Page 91 of Devil's Doom

He peppers my face with foul, manipulative kisses, and I thrash in agony. He’s true to his word—nothing he’s done causes me physical pain. What hurts is my stupid heart, because it desperately wants to believe him, and the strife between fear and the need for his words to be true makes me rip apart.

“When I saw you with Chors, I had to accept how I feel,” he says, voice shaky. “Whenshebetrayed me, I got over it so fast. But if you ever do it, itwillbreak me. How isn’t that love, no matter how ridiculous and unwelcome? Tell me.”

I shake my head, a raw whine pouring out of my throat. He had to spoil this, too. It wasn’t enough for him to turn my first time having sex into a humiliating farce. Now my first confession of love is a joke, too, and I am the butt of it.

“I win,” Woland says softly. “And all it took was ripping my heart out and giving it to you, but you won’t have it, will you? It’s too ugly. Too damaged.”

He slides down my body, and I snarl like a wild cat, kicking and spitting. If he puts his mouth on me again, I swear, I’ll find a way to tear out his treacherous tongue.

But Woland doesn’t try to lick me. He places a hard, searing kiss that tingles with magic—right over my scar that I begged him not to touch.

“It’s a promise,” he says, when I heave in large, sobbing breaths, tears falling down my temples. “One day, when this is all over, you will let me heal that part of you. One day, we will be happy.”

Chapter thirty-one

Thorns

He releases my wrists, and even though they don’t hurt because his blood inside me heals every scrape, he still strokes my skin and blows on it with care. I lie there motionless, letting him do what he wants. I’m spent, withdrawn deep into myself, where his words and eyes can’t hurt me.

Woland helps me sit and presses a goblet of cool water to my mouth. I drink, looking somewhere into space, the bedroom unreal, my body a dream. I barely feel his warmth as he lays behind me, pressing me close under covers. We’re both naked, and he hasn’t fucked me, after all. I feel strangely dismayed by that. He led to it with everything he did, and now, it all seems so pointless. There is no closure.

“Sleep,” he murmurs into my hair, his hand spanning my stomach in a possessive hold. “I’ll watch over you.”

Anguish fills my chest as I think that I’d love to believe him so badly, but I’m too terrified. He hurt me deeply the last time. He’ll do it again, and even worse. No, I can’t. I push the feeling down, closing my eyes as the bedroom grows dark.

I wake up to the sensation of gentle fingers caressing my face. A faint glow lights up Woland’s face hovering above mine, his eyes soft and hooded as they watch me. His finger outlines the shape of my mouth. Neither of us says a word, our eyes locked.

He seems mesmerized. I wonder how long he watched me in my sleep. If this is a lie, I have to admire his commitment.

“Water?” he asks in a whisper.

I nod, and he helps me drink. When I lie back, he returns to studying my face, gentle fingers trailing my sparse eyebrows.

“They should grow back in a few weeks,” I say with a shrug, feeling self-conscious. “No spell I tried was permanent enough, and Nienad says he won’t waste his resources on vanity.”

He hums, a small frown marring his smooth forehead. His skin looks so smooth in the light, like the finest, softest fabrics luxurious seamstresses use up in the city.

“Mind if I try it?”

I nod indifferently, too weary to wonder if I can trust him or not. I am so tired of questioning his every motivation and word.

Woland strokes both eyebrows a few times, spreading the tingling heat of magic over my skin. It itches for a moment before he pulls back, eyeing me critically.

“That should do it. Body modification spells are very costly to maintain. Healing is easier, because your body actively strives to be well at all times, but hair is secondary. That’s why Nienad didn’t want to bother. Do you want to see?”

I shake my head and pat them instead. Yes, they are back. Of course, Woland can do anything at no cost at all.

“You can ask me for things, Jaga,” he says seriously. “I know you’re proud and used to dealing with the world on your own, but you can ask me.”

He combs through my hair with gentle fingers, watching me expectantly. This Woland is utterly puzzling, because I don’t think he has it in him to pretend so well. When we met, he was so crude. Even when he tried to seduce me that Kupala Night, his words were callous and indifferent. He was so full of himself and thought I’d fall to my knees at the slightest temptation.

Either he learned subtlety, or he really believes what he says.

“You just want me to have a braid you can yank on,” I say wearily. “Fine. You can make my hair grow back if you want, but I don’t really care.”

It’s actually a lie. My hair, when short, is even worse than long. It's redder. At least when I braided it into a crown around my head, it seemed darker, the sheer volume changing the color.

He huffs with amusement, stroking the round tip of my earlobe. “Is this how you ask? I’ve been making an effort to say ‘please’. What about you?”

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