Page 39 of Mortal Desires

“You like watching him.” She arched an eyebrow. “You’re in hell. Say it with me.”

I had to chuckle, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m in hell.”

“Feel those words on your tongue for a second, girl. Hell. This is hell. Why are you so afraid to burn?”

I hated the idea of welcoming the royal court to my palace right after three Brumas disappeared.

My power linked the Brumas to this place, and kept them rooted here. If they were able to leave, it could only mean my grip loosened.

However, it was unacceptable to have a wife who belonged to the land of the living. Pilar’s every lungful was proof that she was alive and well and could leave at any time. Unless I killed her, and I wasn’t giving her a chance to ascend.

I rested my back on the throne, watching in silence as the servants started the preparations for the ritual. Killing Pilar wouldn’t be nearly as fun, anyway. Such a mortal weakness, the concept of fun. And yet, I was now intrigued.

This was much better. I got my revenge and since she was here, most of the souls came directly to me instead of wandering on the surface until she helped them.

This was still the best course of action, Brumas or not. Lagus was taking care of that for me so I could concentrate on this night.

Taking Pilar.

My cock stiffened in its confinement with just the thought that I’d finally have her. Promising not to touch her proved much more difficult than I anticipated.

The witch’s arousal exuded the most delicious scent. After seven days of stroking myself with her scent upon my nose, I’ve become addicted.

Today would be difficult to navigate.

Hate and desire became tangled between us. I never thought it was possible, but when I smelled her that first night, I couldn’t do anything but drag her to bed. I was proud of myself for not putting my hands on her when I had the chance.

“My lord.” The footman bowed. “It’s time. The court awaits.”

I nodded, and he skipped to open the doors. One of the servants thrust a goblet of wine between my hands. I drank it slowly, watching the dead supernaturals pile into my throne room.

I avoided them as much as I could. Humans never interested me even when they considered themselves more than that.

Witches, shifters, gargoyles—they were all humans at some point. They may have cursed themselves to gain power like the witch families or were cursed by others like the gargoyles. It didn’t matter. In the end, they were slaves of their mortal desires and would always act accordingly.

Power came first to them. In that way, the little witch was correct.

Her father killed her mother just for a little power. In his limited knowledge, he didn’t understand he could never have the Morales’ power.

His crime was only one of so many before him. They all succumb to it. They forgot loyalties and don’t know the meaning of honesty.

All for something they could never truly have.

“My lord.”

Cassandra bowed at my feet, her red hair falling down her shoulders and kissing the marble floor.

“Yes, Cassandra,” I replied, bored.

“I’d like to offer my congratulations, my lord.”

I waited, watching the witch straight-up her spine. Bothered by my silence, she resumed talking, “The Morales are the most powerful coven.”

“I’m a god, Cassandra. She’s just a witch,” I spat, showing her how little regard I had for her kind.

Cassandra’s lineage was supposed to be longer than the Morales. They discovered the magical texts centuries before. But her ancestors converted to Christianity and burned the very book that gave them power. Her lineage was cut short when the last son died in war without an heir.

“Still,” she pushed. “Who else would be powerful enough if not a Morales?”

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