings in this dance of ours is new.

The talons on the hinge of his wings join the soft but sure action of removing the rest of the pins from my hair. The metal of each one sings as it runs over my scalp, the pearl ends adding the flavor of invigorating salt on the tip of my tongue.

Stoneheart can’t know how the materials affect me. Each pull is delicate and heightens my senses so that the soft brush of his knuckles over my cheek is as arousing as if he’d stroked my breast.

I craft charms. Metals and stones speak to me, and I listen.

Perhaps he does know. The metal of the ring he placed on my finger sings a pure enough song that it’s a quiet baseline. The pear-cut sapphire in the ring symbolizes fidelity and hums with comfort. There are no clusters of other stones to disturb the message. As a gift to a witch who specializes in precious metals and stones, it’s a beautiful one.

It gives me hope for this union. With my attraction toward him, the careful way he watches me now, and the thoughtful ring choice, our relationship may bloom into a real mating rather than only a political one.

He pulls the last of the pins free, dropping it to the lush carpet with the wilted forget-me-not, and my hair cascadesdown my back and shoulders. Petals and the stubborn flowers that had been so artfully placed for spectacle join the pins on the floor.

My husband hums, his claws combing through the waves of auburn in a way that has my attention rapt.

“So pretty and bright,” he says.

His approval radiates through me, and I yearn to touch him. Spread my hands over his chest. To explore him as readily as he is me. To claim some sort of ownership over this gargoyle who has occupied my thoughts.

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