Page 35 of Cursed Shadows

“We need disguises,” Cambion says and studies Eilish, who continues to lean against me, with interest. She’s pale and weak from her experience with the River of Souls.

“What the fuck happened to her?” he asks.

Dragan says nothing, so I figure I’m now carrying the banner of narrator. “Things didn’t exactly go as planned,” I answer.

“Whatever,” Cambion spouts as he then appraises each of us with a bored expression. He’s quite the pompous ass. “We need cover.” No one argues, thus Cambion begins reciting an enchantment of illusion. I hear him repeat the words “Pass Without Trace” numerous times, followed by words and phrases inElvishthat I don’t understand.

“It’s done,” he says, finally, and we begin the second leg of our journey.

CHAPTER TEN

DRAGAN

The scent of juniper berries and brimstone carries on the wind, uncommon in a place where soldiers prepare to die in the battle against the false king.

My gaze lifts to take in the sight of the shadow of a supple figure just beyond my tent walls, illuminated by the flickering torches that line the road. In the firelight, the silhouette reveals swollen breasts, a flat stomach, and a round, high ass.

A woman.

How long has it been since I’ve had one?

Fuck.

Sweat beads on my brow as a throbbing need courses through me.

“Liege, are you expecting a visitor?” Thoradin, my lead Centurion, asks.

I’m not, but there’s no way I will refuse a visitor with such a figure. I can only hope her face lives up to the promise of her body.

Thoradin nods and leads the woman inside.

My breath catches.

She’s not a woman, but a she-demon. A Succubus.

And she’s stunningly beautiful.

She saunters through the opening of the tent, her hips swaying in time with the bounce of her unrestrained breasts. The scent of her grows stronger.

She favors me with a smile, and I feel my heart rate increase.

Cambion reaches for his weapon until I stay his hand with a single glance. His glaring eyes fix on me with unspoken questions. But my attention is riveted on the lovely creature with inky-black hair that cascades past her waist.

She raises her chin in defiance.

“I am Lamia, Queen of the Succubae.” Her voice is colored with an accent that curls around each word like smoke to flame.

Queen, I muse.More like goddess. Never have I looked upon a creature as beautiful as she.

“I thought the Succubae extinct,” I say in response. I don’t offer my name or title, because she’s already aware of both. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have come.

Her pitch-black eyes narrow and her breathing increases. I’ve angered her.

I’m amused with her irritation. I admire the flush it brings to her cheeks, the way her nostrils flare and her eyebrows furrow.

“Nearly extinct,” she corrects me.

Then, as though remembering herself, she inhales, allowing the anger to bleed from her expression. When she faces me again, it’s with the semblance of a smile. I fight to keep my attention on her eyes, but she’s wearing a long and tight black gown made of some iridescent fabric that grips her curves and reveals the tiny pebbles of her alert nipples. Half her milky white breasts are exposed as the cut of the gown plunges dramatically—right down to her navel.

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