Page 4 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

Blood sprays onto the floor, drenching the carpets beneath us, until I suffocate inside that noxious odour.

I choke on a breath and the nails digging into the palms of my hand, clenches around nothing.

The severed head drips thick, black ichor onto the floor, its empty eyes still frozen.

The body slumps forward, then like the ash we’re all born from, the head and torso crumble away slowly, until only dust remains.

The Duke exhales. The blood on his lips is dark against his skin. His body, though monstrous, turns and those black eyes meet mine. He steps forward, his giant frame illuminated with each step closer.

Naked.

Indecent .

His demon skin is taut muscle, and power restrained inside his monstrosity. The tail around my wrist shifts. It slithers higher, curling tighter, until my pulse pounds beneath its grip. I swallow hard.

I am trapped, alone inside a room with a demon.

In an instant, my back slams into the stone wall.

“Oh!” A cry rips from my throat as pain shoots through my ribs, but the sound is cut off when a large clawed hand wraps around my throat.

I can’t move.

I can hardly breathe.

My fingers scrape against his skin as I claw at his wrist. He presses me harder against the wall, pinning me with nothing but raw strength.

My heart beats as he nears, each step tainted by those dark eyes.

He glides closer, and the breath freezes in my lungs.

His monstrous face hovers above mine, eyes unblinking.

Cold.

Wretched.

Deadly.

It speaks and his blood-tinged breath rolls over my face. The voice is not Ashwood’s. It’s deeper, otherworldly. A blight. “Hell is ravenous, Princess. It will devour you, as I will devour you.”

A deep baritone travels through his throat, shaking through my breasts as he growls.

There is a tug at my dress. It rips, echoing loudly through the spire.

Something inside me must be as wretched as he, for my belly flutters.

I do not understand it enough to hate myself.

And that danger I bear witness to, the one in his eyes, comes out with a shaky pant. “Your Grace…please…you mustn’t…”

Those claws, they scrape down my throat and I bleed.

Heat rolls off the wound and over the swell of my breasts.

Even as I fight against him, my legs squeezing, I shudder as heat ripples over my feverish skin.

This alien feeling — it only confuses me.

If I do not act soon, I will perish. It is then that I see it.

A silver blade is mounted over a dead hearth.

It gleams off the polished wood alight with moonbeams.

A sword.

It’s within reach. Half an arm's length.

Just close enough.

I don’t think. I move.

With one desperate twist, I kick off the wall, and my fingers snatch the hilt.

Success!

The Duke snarls, tail whipping around my arms, but he’s too late. I drop to the floor with a deadened “thud.” He lunges above me, claws aimed at my throat. I drive the blade into his chest, screaming at the same time, and shaking with madness. “Your Grace!”

A roar of agony distorts the chamber.

His grip falls short, mere millimetres from my throat. I gasp, scrambling backward as he falls. The blade is buried deep, its hilt slick with blood. The wound blooms over his chest as the Duke shifts closer. His monstrous form shudders as he whispers. “Princess…”

Then, his claws retract, and his muscular body contorts back into something human. For one breathless second, he remains suspended between forms. I don’t hesitate. I splay both hands over the hilt, grab and pull, taking the weapon with me.

The monster is gone, and the man who spoke to me with such gentlemanly honour, collapses, naked and bleeding at the base of my feet.

The door slams open.

“Katherine!”

Genevieve.

I turn just as she rushes inside, her blue eyes wide with horror. But she is not alone. Beside her, I see him. The young man stands tall, his brown hair neatly styled and swept back from his face, emphasising his aristocratically high cheekbones, straight nose, and piercing blue, intelligent eyes.

He is dressed in a golden tailcoat with silver embroidery tracing the cuffs and lapels, Beneath it, is a crisp white waistcoat and a high-collared shirt, fastened with an ornate cravat pin. His gloves are pristine, his boots polished. There is tension set within his straight shoulders.

My stomach drops.

The Prince.

Beside him, the Marchioness of Hawthorne stands in a gown of rich burgundy silk.

Her lips hang open in a shocked, unladylike “oh,” as she takes in the naked Duke, the ruined dress, and the sword in my hands.

Both perfectly arched brows lift with her widened eyes.

She knows what we both do. This is a scandal like no other.

The Prince steps in behind her. Their gazes roam back and forth, from me, breathless, dress torn, to the Duke, naked and unconscious on the floor. There is nothing but crushing silence.

Horrified, I realise

This looks very bad. Very bad, indeed.