He doesn’t close the distance, doesn’t stop his retreat. “Not tonight, Eve. Not like this.” Then he goes, shutting the door softly behind him.
Leaving me alone.
I hate how my heart drops in my chest. I hate how it feels like he’s rejecting me when I’m the one who set the tone for the night. I especially hate how it feels like I set out to punish him but only ended up punishing myself.
Seconds tick by, my body cooling even though my heart rate isn’t returning to anywhere close to normal. He could have fucked me until dawn, and I wouldn’t have done anything but beg him for more.
And through it all, he didn’t disobey me once. He didn’t speak. He didn’t push. He simply gave, paying penance with his mouth despite our mutual desire for more.
It doesn’t make sense for his restraint to make me even angrier. It’s not fair—I can recognize that—but I’m not in the mood to be fair. Not anytime in this century.
I march into the bathroom and wrench on the shower. Because of course they have indoor plumbing in the fucking demon realm, and I loathe that I’m grateful for it. I yank off my rumpled dress and step beneath the blistering spray. I press my hands to the tiled wall and duck my head, letting the water cascade over me, blocking out the rest of the world. All of it does little to reset my mind and emotions.
This accomplished nothing. Pleasure usually unwinds me, but I’m more tense than when I marched to dinner, ready to fight. I sigh and shut off the water. I don’t know what I’m more pissed about. That Azazel just made me come until my body went limp . . . or that he walked away. It shouldn’t matter. I hate him for what he’s done; wanting him to choose me is a fool’s game. Unfortunately, that lost little girl inside me, the one who was always passed over, time and time again, is a ghost I can never quite vanquish. It hurts to be left. Far more than it should.
An enticing scent reaches me as I towel off. My heart picks up. “Azazel?” There’s no answer. Why would there be? He left, and I know it’s not fair to blame him for it, but again, I’m not in the mood to be fair right now.
Back in my bedroom, I find a covered tray sitting on the desk. A peek shows a steaming-hot dinner. No wine, which makes my lips quirk despite myself. “You are such an overbearing asshole.” My smile fades away. I don’t know what to do. I don’t see a way out of this.
Worst of all, lust still coats my skin, demanding more, more, more.
CHAPTER 7
EVE
I’m ashamed to say I hide for days after that disastrous dinner. Azazel comes to my door several times and knocks as politely as if he were a suitor instead of my captor. And he just as politely leaves when he receives no answer.
There’s no reason for that to upset me further. I should be grateful for the reprieve. Should be pleased that no matter what else is true, he doesn’t intend to take advantage of the power dynamic.
No, that’s all on me. I’m the one who climbed in his lap and demanded something I knew would hurt us both. And the bastard gave it to me without hesitation—only to leave me wanting more.
By the third day, I’m sick of my own company, my relentlessly spinning thoughts. I pull on a pair of pants, a long shirt that could probably be termed a tunic, and some boots I found tucked in the bottom of the wardrobe.
“I don’t care how long it takes. I’m getting out of this magic trap of a hallway.” I glare at the room around me. “You have to let me out at some point!”
But when I throw open my door, it’s to find Ramanu waiting for me. They’re wearing a boxy cropped top that leaves their stomach bare, a garment that may be pants or may be a skirt, and boots. They grin. “Perfect timing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Perfect timing for what?”
“Azazel is tied up in meetings today, and I figured you could use a change of scenery.” They offer me their arm. “Let’s go shopping.”
“Shopping . . .”
They don’t wait for me to move; they loop their arm through mine and turn us down the hall. “Yes, Eve. Everyone loves shopping. It’s an excellent way to pass the time, and there’s something to be said for seeing the very people Azazel has fought so hard to make a better life for.”
I shoot them a glare. “So we get to the crux of the matter. You’re here to campaign for your boss.”
“I campaign for no one, darling. It sounds like a staggering amount of effort with little fun involved.” We turn a corner, and I could sob in relief at the sight of wide stone stairs leading downward. Ramanu laughs a little. “The castle is wary of strangers. It helps if you’re polite in the first place, rather than cursing at it.”
“You speak as if it’s a person.”
“Not quite.” They shrug. “But magic is a strange thing and it never hurts to be courteous when dealing with borderline sentient objects and places.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur. Up until the moment I woke up here, I assumed magic was fiction. Yes, this world—or my world—is complicated and strange, but hundreds of years ago, they were calling things like antibiotics witchcraft and no one washed their hands. If there’s magic, then it’s just science that we don’t have the technology or knowledge to explain yet.
It’s hard to keep that belief when faced with a castle that seems to shift itself at will.
I don’t think science can explain that.
We walk down the stairs and then down another set and another. I haven’t worked out in a week, and I’d love to believe that my endurance wouldn’t flatline as a result, but my thighs are shaking by the time Ramanu stops and tilts their head to the side. “Castle, please. You’re being difficult for no reason. I’m not absconding with her. We’re going on a nice little walk to let the sun touch her face, and then I’ll return her, safe and sound.” They snort. “You’ve being overprotective.”
“Overprotective of whom?” Surely not Azazel. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself.
“Ah, here we are.” Ramanu turns me to face the staircase . . . except it’s gone. Instead, there’s a narrow hallway that ends in double doors.
I shudder. “I am never going to get used to that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
I don’t have a chance to come up with a response to that, because we walk out the doors and into another world. One strange and yet familiar at the same time. I’ve traveled widely, and if every city I’ve visited has a different feel, they all share certain things in common—the main of which is a large variety of people moving about their day with a rhythm that feels almost coordinated.
These people aren’t human. They have skin tones that range from a rosy pink to a deep crimson that edges into black. Their horns are different shapes and sizes. Some of them have wings tucked politely against their backs, some have dual sets of horns like Ramanu, and some even have scales like the dragon-man who attended the auction. They’re tall and short, fat and skinny and brawny, and everything in between. Some of them are clothed similarly to me. Some are wearing dresses. Others are wearing pants or kilts and little else.
And there are humans mixed in among them.
I try not to stare as Ramanu leads me down a cobblestone street that seems designated for foot traffic only. I see a willowy Black human with short curls and warm dark-brown skin. There’s a short white human with pale pink skin, a long blond hair, and the kind of curves that make my mouth water. And more. So many more.