On his return to the bed, he treated her to even more magnificence.

Her gaze traveled up his lean body, lingering on his sigh-worthy dick, roving over the chiseled ridges of his torso, before settling on his smirking face.

He joined her in bed, then situated her in his wings. “My jealous hell queen can’t get enough of me.”

Fighting a grin, she turned over, giving him her back. “Shut it, you smug prick.”

He clasped her waist, drawing her against him. At her ear, he said, “If I even look at other females in front of you, I’ll be endangering lives. My Lila does not share her toys.”

“Fuck off, demon.”

She dozed off to the sound of his chuckle.

 

Over this night, the female in Sian’s arms had delivered more bliss than he’d known existed.

As he stroked her shining hair, her breaths were deep and even. His young mate needed more sleep than he did.

Hours passed, but he found it difficult to close his eyes. He was half convinced this must all be a dream.

A hundred things had rendered him dumbstruck tonight. Among them: when she’d gazed at him with desire and told him she understood why women fought over him.

And she’d bloody leered at him when he’d returned naked to bed. His lips quirked just to recall that.

Everything Calliope had objected to initially had been because of his treatment of her—not necessarily his looks.

Possibility glimmered on the horizon like a flame. Could he let go of his lifeline?

As he’d told her, he’d been one way for so very many years. And he still dreaded how the hell-change would affect their future. But for now he wanted to savor a night like this.

Her body twitched against his. Such an active dream life. Was he about to be tortured once more?

He frowned when she gave a distressed moan. Instead of sexual dreams, she was plagued with a nightmare.

He brushed his knuckles along one high cheekbone. He sensed her blocks weren’t as impenetrable as usual. Maybe she was beginning to trust him. Though tempted to delve, he would respect her privacy—

She shot upright with a scream.

“Lila! I’ve got you.” He dragged her against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. “It was just a nightmare. Shh.” Protectiveness surged inside him. His mate should never be afraid. Rubbing her back, he said, “Tell me what you dreamed.”

Shuddering, she murmured, “I couldn’t run fast enough.”

“Shh. You’re safe here with me.” He rocked her. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

Sounding dazed, she said, “There’s a face to the violence you love so much, a cost that the Møriør never have to pay. Why wouldn’t you love war? You never feel the toll like the rest of us.”

He lowered her back to the bed, holding her.

In time, she drifted to sleep again.

As he listened to her breaths, his mind raced. She was right: the Møriør lost nothing with each battle, just seized one victory after another.

He couldn’t do anything about war out in other realms, but could he change his own? Calliope continued to bring up the legions. Even by punishment standards, their two strongholds in Slaughter Gorge were disgraceful, festering with hatred and violence.

Sian and hell were symbiotic; so what did those hellholes represent within him?

He could alleviate the worst through magic—changing doom to fortune—or he could give those demons a purpose.

Sian thought of his brother. Goürlav had wanted commerce and prosperity to be his legacy. He’d been such a young king with so many dreams for Pandemonia.

If Sian took up the mantle, his twin’s life wouldn’t have been one long tragedy.

Sian wanted this kingdom to be his mate’s home, but was he ready to make it the home she needed?

FORTY-FIVE

You don’t write, you never call . . .” Rune drawled, giving Sian a crooked grin. “Hitched three weeks, and you never got around to inviting us to meet the missus?”

Sian had just been overseeing his new project when he’d sensed arrivals. He’d found the archer seated in Sian’s throne, sharpening his claws with an arrowhead, and Josephine kicked back in Calliope’s throne.

Uthyr slumbered like the dead nearby.

Sian had a little time to talk with them since Calliope was in the library, buried in books.

Rune pointed the arrow at the sleeping dragon. “I’ve been reading Uthyr’s mind, trying to get caught up on your marriage, but mainly he’s been dreaming about plump cattle.”

“Careful that we don’t get our feelings hurt,” Josephine said, her pale face glowing. The longer the halfling was with Rune, the happier she appeared. “Couldn’t spare five minutes to draw summoning runes?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I’ll bet you have been, old boy.” Rune waggled his brows, his craggy features showing his amusement. “So where’s the slip of a female who brought down hard-ass Abyssian Infernas?”

“She’s not ready to meet anyone yet.” With a sigh, he admitted, “She fears the Møriør, has heard only the worst about us.” Every time he assured her of her safety, Calliope refused to listen.

Josephine said, “You want me to go inform her how bad the Vertas is? How Nïx kicked my ass?”

“Calliope isn’t pro-Vertas.” Yesterday, she’d told him, “Let’s bow out and not pick sides. You and I can be allies, just us.” She had no idea how futile her attempts were. He would always be a Møriør. “I will make her understand, but it will take time.”

Rune dropped the arrow into his thigh quiver. His ever-present bow was strapped over his back. “So she’s truly a fey? Pointed ears and everything? Don’t know whether to congratulate or console you.”

Sian scowled. “I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

Rune held up his palms. “To each his own. So how’s she settling in?”

“Very well. Though getting used to life in a castle like this has its challenges.” Three days after their wedding, he’d heard her screech from the bedroom.

He traced and found her staring up at the Lôtān trophy—which had just reappeared above the mantel.

She raised a brow at Sian. “Yet another prank, demon?”