The Demon Prince Page 6

  After that…

  “Stop,” she ordered.

  Her hands wrapped around his, and he could smell himself on her skin, soft and warm and fading, like yesterday’s sex. Alastor stopped, his thoughts, his tremors. He held on to her.

  “I have you.”

  She did. She just didn’t know it yet.

  6.

  Sheyla could already tell that the prince’s condition wasn’t good.

  For a full minute, she held his hands, taking his pulse with a discreet fingertip. She needed to do like ten things at once, but training made assessment easier. The cold, combined with his weakness, was probably the greatest threat since the wound had coagulated—or maybe frozen shut. Either way, he wasn’t bleeding, so she wrapped the blanket around him tightly and fired up the heater. Checking his fingers and toes didn’t reveal signs of frostbite.

  “D-don’t let anyone in.” It was clearly hard for him to speak, words scraped out through clench of his teeth.

  “Quiet, you. Lean forward.”

  Because she’d witnessed the other attack via sensor, she saw this one coming on. Sheyla had exactly two inhalers, but she shouldn’t use them unless it was a life-threatening attack. Otherwise, there wasn’t much she could do in the field except coach his breathing and rub his back. His hand locked onto her again, her leg this time, and she didn’t protest when his fingers dug in. He doubled all the way over, probably to hide his face, so Sheyla pulled him upright and spoke to cover what must be excruciating embarrassment.

  “Try not to think. Open your mouth if it helps, push out a deep breath. Slow down if you can.” When his respiration sounded less desperate, she said, “That’s good. Sounds like the worst has passed.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he mumbled.

  “I know. Do you feel up to having that gunshot wound treated?” In an Animari, she’d be worried about his flesh sealing around the bullet, but the Golgoth didn’t mend that fast.

  “Let’s get it over with.” He pulled the blanket down to reveal his bloodied arm.

  A brief inspection revealed no exit wound, and the increased density of his transformed skin meant it wasn’t deep in his biceps either. This will be easy. Quickly, she popped open a sterile pack and got to work. Though his knuckles tightened, he didn’t utter a sound as she extracted the misshapen metal. The injury didn’t need to be stitched, so she cleaned and bandaged it well, and then studied his averted face.

  “Nothing for the pain, right?” If she recalled correctly, he didn’t take such meds because they interfered with the serum.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said in an odd, husky tone.

  “Is your throat sore?”

  “You didn’t wash it off.” At first, those words made no sense. When he angled her hand to study the thumbprint he’d left, she understood.

  “There was no chance.” That wasn’t exactly true. She’d hadn’t found any running water, but she could’ve scraped the imprint off with snow.

  “It would be better if you had.”

  “Maybe you should explain…” Sheyla trailed off, riveted by the look the prince was giving her. She felt a phantom caress each spot his gaze brushed—lips, throat, wrist—and she wet her lips.

  “Keeping the blood mark means you accept me… that I have the right to protect you, plus certain other privileges.” His voice raised actual goosebumps, so deep and… intimate.

  “A mating ritual then.” She swallowed, aware of how warm the tent seemed, steamy, almost. “But you must have done that for show?”

  He’s not my lover. He’s a patient.

  “I should say yes… but my head’s not on right just now.”

  “What does that mean?” Alarmed, she leaned in to see if he had uneven pupils, maybe from cranial trauma she hadn’t noticed.

  “Oh,” he said faintly. “I do wish you hadn’t done that.”

  The blanket dropped and suddenly, she was in his arms. His body was lean and so icy that she yelped. Alastor smothered the sound with a kiss that was all kinds of inappropriate. The fevered contrast between his mouth and his chilly skin sent shivers through her. Sheyla set her hands on his shoulders to shove him back with full strength, but she ended up digging her nails into him instead. He made a sound against her lips that made her instantly want to hear it again, only louder and more plaintive. He tasted like winter and summer combined, a wildness echoed in the heat of his demanding tongue.

  Clever hands roved her back, urging her closer. Her nipples tightened as he drew her down on top of him, lifting his hips in short, urgent motions. Each thrust jolted her with pleasure, so that her mind fogged. The sweetness of his mouth swelled, amplifying so that it emanated in delicious waves. Breathing him in, she softened more, her body slick and aching. She broke the kiss and knocked him backward; he landed on his elbows with her looming above. Sex lent his skin a rosy blush, and she didn’t know where to look first because everything was a visual feast.

  “Why… are you letting me…” It was hardly a whisper as he threaded his hand beneath her hair, cupping her nape.

  Sheyla shuddered and tipped her head back, unable to frame a response. Something about that seemed wrong, but when his teeth found the side of her throat, she moaned. More. Just a little more. Rubbing her mouth against his shoulder, she breathed him in and then bit him. He was sprawled beneath her, completely naked and ferociously aroused. She moved on him with no further urging, her breath coming in gasps and groans.

  A hard shudder ran through him and he rolled her away, scrambling back like she had the plague. Reflexively she crawled toward him; Alastor threw up a hand, still trembling.

  “This isn’t what you want,” he got out. “I’m sorry.”

  At first that didn’t sound right because she’d never wanted to fuck so much in her life, but as her pulse slowed and the golden haze faded, Sheyla curled her hands into fists. A snarl escaped her as she retreated to the far end of the tent. “What the hell did you do to me?”

  “It wasn’t on purpose.”

  “Explain, before I rip your guts out.”

  “Give me a moment. I need to dress. And you… go outside. Please. Walk around camp, come back later. I’ll tell you. Just…” Alastor crouched with his back to her, head lowered like he was in excruciating pain. She could’ve counted the knobs of his spine, all abject abasement.

  Only one decision made sense. “I’m gone.”

  Shakily, Sheyla stumbled out of the flap and rambled around the perimeter, trying to make sense of the exchange. Cold air shocked her back to her senses somewhat, but the sexual energy didn’t dissipate, which only made things worse.

  When the Noxblade leader stepped into her path, she stared blankly. “Something wrong?”

  “I was wondering the same,” Gavriel said.

  She shrugged. “Just giving him some privacy.

  “If you’re certain.” That was sheer skepticism, but it was none of his damn business.

  The camp was quiet with watches set and the rest retired for a well-earned rest. She paced and counted—probably ten minutes went by—until she couldn’t wait any longer and went back to Alastor’s tent. What he had to say better be good. Otherwise, she might kill him.

  “Get one thing clear, I’m not your fuck toy,” she snapped.

  From his stricken expression, he felt worse about what had happened than she did. Some of her anger evaporated.

  “I should have warned you,” he said softly.

  “About what?”

  “My people are prone to strong passions,” he said. “We get lost easily. In sex. In violence. There is no delicate way to put it, so I won’t even try. Right now, most of my men are probably fucking furiously, roused by the battle.”

  Sheyla tilted her head, puzzled. “That’s not so different from the Animari.”

  “The issue,” he said gently. “Is consent. We thrive on conquest… and the deeper our desire, the more irresistible it becomes to the object of them.”

  “Are you talk
ing about pheromones or something?” At his shamed nod, she swore. “Yes, you should have told me. If I’d known you’d be coming back from battle hot and fuck-hungry, I would’ve taken precautions.”

  The smell… there had been an insidious aspect to how fast she went from baffled to eager. This was a terrible ability, focused on undermining resistance and obviating free will. Golgoth captives who begged for more must hate themselves when the buzz wore off, and that explained a lot about the emotional scars that Eamon still bore.

  “I wasn’t certain how much it would affect me. I’ve never fought, never killed, and I’ve heard that I’m not a proper Golgoth my whole life. Consider me enlightened—at your cost. It won’t happen again. Even if I’m dying, I won’t let you touch me right after a fight.”

  Sheyla waved that away. It was impossible to nurse a grudge against someone who felt this guilty on his own. “Don’t be dramatic. You shook it off enough to realize I wasn’t on board. No permanent harm done.”

  “But there was,” he said then.

  She raised a brow. “Such as?”

  “Now I know how you feel, how you taste… and how you sound. There’s no unringing that bell, Dr. Halek.”

  Alastor half-expected the doctor to punch him in the face. When she laughed, he took a second look. “Is that amusing in some fashion?”

  “Slightly. Since you’ve had your tongue in my mouth, you may as well call me Sheyla.”

  Suddenly he wanted to smile, but he was afraid she’d take it to mean he wasn’t sorry, so he schooled his features and spoke in a cautious tone. “Alastor. No need for formality then.”

  “Agreed. I’d still sort of like to hit you, but that would raise questions we can’t afford and we’re too tired to fight in place of fucking. Which might lead to fucking anyway.”

  Now that his hormone levels had dropped, his head was swimming, and he couldn’t get a grip on the conversation, currently flopping at his feet like a fish out of a water. “Are you saying that combat could sub for foreplay?”

  “In some cases,” she said, her eyes amber and smoky and—

  This isn’t helping. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her skin glistening with sweat as she prowled toward him, mock-furious, teeth snapping. She would bite and claw. Most probably, he would love it, even if it hurt. Possibly—Alastor made a muffled sound that seemed to recall her to the original slant of the conversation.

  “Why are we talking about this anyway? That wasn’t my point at all.”

  “What was it?”

  “That sometimes you have to laugh, because there’s nothing else for it. Doesn’t always solve things, but it’s a… release.” Awareness sparked in her eyes after she said it.

  Alastor let the silence build, mostly because he had no idea how to break it. He still wanted her to the point of physical distress, but he had no intention of pulling her into a chemical haze. This didn’t matter among the troops. If everyone had the same ability, everyone was desperate to get off, then it just turned into a hot and sweaty fuck pile. Imagining the Eldritch reaction to the noises they’d hear tonight distracted him—for all of ten seconds.

  “So it is.”

  If possible, the tension thickened to the point that he heard her breathing along with the quickening pump of her heart. Her mouth was no longer flattened into a disapproving line. Alastor could see the traces of his kisses in faint swelling, in the deepening bruises where her throat met her jaw. Rougher than I meant to be. But there was no denying a certain satisfaction in admiring those marks.

  “I see no point in prevaricating,” she said, and for a glorious moment, he hoped she was about to suggest something delightfully wicked. “You see, I’m having the same problem, and it’s even more inappropriate on my end. It’s not uncommon for patients to develop an infatuation with their doctors. The reverse is both deeply unprofessional and profoundly dangerous.”

  Of course.

  “Somehow you’re not dissuading me, if that’s your intent. We could consider this a war-time exception. You know, adrenaline, high-risk situations, who knows if this is the last time we’ll see each other alive—”

  “Nice try. Instead, how about I accept your apology and we call it even?”

  Alastor nodded. “I had intended for you to sleep here, as this affords the most privacy and comfort, given our circumstances. But if you wish to make other arrangements…”

  “It’s fine. You didn’t do that on purpose.”

  Her forgiveness felt better than he’d expected. With a faint sigh, he let go the last of his regret and focused on unearthing the provisions that Ded had set aside. The soup wouldn’t last more than a day or two; it was already lukewarm, despite being well-insulated. After that, they would need to hunt.

  “I appreciate your faith.”

  Quietly, he poured two servings from the thermos, and it had been long enough since he’d eaten that even the meat and barley porridge didn’t look so bad. Alastor downed it without pausing to reflect on the taste, and then he turned off the heater. They needed to conserve energy, as they could only gather so much solar power on the move. With the tent flap closed, their bodies would create sufficient heat to let them sleep in relative comfort.

  When he glanced over at her, she was finishing up her share of the rations. She lifted her cup in a mock toast. “Cheers. Don’t think you’re getting away without tea.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  The strained atmosphere between them eased as they passed the thermos back and forth. Once it was empty, he set it aside and dimmed the lamp. Amenities were basic: thermal tent and bedrolls, one solar light, one heating unit. Further luxuries had to come from their personal packs; on his part, he had a bottle of expensive liquor stashed in anticipation of a night much colder and darker than this. Alastor reckoned he would crack it open only if he was staring at sure defeat, or perhaps awaiting execution.

  “You look grim,” she observed.

  “It’s that sort of mission. We should get some sleep… do you prefer the right or the left?” By which he meant the side of the tent, nothing suggestive.

  Her smile said she understood as much. “Left, though it doesn’t much matter.”

  “If only everything could be so easily settled.”

  The interior was all shadows as he unspooled his bedroll, slippery fabric that was cold until he climbed into it, but it warmed in contact with his skin. It was beyond intimate listening to her settle in, close enough to touch… but he wouldn’t. Alastor rolled away, offering Sheyla the scant privacy of his back.

  Weary as he was, sleep should have claimed him straightaway. Instead, he listened to her breathe and thought of the night she had drifted off in his apartment. Wonder crept over him when he grasped how fully she’d committed to his cause. In that moment, Alastor realized how much he trusted her. There was no comparison between Sheyla Halek and the physician who had treated him for years, none at all.

  Her voice in the dark startled him. “I’ve never slept in a tent before.”

  “It’s a first for me too. Are you warm enough?”

  She hesitated. “Not quite.”

  The sounds he’d thought would surprise the Eldritch started, rumbled grunts and groans that made their origins unmistakable. He tried to modulate his pulse and not remember how good she tasted, how sweet she felt. “Try to ignore it.”

  “You did tell me your people are aroused after a battle. Would it…”

  “What?” Listening to this, there were so many interesting things she might ask him to do.

  “Would it bother you if I shifted?”

  You deserve to be disappointed, he told himself. “Not at all.”

  With resolute discipline, he didn’t look as fabric rustled—presumably Sheyla stripping out of her clothes—and then he heard the scrape of claws on the bedroll. She growled a little, nudged her sleeping bag toward his, so he dragged them together fully, and then she tried to burrow in. Her claws made that difficult, so he ended up tucking her i
n.

  So very strange, truly.

  Alastor wanted her in his arms, tangled around him until his skin shimmered with her scent, but when she curled against his back, solid weight and incredible heat, his entire body relaxed. The effect was almost narcotic in terms of relief. His chest eased, and Alastor closed his eyes. No need for an alarm, Ded would wake him at first light…

  It wasn’t dawn when he stirred, and he wasn’t even sure why he was awake. Delicious warmth and softness made this the best awakening in recent memory, then he realized. He’d gone to sleep with a great cat at his back and roused with a naked woman in his arms. Alastor had no idea how this had happened, though at least his cohorts had apparently spent their passions and left the camp peaceful.

  Her bedroll was layered on his, and one gorgeous thigh had been flung across his leg, so close to his cock that a minute shift would feel exquisite. No. I’m not doing that. Seconds passed as he reveled in her closeness, hardly daring to breathe. Sleeping, she had no inhibitions and her hands stirred on his back. Acute pleasure robbed him of the ability to think, then he wrangled his wayward impulses into submission.

  Do the right thing. Now.

  He was trying to move her when her eyes snapped open. “Care to explain?”

  7.

  It was entertaining to watch Alastor struggle, but he wasn’t responsible for her nocturnal shift. In fact, she had a muzzy recollection of getting overheated in cat form, and everything unfolded from there. One of the dangers of being sleep-deprived was operating on automatic.

  This… is not one of my better outcomes.

  “Relax, it’s not your fault.”

  Some of the tension left him, likely because he wasn’t worried she was about to twist his dick off. “Indisputably. Yet I’m mystified as to why you went to such lengths to sleep with me. Whatever you may have heard, I’m not at all averse to naked people.”