Page 100 of Prince of Demons
Naked. Shackled. Collar gleaming at her throat. Ankles spread just so. And between her legs, the gold chain—still held in the King’s lazy grip—running taut to the ring that encircled her clit.
Everything inside him locked. Every instinct, every tether, every inch of restraint.
Her eyes found his. Blue, wide, wet with tears she hadn’t let fall.
Her lips moved, and though no sound passed them, her words still reached him.
You came.
The disbelief in her wet eyes sank deeper than his own fury. The fragile hope. The grief. She didn’t think he could win. Not against all of them.
She didn’t believe he would survive this. That he could save her.
His gaze shifted—to the male still holding her leash.
The king looked smug, prepared to speak again, to gloat again.
Kesh didn’t let him.
“You’re out of time.”
The magic erupted from him like a detonation—black and vicious and absolute—with no warning and no chance for the King to react.
One moment the ancient ruler stood haughty and sovereign, hand still wrapped around Georgia’s leash. And the next?—
A blast of shadow slammed into him, ripping through flesh, through bone, through centuries of entitlement and rot.
Blood and ash sprayed the platform, coating Georgia’s bare skin, her shackles, the marble beneath her feet. A hunk of something—part of a rib, maybe—hit the golden railing and skidded away.
There was a sound, wet and final.
The king was gone.
The leash clattered to the ground, chain swinging limp, one of the king’s fingers still attached by scorched flesh welded to the metal.
For one breathless second, there was only silence—the kind that follows a cataclysm. Thick. Stunned. Disbelieving.
Then chaos cracked the stillness open.
A roar split the air, and Prince Aragalan launched from the stands with a burst of power, his black magic already coiling in thick, oily ropes around his arms.
He struck hard and fast, driven by fury and panic, the certainty of bloodline collapse driving him forward.
Kesh met him head-on.
A second impact lit the arena, shadow clashing against shadow, sparks and smoke and the stink of raw magic flooding the space.
Guards surged from the outer ring, blades drawn. Some of the gathered lords rose too—most to fight, some to flee—but not all chose sides. Not yet.
Those who did hurled themselves from the stands like animals.
The arena descended into slaughter.
Kesh moved like fury made flesh, power pouring from him in waves that cracked marble and split stone. Every blow he landed left ruin behind—demons thrown, guards crushed, the scent of seared flesh thick in the air.
He tore through them.
Aragalan came at him again and again, relentless, and Kesh met him each time with the deep-seated knowledge that if he lost, Georgia would face eternity as this monster’s breeding slave. He could not fail her.
