Unless she struck first. Maybe she’d actually been sent here to assassinate a Møriør.

How delicious an idea.

Her gaze darted. He would laugh if she brandished a sharpened broom handle. Stone debris abounded, but she wouldn’t be able to hurl it hard enough.

She crossed to her pile of spun thread. The stuff seemed as strong as Titanian steel. She could use the lines against the demon—but how?

A spring trap? She’d studied them enough in her survival books. The mechanics were similar to a trebuchet. But how to create a trigger and a counterweight?

The answer came to her, and she grinned evilly.

Her fingers flew as she began to knot the thread, creating a net. On the other end of the line would be a snare.

She could picture the trap so clearly. The mop handle would serve as a manual trigger; a net full of obscene statuary would provide the counterweight.

Once she’d lured Abyssian into place, she would snap the handle, loosing the weight, which would then tighten the snare around his ankle.

The end result: Abyssian plummeting toward the lava river, tethered to a net filled with stone penises.

The promise of this visual gave her a shot of energy. She set up her trigger and snare, then she loaded the net with dicks until the trigger threatened to snap.

Once she’d concealed the snare with ash, she glanced from her trap down at Abyssian. This wouldn’t be enough. He’d need to be too dazed/injured to trace away when her contraption yanked his demonic ass off the terrace.

So a trap and a weapon for herself. A sneak weapon.

Her gaze lit on the spinning wheel, on the spindle. Shame it wasn’t cursed to put him to sleep—

Wait . . . Abyssian had provided her a source of poison. She could coat the spindle and stab him.

All she had to do was overcome a lifelong phobia.

With grim determination, she collected the broom. When fear threatened to undermine her, she told herself: You can be a plaything to a hateful demon for the rest of your life or you can be a badass slayer of Møriør. Choose.

Resolved, she headed toward one of the spider holes to begin her grisly new task. . . .

TWELVE

My lazy fey slave,” Sian grated when he appeared before her. She wasn’t even trying to finish the last few rooms? He clenched his fists, that crimson haze covering his eyes.

Craning her head up, she met his gaze. “I’m not lazy—you set me up so I would fail. Tell me why you’re doing this to me.”

He stalked closer, having no idea what his next move would be. His rationality continued to decline; tyrannizing his subjects only worsened his condition.

She backed toward the edge of the terrace. “Can you even see me, you blank-eyed beast? Hear me?”

Why would she ask that? “You knew the consequences should you not finish your chores.”

At the railing, she whispered, “But I’ve hurt myself, demon.”

Her voice rocked him. Though he’d willed himself to be blind to her needs, he now fought back against the animal aggression taking him over.

Once he’d cleared the filter from his vision, he saw that her pale skin was abraded in several places. Burn marks from the fire vine lashed her flesh.

She wasn’t regenerating. Which meant she wasn’t immortal yet. Which meant she was very, very young.

Rune had mistakenly thought Josephine was in her mid-twenties. By all the gods, this female might be younger even than that.

Sian’s instinct to care for his vulnerable mate raged inside him. The only demon instinct stronger than the one to mate was the one to protect.

Right now he needed to fulfill both.

He traced to her, coiling an arm around her back. His bare torso pressed against her scantily clad body. Flesh met flesh. Electricity sparked through every point of contact.

Even she looked surprised.

Her scent made him light-headed . . . her racing heartbeat drummed in his ears. . . .

Worry turned into crushing need, his emotions in chaos. When she gazed up at him with those lustrous eyes, he drew her even closer, his shaft straining against her.

He needed to taste her lips. Just once in this lifetime. To see if their kiss could be as intense as he remembered.

Lost in her, he barely perceived the movements of her hands. But he felt three pricks in his neck. He released her to pat his skin . . . the spindle was jutting from his throat?

“What the fuck is this?” With her speed, she’d struck him multiple times, like a little viper! Lust dwindling, he pulled out the spindle. “Stupid female! Do you really think something like this could hurt me?”

“No. Which is why I coated the point with freshly milked spider venom.”

His lips parted. This amount of venom wouldn’t kill an immortal, but she didn’t know that! Was she trying to murder him?

“If you strike out at me, I’ll hit you twice as hard!” With a haughty smile, she kicked a piece of wood at the railing. A handle?

A line constricted around his ankle. He met her gaze for a split second. “You bitch—”

His feet . . . yanked out from under him . . .

Some force had flung his body over the railing and off the terrace. Stunned realization: this was the first time an enemy had landed a blow against him—in ages.

Too astounded to react, he plunged toward the river.

 

The king’s expression right before he went over the edge was one of the most rewarding sights Lila had ever witnessed. But her satisfaction didn’t last long.

Swoop . . . swoop . . . swoop . . .

The sound of his wings reached her ears. “Oh, shit.” He was flying back.

The venom hadn’t slowed him down at all! Now what?

He reached the terrace’s height, then hovered menacingly before her, his fangs bared. Those monstrous wings extended, slowly sculling the air to hold him aloft. His fists clenched, his onyx eyes promising pain.

Fuck! Where to run?? As she whirled around toward the interior, she heard him land behind her.

Her gaze rose to the roof overhang above the terrace. If she could reach it before he caught her, she could scrabble across the roof, then down another side of the tower, fire vines or not. She had no other option.

Pumping her arms, she sprinted across the stone. She vaulted for the overhang, pulling herself up—

His roughened hand clamped her ankle. He tugged on her leg, but she clawed to hang on, kicking at him. As she dangled, he wrapped his arms around her body, his head level with her waist. His face pressed against her midriff.