Page 11

VAEL

I track the satyr through Aerasak's eastern forest, following the distinctive cloven prints stamped in red soil. Three days I've been after this mark—Markos Silvershod, wanted for theft of magical artifacts from Ti'lith's central archives. Worth fifteen nodals to the right client.

The forest canopy filters the crimson sunlight into dappled shadows.

Perfect hunting conditions. I keep low, moving with the deliberate stealth that's kept me alive for thirty-seven years.

The metal hilts of my twin daggers press comfortably against my lower back, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.

A branch snaps somewhere ahead. I freeze, listening.

This satyr has eluded other hunters for weeks. But they weren't me.

I creep forward, scanning the metallic foliage. Through a break in the trees, I spot movement—a flash of furry hindquarters, the nervous flick of a tail. Got him.

I circle wide, positioning myself to cut off his most likely escape route. As I move, unbidden thoughts of Trinity slip into my mind—the way her green eyes had widened when she'd first seen my home, how her small hand had felt in mine. The memory of her beneath me, her soft cries as I?—

Focus, idiot.

I shake my head, irritated at my own distraction. This has been happening since I brought her home. Five days, and I can't seem to go more than an hour without her invading my thoughts. It's... inconvenient.

The satyr pauses in a small clearing ahead, his humanoid torso tense as he surveys his surroundings. His curved horns catch the light as he turns his head. He's nervous. Good.

I slide forward silently, calculating distance and timing. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

When I'm close enough to smell the musky scent of his fur, I deliberately step on a dry twig.

He whirls, eyes wild. "Who's there?"

I rise from my crouch, letting him see me fully. "Markos Silvershod."

The satyr's face contorts with recognition and fear. "Vaelrix."

My reputation precedes me. "The archives want their artifacts back."

"I sold them." His eyes dart between me and the thick brush to his left—his planned escape route. "Weeks ago."

I shrug one shoulder. "Not my problem. The bounty doesn't specify condition upon delivery."

He bolts for the brush, exactly as I anticipated. I'm on him in three strides, driving my shoulder into his midsection. We crash to the forest floor, leaves and twigs crunching beneath our combined weight.

The satyr fights with desperate strength, hooves kicking wildly, hands clawing at my face. I catch one flailing arm and twist it behind his back, pressing my knee between his shoulder blades.

"You'll break my arm!" he gasps.

I increase the pressure. "Probably."

As I secure him with enchanted bindings around his wrists and ankles, I notice the fading light. Night will fall soon. We'll need shelter.

"Move," I command, hauling him to his feet.

We make our way through the darkening forest, the satyr stumbling ahead of me. I shove him forward when he slows, my patience wearing thin.

"The mighty Vaelrix," he spits over his shoulder. "Reduced to chasing petty thieves."

I don't respond to the bait. My reputation is built on results, not conversation.

"Heard you turned down the Obsidian contract." He lets out a pained laugh when I tighten my grip. "Strange choice. That was big nodals."

I had turned it down. The week I'd spotted Trinity at Asmodeus's gathering. I couldn't explain why, even to myself. The thought of leaving Galmoleth before securing her had been... unacceptable.

"Shut up and walk," I growl.

We reach a small cave as darkness settles. I secure the satyr to a jutting rock and build a small fire. As the flames rise, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls, my thoughts drift again to Trinity.

Is she adapting to my home? Has Domemri poisoned her food yet? The tension between them had been palpable, and I'm not sure why. Not sure how to fix that, either.

I'd left without proper explanation, without telling Trinity when I'd return. The realization bothers me more than it should. She isn't owed explanations. She's carrying my heir—that's the arrangement.

Yet I find myself wondering what she's doing right now. Is she comfortable? Is she eating enough? Is she lonely?

Am I lonely?

The question ambushes me, unwelcome and revealing. I stare into the fire, suddenly aware of a hollow feeling I've carried for longer than I care to admit. The satyr shifts, drawing my attention back to reality.

"You seem distracted, demon," he observes. "Not like the stories."

I fix him with a cold stare. "The stories don't mention how I cut out the tongues of marks who talk too much."

He falls silent, eyes wide.

I settle against the opposite wall, one dagger drawn and resting across my knee. I should rest, but my mind keeps circling back to Trinity—to the taste of her skin, the sound of her laughter, genuine and unguarded in those few moments when she'd forgotten to be afraid of me.

One taste and I'm acting like a lovesick fool. Pathetic.

Tomorrow I'll deliver this satyr, collect my nodals, and return home. To her. The thought brings a satisfaction I'm not ready to examine too closely.

I return home as dusk settles over Ikoth, my body weary from the hunt but mind strangely alert. The bounty collection went smoothly—fifteen nodals for Markos, who'll spend the next decade in a Ti'lith cell. Fair trade.

The house is quiet as I enter, dropping my weapons belt on the hook by the door. Dried blood crusts my knuckles and forearms—not mine—and dust from the journey clings to my skin.

"Welcome back."

Domemri stands in the kitchen doorway, her pale violet eyes assessing me. She wears a simple black dress that accentuates her slender form, her white-blonde hair braided with those little metal charms that chime when she moves.

"Is she awake?" I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.

Something flickers across Domemri's face. "Yes. She ate dinner an hour ago. I left water in your bathing chamber."

I nod, already moving toward the stairs. "I won't need anything else tonight."

"Of course." Her tone is perfectly measured, but I catch the subtle tightening of her jaw. Not my problem.

My bathing chamber is dark until I mutter the incantation that lights the sconces. Steam rises from the large basin, casting ghostly shapes in the dim light. I strip quickly and sink into the hot water, letting it sluice away the grime of the hunt.

As I wash, my thoughts keep circling back to Trinity. She's here, in my home, likely waiting in her room. The knowledge stirs something primal in me, a possessiveness I'm unaccustomed to feeling.

It's purely physical, I remind myself. A natural response to a compatible breeding partner. Especially since we've become accustomed to this, to me visiting her most nights and us finding our pleasure together. But that is all it is. Nothing more.

I rise from the bath and dry myself, pulling on clean black pants but leaving my chest bare. My reflection catches my eye—ash-gray skin, the thick horns that crown my head, red-gold eyes that mark me as a predator. A demon, through and through.

And she is so very human.

I move through the darkened hallway to her suite of rooms. No point in delaying. This preoccupation with her will pass once the novelty wears off. It has to.

I knock once, then enter without waiting for a response.

Trinity sits by the window, a book open in her lap. The crimson light of Aerasak's setting sun bathes her in an otherworldly glow, turning her brown hair to liquid copper. She wears a simple silk nightgown—one I'd had delivered for her—that drapes over her curves like water.

She looks up, those green eyes widening slightly. "You're back."

"Disappointed?" I move into the room, closing the door behind me.

She sets the book aside and rises. "Should I be?"

Since I brought her here, Trinity has become marginally more comfortable in my presence. She has less bite, not that I minded it before. But it seems to be developing into something that is only drawing me in more.

"The hunt was successful," I say, though I doubt she cares.

"I can tell." She gestures to a shallow cut on my shoulder I hadn't noticed. "You're injured."

"It's nothing."

She approaches, stopping just beyond arm's reach. "Did you help them? The other girls."

This is our routine now. Sex, but first, questions about the humans in Asmodeus's dungeons. Her loyalty to them is... unexpected. Admirable, even.

"I spoke with Asmodeus before I left. He's agreed to improve their conditions while he determines what to do with them."

Relief softens her features. "Thank you."

I close the distance between us, unable to resist any longer. My hand cups her cheek, thumb tracing the delicate curve of her jawline. "I didn't do it for thanks."

"Why did you do it, then?" she asks, her pulse quickening beneath my touch.

I don't answer. Instead, I lower my mouth to hers, claiming her lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly ignites into something hungry and demanding. She responds immediately, her body arching into mine, small hands sliding up my bare chest to my shoulders.

This—this is what I've been missing on the hunt. This heat, this connection that burns away all other considerations.

I lift her easily, carrying her to the bed. Her nightgown whispers across my skin as I lay her down, my larger form covering hers. She sighs as my hands explore, relearning the geography of her body.

"Vael," she breathes against my ear, and the sound of my name on her lips nearly undoes me.

What follows is a haze of pleasure, of skin against skin and breath mingling with breath.

I'm relentless in my pursuit of her satisfaction, needing to hear those soft cries, to feel her tremble beneath me.

I need her to want this, to want me, with the same intensity that haunts my every waking moment.

And she does. Gods help me, she does.

Afterward, I hold her against me, her head pillowed on my chest, her breathing gradually slowing to normal. This is when I should leave, return to my own chambers as I have every night. As the arrangement dictates.

"Your heartbeat is slowing," she murmurs, one slender finger tracing idle patterns on my skin.

I grunt in response, too content to form words.

"Do you have to go?" The question is quiet, hesitant.

Yes, I think. I should go.

"Soon," I say instead.

She nods against my chest, accepting. Not asking for more than I've offered. That, too, is part of our arrangement. Though most of the time, it feels like I have to keep from asking.

I wait until her breathing deepens with sleep before carefully extracting myself from her embrace. She murmurs something incoherent as I cover her with the blanket, but doesn't wake.

Standing over her sleeping form, I'm struck by a foreign impulse to climb back in beside her, to wake with her warm body curled against mine. The desire is so strong it's almost physical pain to turn away.

But I do turn away, retrieving my pants from the floor and slipping out of her room like a thief.

In the hallway, I pause, resting my forehead against the cool wood of her door. This obsession will pass, I tell myself. It's merely physical attraction, heightened by compatibility and the knowledge that she carries my heir.

I return to my empty chambers, sprawling across my bed that suddenly seems too large, too cold. Sleep eludes me as I stare at the ceiling, imagining her just down the hall, wondering if she's dreaming.

This will pass, I think again. It has to.

But as dawn breaks outside my window, I'm less convinced than ever.