Page 7 of The Demon's Vow
Idrew a long, deep breath, filling my lungs with the stale air of the mortal plane. It had been so long since I’ve ventured topside. Beneath the expected stenches of fear and filth, a singular aroma seized my senses—rich, potent, and utterly intoxicating. It was a delicious scent that made my mouth water and my own blood sing in recognition. I took a moment to examine my surroundings. I could barely fit in the small, decrepit room.How insulting.
A low, thoughtful rumble escaped me. In the ancient times, when mortals dared to call upon us, they understood the gravity of the act. They summoned us on scared grounds drenched in power, with altars of polished bone, gold, and proper sacrifices. It was a ceremony, a transaction filled with immense respect. The boy in front of me would have been prepared for me, naked, dipped in rose water, adorned in silk. The site before me was ridiculous and utterly devoid of decorum.
But over the centuries, the rites and rituals had clearly been lost among mortals.
Hmm.
The whispers I’d caught drifting through the underworld seemed to have some validity behind them. The deities aboveand below had been forgotten; their temples lay in ruins or were lost to time. Our names were rarely invoked—gods, demons, and angels all rendered equally obsolete. Modernity had made them forgetful. The girl I expelled from the room, however, had possessed dangerous ancient knowledge.
I finally leveled my gaze onto the boy. “Human, do you know who I am?”
My voice hummed through the marrow of his bones and echoed in the small, damp space of the cell. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His fear was palpable, a pungent cloud perfuming the air around him, sour yet utterly delicious.
My gaze drank him in, this fragile, fascinating creature who had somehow pulled me up here—me, one of the great princes of hell.
His head was bowed, cowering, revealing the elegant line of his neck. Through the crown of his lush, blond curls, damp with sweat and plastered to his temples, I could see he had the face of a fallen angel—beautiful in a way that was heart-wrenchingly mortal. His strong, defiant jaw was currently clenched tight in fear, but it also spoke of a stubbornness I looked forward to challenging.
His youthfulness was evident. He couldn’t have seen more than twenty summers. It gave his features a boyish softness that contrasted violently with the terror in his eyes. A spray of freckles, like dustings of cinnamon scattered by some careless god, dusted the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. His lips quivered. His plush, red, and sinfully full lips, which he worried raw between his teeth.
I took a single, deliberate step forward. The poor boy scrambled backward, a frantic crab-like motion that ended with him crashing down onto the rough concrete. The impact pulled a sharp cry from his lips, a sound that was undiluted panic. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if by not seeing me, I might cease toexist. A stream of nonsense tumbled from his mouth—fragments of prayers, denials, and words that held no meaning, only the raw shape of his terror.
A flicker of impatience stirred within me. This display was beneath the one whose blood called to me so powerfully...the blood of my mate.
“Look. At. Me.”
My command was woven with a thread of compulsion, an ancient magic that willed obedience. His eyelids, against his every desire, fluttered open. His eyes, a shade of blue that reminded me of the finest sapphire, glistened with unshed tears that clung to long lashes darker than his hair.I wonder how they taste.In them, I saw a tempest of emotions—sheer, unadulterated terror, yes, but also a slow dawning of horrified awe.
They were trained on me, reflecting the dim light and my own monstrous shape.
And then I saw it. The source of that scent, the one that drew me to this wretched room in the first place. The rich, crimson well of blood on his palm pooling from a deep gash. The scent of it, a vintage of power and life, was one I had not encountered in ages. It eclipsed all else. My fascination, already piqued, sharpened into a razor’s edge of pure, unbridled hunger. I needed a taste.
I was directly before him in the space of a heartbeat, my movement a blur of shadows that made him flinch. Perhaps he thought I’d strike or hurt him. I knelt in front of him, and the action felt strangely intimate despite the state of the cell. My presence filled his world, the heat radiating from my skin was a stark contrast to the chill of his fear.
“You are bleeding,” I rasped, my voice a low, deep murmur.
Before he could react, my hand closed around his thin wrist. Humans…I’d forgotten how fragile and delicate they were. If I wasn’t careful, I could snap him as easily as a twig.
His pulse thrummed against my grasp. It was wild, a frantic rhythm that betrayed a heart pushed to its very limits. He gasped, followed by a feeble attempt to pull away that I stopped with the barest tightening of my fingers. He understood immediately.
I smiled.Good boy.
Slowly, while holding his terrified gaze, I raised his injured hand and observed the wound. I raised his palm to my face, the scent of his blood a dizzying ambrosia. The coppery metallic scent of human blood mixed with an undercurrent of something else, something sweet and different. My tongue slid out, and I licked slowly, deliberately, along the length of the cut.
He froze before a violent shudder racked his entire body, but I knew it was not due to the cold or revulsion. I could taste it. The sharp tang of his fear was present, yes, but beneath it, a shocking, traitorous spark of something else…arousal. I let out a pleased huff.
I closed my lips over the wound and sucked, gently drawing his essence into my mouth. A groan escaped me, vibrating against his soft palm. His blood was not merely sustenance. It filled my senses and burned through my veins that had been hardened and cold for centuries. It was the first true warmth I felt in eons. It was only my ability to control myself, a control honed over millennia, that kept me from drinking him dry.
Every drop that landed on my tongue was an aphrodisiac, a drug more potent than any hell-spawned vice. My free hand clenched into a fist at my side, my talons biting into my own palm just to feel something other than the overwhelming need to claim, to devour, to consume every little drop of him. That wouldn’t do. Not here.
The huffs and moans that escaped his luscious lips proved I wasn’t the only one affected. Breathy moans quickly filled the small space. A deep flush spread from his chest, painting his throat and cheeks a delicious, rosy hue. His lips parted, all inhibitions gone. His breaths were coming in shallow, ragged pants. The scent of his arousal dominated my senses now. I didn’t need to look to know my boy’s cock was hard, leaking and straining against the confines of his garment. I wanted to tear and shred every piece of fabric on him, bare him naked before me. Open him, first with my tongue, my fingers, fist, before finally pushing my cock into his loosened, wet, sloppy hole and fucking him until he blacked out from pure pleasure.
“Look at you,” I said. “No one has touched your little cock, yet your hips won’t stop moving. What a slutty mate I’ve been given. Will you come untouched?”
A broken moan escaped him, his hips continued to give a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“You see what you do to me, little one?" I growled, my voice rough with desire. "You smell of want. It flows from you. I can smell your cock weeping for me."
I continued to lick and suck, and with every pull of his blood into my mouth, the boy’s—no, my mate’s—resistance crumbled piece by piece. His body finally went pliant against mine as the scent of human cum hit my nostrils, his head lolling back to expose the vulnerable line of his gorgeous throat—a silent, unconscious offering, one I greedily accepted.
