Page 48 of Prince of Demons
Georgia set her jaw and shifted her weight on the stool, away from him. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because there isn’t a max level of awful you can reach! That man you killed… at least it was to feed yourself. But to hear that you’ve raped women? Knowing they’d die horribly? You’re no better than the asshole who wanted to sell me in his brothel!” She wasn’t sure why that realization stung like a betrayal. She’d known him to be a monster from first sight, and when he’d killed that poor guy in the bathroom and tried to kill the woman, too, she’d seen exactly how he saw humans: as resources to use. And still, somehow, she’d still felt… not safe with him. But not truly terrified, either. Not like she had at the brothel, because… Because she’d believed him when he’d said he didn’t rape the women he took to his home, and she’d nurtured a sheer, desperate hope that he wasn’t all the way evil. That, however bleak the circumstances, he was proof that her future mate might also be capable of some decency.
He let out a laugh, low and bitter. “Oh, so there are gradients? If I need sustenance, your squishy little Breeder heart can find forgiveness for my atrocities, but if my cravings are for pleasure, for comfort, you’d judge me for indulging?”
“Yes!” she spat. “One is for survival, the other… the other you could ask a woman to give. Or does it have to be forced for you to enjoy it?”
Kesh exhaled slowly, his eyes locked with hers, smoldering with desire again—as if her anger excited the beast within him. “No. It doesn’t. But I don’t have to ask, either, do I, Breeder? Not when I have a mouthy little female at hand who so eagerly traded her services for the night.”
“I suppose desperation to save a child’s life is what a rapey monster would class as ‘eagerness’,” she bit.
A snarl ripped from the prince’s throat. He stood, so abruptly the water sloshed over the edge of the tub, and yanked her up by an iron grip on her arms.
Georgia yipped, terror overriding her anger as he lifted her into the tub and then off her feet, bringing her all the way up to his face. She struggled against his hold, pushing against his massive chest, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
His lip peeled back from his teeth, revealing his sharp fangs, and the look of utter fury in those black vortex eyes shot tendrils of ice to her tailbone. “You want to be a martyr, Breeder? You want me to play the role of the big, bad monster foaming at the mouth to violate you? Fine. I’ll make you the victim you so desperately want to be.”
23
Kesh
Fury pounded in his temples as he waded out of the tub and carried the Breeder by her arms to the bed. She screamed when he tossed her on it, and scrambled backward when he knelt on the foot end, towering over her. She didn’t get far. He grabbed her by the ankles and yanked, sending her onto her back. She kicked to free herself, but her strength was no match for his. One vicious rip of fabric, and her body was bared to him, long, creamy legs leading up to the tuft of hair covering the apex he yearned to devour. He inhaled deeply on instinct, desperate for the tang of her—but along with warm pussy, what filled his lungs was acrid terror and despair.
A bright memory filled his mind on the heels of that uniquely devastating scent, and his breath caught in his lungs as anguish flooded his body: His mother. Curled up on her marital bed. Weeping.
His father’s semen seeping from her.
Her hiss at him to stay away when he, with childish panic, tried to comfort her, tried to glue back together the center of his universe.
Don’t touch me! You’re all the same.
He’d been five when he’d learned that entire being was nothing but darkness and destruction.
“…Kesh?” The gentlest whisper, followed by a soft touch to his arm. He jerked at the contact, his focus zeroing in on the Breeder before him. Concern mixed with her fear, her stupid, kind heart drawing her to him despite how all he wanted was to ruin her. Like his mother had been ruined.
“Stay away from me!” he snarled, recoiling from her.
Her innocent, blue eyes widened, but instead of obeying his command, she shifted up on her knees so she could lean further toward him.
“You’re crying.” It was a simple statement, the wonderment in her voice penetrating deep into his chest. She reached for him again, her delicate fingers trying to encircle his wrist like weighted shackles on his soul. As much as he wanted to put distance between them before his darkness consumed her, he found himself unable to move.
Before he could break through the stupor of her declaration, Georgia reached for his face with her free hand, smoothing away the tears from his cheek with a soft brush of her thumb. “What’s wrong?”
Every fiber of his being wanted to snarl at her, to tell her he wasn’t fucking crying—that the Prince of Demons didn’t cry. To make her pay for this weakness her presence forced out of him.
But her touch on his skin flooded his body with longing. And deep, dark, soul-crushing despair.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He could only feel.
Deep, ugly sobs tore through his body, forced up from so deep, horror and bile singed his taste buds. There was no stopping it, no willing it away. Pain flooded out of him, visceral and raw, and there was nothing he could do to hide it from the woman who’d unwittingly ripped him open by her mere existence.
Slim arms wrapped around his body, embracing him in softness and warmth. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
She was hugging him. The sensation was so absurd, so violatingly intimate, it should have made him push her away on instinct. Instead, his arms wound around her body of their own accord, pulling her tighter to his chest as he buried his face in her dark hair.
Stars. Oh, fucking stars. He inhaled shakily, his sobs quieting as her scent filled his nostrils. The horrible ache in his chest eased with every breath, comfort vibrating through his nerve endings as she gently stroked his back and… hummed.
