Page 28 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

GLITTERING THINGS

DORIAN

T he night drapes over Ashwood, its black expanse held by distant constellations of twinkling stars, where Katherine stands poised at the window of my chamber. The salt air from the ocean tangles her hair, and my hold tightens around her waist.

In her hands, the bow feels sits — ancient and unyielding, a perfect extension of her will. The arrow’s shaft is slender, tipped with a small, glowing ember, bleeding thirsty for the dark below.

Drawing back the string, she holds her breath. The muscles in her arms tighten. Time stretches, suspended between heartbeats.

Then, she lets the arrow fly.

It is…spectacular.

The flame bows upward, a streak of incandescent fire that cleaves through the night. The moment it pierces the darkness, a cascade of lanterns arranged between the twin islands ignites in unison. Soft, golden light from a thousand candles spills across the water.

“It is done,” Katherine whispers. “The way is lit.”

A ripple of excited murmurs echoes from below. 'Tis the townspeople who watch at the bay, awaiting the splendour.

The night —she awakens.

Below, the phosphorescent phytoplankton pulses with an otherworldly glow and I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching as the Way transforms into a river of stars, lighting the path for arrivals yet to come.

“It is cold,” I say and lower her back into the room.

Katherine, wrapped in red silk that burns hotter than any flame I know. The dress hugs her, daring and bare, black lace tracing the curve of her neck and arms. Garnet beads sparkle inside candlelight, like embers caught in her flames.

Magnificent.

My demon snarls beneath my skin, itching to claim her.

I don’ t care if I burn.

She moves with dangerous grace, eyes sharp as a predator’s. I can’t help the growl that escapes me.

“Duchess,” I say. It is enough to halt her.

To bring her to me.

My hands ache wanting to tear that dress apart, and feel the heat of her skin beneath it.

She’s mine.

I want her.

“Dorian,” she whispers as my fingers trail along her bare shoulder. A shiver runs down her spine in bursts of gooseflesh. The silk of the dress slips beneath my touch.

I close the distance, lips pressing fiercely to her shoulder, tasting and feeling her softness. The heat between us ignites into a wild flame.

My hands explore, tracing downward until they settle over her left breast. Her back leans into my chest, and the world bleeds away until nothing remains beyond the meeting of skin and breath.

“I must have you,” I groan on her throat. “Lest I devour our guests.”

My tongue strokes downward, at the back of her throat. A crack sounds as my bones give way beneath my skin.

She gulps just once, but does not flinch. Her lips tighten. Her nails dig crescent moons into my arms.

“Dorian,” she whispers. “Our guests are arriving. ”

“FUCK. THEM.”

My spine bows as the change begins.

The waistcoat is my first victim. It tears away, along with the rest of my clothes. My bones grind with wet, deliberate snaps.

“I’ll fuck your cunt, whore, and in your arsehole where you deserve.”

She gasps at my words.

But I am no more.

Only a demon.

A serpentine emerges first, lashing behind me before it snakes around her thigh with a predator’s precision. It snakes up between her legs and gasps, wide-eyed, and pupils blown. Her knees part. My tail presses into her slit.

Soaked for me.

Another snarl escapes.

“Mine.”

My tail thrusts, fast at first, testing the give of her body. I forget who I am but briefly.

At the same time, a second tongue erupts from between my teeth, long and black, glistening with need. It plunges downward. It is hungry, greedy and tastes until it finds its nub of pleasure. I suckle hard.

She is sweet — winter honey.

She cries out, hips lifting off the bed. My tail thrusts deeper. My tongue flattens and licks in tight, brutal circles, then flicks side to side until she writhes beneath me.

She arches into me, her breath shallow, her eyes on mine. “And if I want the beast to devour me.”

“Then devour you, he shall...”

WEXMOORE

The lanterns burst one by one, bright flames suspended midair. The Way is lit.

It is a trick of magic. Or alchemy. Or some secret belonging only to Dorian Ashwood.

The fool.

Either way, I admit, it is a striking sight, one I’ve borne witness to a few times, but certainly unlike this. The news from Ashwood Castle is unnerving. If Ashwood falls, then Wexmoore will follow in quick succession.

Tis a beautiful conundrum from I face, just like the woman in the carriage beside mine.

We ride in parallel silence, naught but two vessels gliding side-by-side, along the dark mirror of the sea.

Her curtains are partly drawn, but I see flashes of her between them—an elegant wrist adjusting a hairpin, the slope of her throat gilded in candlelight.

Her dress of silk and embroidery is envy emerald green, and I envy the fabric enough to want to swallow her.

Glittering emeralds sit against her naked breast, pushed together and dusted with gold flecks.

She hasn’t looked at me once.

Which, naturally, makes me want her to.

I lean against the window frame and tilt my head, casual, rakish — the same posture I held when bribing customs officials and charming duchesses out of their drawers in the same breath.

But there is no reaction.

I know she sees me, the little minx.

A breeze carries her scent — jasmine and spice. A rare mix. Expensive. Personal.

Finally, she turns. Just enough to catch me watching.

Our gazes meet. And bloody hell, my ball squeezes hard. She isn’t soft, like so many of London’s porcelain dolls. There’s steel behind her beauty. Her eyes are very clever. Wary. Intrigued.

But not impressed.

That is but a temporary issue.

I flash her a grin — the one that’s gotten me into far too many bedrooms and out of a fair number of duels. “Tell me, do all Hawthorne women shoot men on sight, or do you wait until they’ve danced first?”

She arches one perfect brow. “Depends on the man. Some earn their bullets.”

I chuckle. “Do you carry one now?”

She lifts her fan, taps it once against her lips, and murmurs just loud enough for me to hear. “Perhaps if you should reach over and check, you will discover the answers you seek.”

I sit back, delighted my cock af half-mast.

Not just a beauty.

Her carriage rolls forward, claiming the lead between us, but she glances back over her shoulder one last time. That look alone is enough to make the heat rise in my gut.

And my cock rises another inch.

God save me, I want her already.

But this isn’t the open sea, and I’m no longer just a pirate with a sabre and a lust for trouble.

I am the Duke of Wexmoore.

The lanterns flare one last time as we near Ashwood’s iron gates. A castle full of secrets and monsters.

Gods, I hope she’s one of them.

KATHERINE

Nora’s hands are swift, precise, almost as she adjusts the folds of my gown, smoothing every wrinkle, and tightening the corset until I cannot breathe.

Lavender and beeswax marry inside in the air, grounding me as I prepare to step into the world that awaits beyond my chamber doors.

Dorian watches from the shadows, his dark gaze burning with an intensity that makes my skin flush. His presence is a balm and a challenge all at once. And the memory comes of his tongue inside me, as he became only half a beast.

He did not finish.

I did not let himself.

My heart races as he meets me.

“This is our moment,” I whisper.“The first time we show the court what we truly are.”

He steps closer and warm breath tickles my ear. “And what do we show them, my Duchess? The refined aristocrat, or the beast that lurks beneath?”

“Both,” I smile.

He chuckles at my response.

Together, we descend the grand staircase, and the glittering hall unfolds before us like a sea of diamonds. Eyes turn, breath catches, and the whispered gossip swells. We are the storm in their calm, the fire beneath their frost.

The Duke and the Duchess of Ashwood.

The Prince has yet to arrive, but the room’s energy is alight with idle talk.

The grand ballroom glimmers under a cascade of crystal chandeliers, each light catching on the polished marble floor and the coloured gowns of the assembled guests.

Polite conversation and soft laughter bleeds with a string quartet.

I glide through the crowd, every step measured, every glance calculated.

Dorian…he does not let go.

As I pass a cluster of ladies near the marble pillars, my eyes catch something, or rather,in the shadows near the far wall, figure stands still, oddly out of place amid the flowing silks and jewels.

Her dress is white cotton, muted, like a debutante attending her first soiree. She watches me with a smile that is cold and lingers for far too long.

I blink, then glance at Nora who sits in the corridor. She follows my gaze and leans in close, with her voice barely above the music. “Lady Candace Haversham, daughter of Baron Haversham,” she says quietly. “She’s been watching since the first dance.”

I raise a brow. “And what does she want?”

Nora shrugs. “She is a wallflower, quiet. I know not why she stares. But your Grace, they are all staring tonight.”

Candace’s eyes do no waver. She stares as her smile widens enough to unsettle me.

A new waltz soon begins and guests pair off. The room moves with polished grace, but I can’t shake the feeling.

If I turn, Lady Haversham will still be watching…

“Your Grace….”

I startle.

My husband calls me to the present. I look down and see a hand extended, gloved in white, and immaculate.

I take it.

“I am here.”

It is then, the herald’s voice carries through the ballroom. “His Royal Highness, George Augustus Frederick, Prince Regent of England.”

Every conversation comes to a stop. A sea of curtsies lowers as he enters with his head lifted, powdered, regal, and wearing the smirk of a man who’s never once been told no.

Balls, he's actually come.

He’s here…