Demon Lover (9 page)

Chapter Eight

Gwyneth’s hand crept to her throat. She almost forgot to breathe.

Oh, yes, this was her demon. Raven hair and white skin, stretched taut over the fine, sculpted bones of his grim face. There was nothing remotely colorless about this powerful being. Instead, there was something dramatic about the contrast of light and darkness, something undeniably handsome about the hard, proud, arrogant face.

He bowed very slightly and walked toward her.

Panic rose like a tide. Oh, dear God, no wonder he was king. No one would dare to disobey this man, this demon… How could she even imagine tricking him into releasing Brea and her? Sheer power radiated from every inch of him, every confident, graceful movement of his tall, lean body. Unmasked, there were no obvious chinks in his armor. There was no faintest softness to give her hope.

As he came to a halt in front of her and peremptorily held out his hand, she realized what fascinated her about his fierce, compelling eyes. Not white or even pale gray. They were shiny black obsidian, as deep and fathomless as the night sky.

With a gasp of loss, she swallowed down her longing—for the overworld, for him, she no longer knew which—and forced herself to lay her hand in his. His fingers, long and thin and white, closed around it, surprisingly warm. She shuddered as memory washed over her of those same hands touching her in her most intimate places, inducing mind-numbing pleasures that she’d never known since. His gaze never left her face. She felt as if he pierced her soul, as if this was the most momentous instant of her life. And yet, when he spoke in his deep, almost sepulchral voice, his words were soothingly mundane.

“You must be hungry. Please, sit. Eat.”

Trying to pull herself together, Gwyneth became aware at last of her surroundings, which had been completely overwhelmed by the vibrant presence of her host. Though not as large or as regal as Midas’s dining halls, this was a fair-sized and comfortable room. Paintings on feasting themes hung on the white-painted walls. A long table, which could have seated twenty people, was set for two at one end: one at the head of the table, the other to the right. A cozy, friendly dinner, with several steaming dishes already laid out. Gwyneth recognized the smells of fish and poultry, onions, herbs and vegetables. As everything was here, it was overlaid by the same smoky, earthy scent she associated with Svartan, preventing her from picking out, until now, the mouth-watering food smells.

She let herself be conducted to the table, where Svartan held the chair on the right for her to sit before he took his own seat at the head of the table. It was all done without words or touching, which was a relief to her. She didn’t think she could bear the slightest physical contact. The anger and fear she felt toward him were still too confused with memory of her previous shameful surrender to his sexual advances, with everything he’d made her feel and enjoy.

But she couldn’t think of that now. Brea was more important than all her fears put together. She had to concentrate on this one vital task—freeing her daughter from the demon.

Her first association of this meal with other dinners she’d taken with another king determined to gain control over her, began to fade as Svartan wordlessly helped her to small helpings from each dish. She used the time to order her mind, to calm herself and to prepare to grasp whatever opportunities she could find.

Buying more time, she at once pushed a forkful of fish into her mouth. Stunned all over again, her gaze flew to his.

“This is delicious!”

Her surprise pleased him as much as her approval. She caught it in the brief, triumphant gleam in his startling blue eyes before his hooded lids closed down and his black lashes swept over the white skin of his cheek. What’s more, he’d been watching for her reaction. As if it mattered to him.

Intrigued, she swallowed the tender, tasty fish and collected a dainty forkful of vegetables.

“Where does it come from?” she asked. “Up there?”

“Down here. Fish is easy. It thrives in several underground streams and rivers. We always had a rich range of mushrooms. The other vegetables we’ve begun to grow quite recently. We need to create false sunlight, but we’ve managed to some degree. It makes for a more varied diet since trade with our world isn’t always easy.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged and poured her a glass of some pale liquid the color of white wine. “Our ancestors stole from yours. Your people have reason to mistrust and fear us.”

She regarded him curiously. “But you trade. You’ve gained silkworms and other things in this way.”

He took a sip of wine, regarding her over the top of his glass. “You made enquiries.”

“I made a million. By statistical laws, they can’t all have been answered with lies.”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” he mocked. “Where in the world did you come up with that one?”

“From a greedy soldier. And my own desperation to believe,” she said bitterly. Then, afraid of revealing too much when what she needed was to lull him, she swung hastily to another tack. “It must be very hard for you down here.”

He laid down the glass and reached for his fork. “It’s hard to move forward in any country.”

She frowned, watching him place food between his strong, white teeth and chew. Without warning, her body began to flush as she remembered his mouth on hers, on her breast, her clitoris…

Don’t go there, Gwyneth! Come back!

“Why don’t you simply live up there?” she demanded, a little abruptly.

He blinked. “Why would I do that?”

She gazed into his half-amused eyes. “You don’t want to,” she marveled. “You
like
it here.”

“Don’t sound so amazed. Your world is as alien to me, but I wouldn’t deny it has some attractions. Look for some in mine and you’ll find it’s not such a bad place to be.”

Swallowing her doubts with some delicious garlic-flavored mushrooms, she waited for him to initiate another topic of conversation. But unlike Midas, he obviously didn’t feel the need to fill all available space with the sound of his own voice. Silence rose, threatening to overwhelm her again with the impossibility of her task.

“Thank you for the gown,” she babbled. “It’s a beautiful color.”

His lip curled. “I thought you’d like it.”

She met his contemptuous gaze with defiance. “Because it’s gold? You think I care for gold?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression you sold your child for it.”

“I sold her for my life!” Gwyneth exclaimed, throwing down her fork. “God, that isn’t right either. You tricked me. You know you did.”

“You tricked yourself. Desperate to tie yourself to a rich and powerful man you didn’t love, you were equally desperate to taste the forbidden fruits of desire for another man. Your people have a saying for that—having your cake and eating it, too, I believe.”

Gwyneth leapt to her feet. “How
dare
you!”

“How dare I what?” He sat back in his chair, regarding her with lazy amusement. “Question your motives? Suggest an unpalatable lust you don’t wish to be reminded of?”

Furious, Gwyneth tried to slow the panting of her breath while refusing to break his challenging gaze. It was his eyes that flickered first, dropping for the tiniest instant to her partially exposed breasts, which rose and fell so tumultuously.

She had it at last. The chink in his armor. It had been there in Midas’s hall when she’d offered herself in place of Brea. And it was there in that infinitesimal flicker of his eyes. And now that she was looking, wasn’t his breathing just a shade quicker too? Perhaps it wouldn’t even have been important if he hadn’t been hiding it. But his eyes were too carefully veiled, the faint smile lurking on his lips a little too fixed and mocking. He didn’t want her to know.

Got you.

With the knowledge, her anger vanished more quickly than it had risen. Sighing, she waved one dismissive hand and resumed her seat. “It doesn’t matter. As you said at the time, some things we do because we have to, others because we want to.”

He nodded a little warily, as if suspicious of her sudden capitulation.
Good. Let him wonder, build up the tension…

A plan was forming in her head, too outrageous to jump at all at once, but certainly deserving of some time, some mulling… Keeping her face serene, Gwyneth ate in silence.

It was a good dinner, not too rich or filling, and not too much in quantity. Brought up by a poor man to clear her plate, she had begun life at Midas’s palace feeling permanently stuffed. Only with time had she learned to leave what she didn’t want, and even then, she’d hated the waste like a crime against the poor and starving. Here, there was no waste. Svartan judged her appetite to a nicety, and though he civilly offered more, he didn’t press her when she refused. Instead, he took her plate and his, shoving them down the long table, and replaced them with fine glass dishes into which he spooned something white and fluffy.

Watching him, Gwyneth broke her silence. “You told me before that you have no wife or children. Do you have other family?”

He shrugged. “A few cousins. A half-brother I never see. Why?”

“Are you friends? At least with your cousins?”

“We get along fine, now that they’ve accepted I can’t be dislodged. In fact I’d go so far as to say they’re loyal.”

“Is that friendship?” she wondered. “Or fear?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She blinked. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not to Elohim.”

“Elohim? That’s what you call this place? I never thought it would have a name…” Lifting her spoon, she dragged herself back to the point. “What about women? Why aren’t you married?”

“There’s no need. I have an heir.”

“Who?”

He smiled and picked up his spoon. “Brea.”

Gwyneth closed her mouth. Blindly grabbing at her own spoon, she said, “Wouldn’t your own child be preferable?”

“I’m a hybrid. I can’t have my own child.”

She would pursue that later. Although he spoke evenly, impassively, she couldn’t prevent a twinge of compassion for his childlessness. She squashed it vigorously.
Well, you can’t have mine
.

“Then you have courtesans? Mistresses?”

“I’m not a monk,” he said by way of acknowledgement.

Of course he wasn’t. Even in her innocence, she had recognized the touch of an experienced man. Excitement curled her toes. If she was wrong…

“And yet,” she observed, spooning a delicate amount of the dessert, “your behavior to me last year was not that of a sexually satisfied man.” She closed her lips over the spoon. “Mmm…”

Oh, dear God, what am I doing? What would I know? He’ll laugh in my face, and rightly so…

He wasn’t laughing. She was afraid to look, but other senses strained toward him. No sign of laughter, just a silent tension that crackled the air between them. And she could swear his eyes were riveted on her mouth as she ate her dessert with deliberate sensuality.

He murmured low, “A fuck can be more—or less—than a fuck.”

Warm blood seeped into her face at his coarseness. She was fairly sure that had been his intention, which gave her the courage—or the defiance—to look at him at last. He sat back in his chair, watching her, mocking her. And yet she could swear there was the faintest tinge of color in his own pale cheeks, that if his breathing hadn’t increased there was nevertheless an air of expectation, of tension in his very stillness.

“Then,” she said innocently, “your courtesans do not satisfy you? You need an extra…fillip in your encounters?”

“Do you have some suggestions?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. This dessert is really very good. So sweet and yet refreshing. What is it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the cook. It’s a traditional recipe, but I’ve no idea what’s in it.”

She took some more into her mouth with delicate concentration. His eyes followed the movement of her lips, her tongue, and she was sure she’d won. And yet he didn’t speak, didn’t ask for elaboration.

Damn. Never mind, can’t win them all. I can afford to be generous here…can’t I?

“Have you considered another game? Another deal between you and me?” His eyes held hers, an unmoving sky on a sunny, windless day.

Oh, God, I can’t do this… Brea, think of Brea.

“Go on,” he said evenly.

“I’ll give you another three nights,” she said, ignoring the growing heat of embarrassment in her body. Not lust, not now, how could there be ever again? “I’ll freely share my body with you, experiment with whatever pleasures you choose to explore. But if you orgasm in that time, Brea and I must be set free.”

He stared at her, deep into her eyes, never moving. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.
I’ve gone too far.
Now
he’ll laugh in my face
.

His full lips parted. “And if I’m able to resist your charms and maintain control over myself?”

“We will stay here and you will never touch me again.”

A moment longer, he held her gaze. “Worst of all worlds for you. No freedom, no sex. On the other hand, if you haven’t managed to bring me to orgasm in three nights, it isn’t likely I’d
want
to touch you again.”

He was trying to humiliate her, make her back down. The knowledge helped her deal with it, though she couldn’t prevent the burning in her face, the indignant tightening of every muscle.

“Afraid to play this time?” she challenged. “Because you don’t hold all the cards?”

His gaze dropped, as though considering.

Oh, God, what am I doing? I don’t have the skills to please an experienced man, let alone an experienced demon! Besides, he already has us in his possession. Why would he make such a deal?

But I know him. I do. And I have imagination. More than that, he wants me. I know he does…

His gaze came back to her. A smile played around his lips, seeped into his hard, dark eyes. “All right. I’m amused. But I have some conditions before I make the deal.”

“Name them now, and I’ll consider them,” said Gwyneth, who had learned a lot from her previous mistakes with this being. The gleam of his eyes acknowledged it.

“Very well. Two conditions. First, a time limit. On each occasion, you have two hours in which to…ah…do your worst.”