Page 31 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter thirty-one

Thorns

He releases my wrists, and even though they don’t hurt because his blood inside me heals every scrape, he still strokes my skin and blows on it with care. I lie there motionless, letting him do what he wants. I’m spent, withdrawn deep into myself, where his words and eyes can’t hurt me.

Woland helps me sit and presses a goblet of cool water to my mouth. I drink, looking somewhere into space, the bedroom unreal, my body a dream. I barely feel his warmth as he lays behind me, pressing me close under covers. We’re both naked, and he hasn’t fucked me, after all. I feel strangely dismayed by that. He led to it with everything he did, and now, it all seems so pointless. There is no closure.

“Sleep,” he murmurs into my hair, his hand spanning my stomach in a possessive hold. “I’ll watch over you.”

Anguish fills my chest as I think that I’d love to believe him so badly, but I’m too terrified. He hurt me deeply the last time. He’ll do it again, and even worse. No, I can’t. I push the feeling down, closing my eyes as the bedroom grows dark.

I wake up to the sensation of gentle fingers caressing my face. A faint glow lights up Woland’s face hovering above mine, his eyes soft and hooded as they watch me. His finger outlines the shape of my mouth. Neither of us says a word, our eyes locked.

He seems mesmerized. I wonder how long he watched me in my sleep. If this is a lie, I have to admire his commitment.

“Water?” he asks in a whisper.

I nod, and he helps me drink. When I lie back, he returns to studying my face, gentle fingers trailing my sparse eyebrows.

“They should grow back in a few weeks,” I say with a shrug, feeling self-conscious. “No spell I tried was permanent enough, and Nienad says he won’t waste his resources on vanity.”

He hums, a small frown marring his smooth forehead. His skin looks so smooth in the light, like the finest, softest fabrics luxurious seamstresses use up in the city.

“Mind if I try it?”

I nod indifferently, too weary to wonder if I can trust him or not. I am so tired of questioning his every motivation and word.

Woland strokes both eyebrows a few times, spreading the tingling heat of magic over my skin. It itches for a moment before he pulls back, eyeing me critically.

“That should do it. Body modification spells are very costly to maintain. Healing is easier, because your body actively strives to be well at all times, but hair is secondary. That’s why Nienad didn’t want to bother. Do you want to see?”

I shake my head and pat them instead. Yes, they are back. Of course, Woland can do anything at no cost at all.

“You can ask me for things, Jaga,” he says seriously. “I know you’re proud and used to dealing with the world on your own, but you can ask me.”

He combs through my hair with gentle fingers, watching me expectantly. This Woland is utterly puzzling, because I don’t think he has it in him to pretend so well. When we met, he was so crude. Even when he tried to seduce me that Kupala Night, his words were callous and indifferent. He was so full of himself and thought I’d fall to my knees at the slightest temptation.

Either he learned subtlety, or he really believes what he says.

“You just want me to have a braid you can yank on,” I say wearily. “Fine. You can make my hair grow back if you want, but I don’t really care.”

It’s actually a lie. My hair, when short, is even worse than long. It's redder. At least when I braided it into a crown around my head, it seemed darker, the sheer volume changing the color.

He huffs with amusement, stroking the round tip of my earlobe. “Is this how you ask? I’ve been making an effort to say ‘please’. What about you?”

I clench my jaw and turn my head away. He leans in to kiss my temple and combs through my hair carefully. My entire scalp heats up and itches. His face is frozen into a look of absolute focus as he urges me to sit up so he can get the back of my head, too.

Unpleasant minutes pass until Woland pulls back, wrapping a coil of luscious, shiny hair around his palm. He strokes it with his thumb, smiling warmly.

“Now, that’s better.”

A thud of hot, burgeoning urgency pulses in my stomach. I can’t take it. I need something to balance it out, and so I grab his hand and press it to my breast.

“Fuck me hard. Use me. Please. And don’t speak. No more of that.”

His smile falls away as he cocks his head to the side, studying me with a frown. I cringe away, expecting him to refuse, but his face grows hard, and he pulls my hair sharply, baring my throat.

“If I get too rough, tell me to stop,” he murmurs before his teeth pierce my skin.

I clutch the sheets as he drinks my blood with greedy grunts. One hand still tangled in my hair, he seeks my nipple with the other, pinching hard before he rams two fingers into me. My legs fall open, and I exhale in complete relief. Finally. All that sappy talk made my heart hurt, and this is the perfect cure.

I like the edge of pain with my pleasure. He’s the one who taught me that.

He pulls away from my neck, plunging his slick fingers into my mouth. They go deep, and I gag. He kisses me roughly, teeth scraping my lip, while his hand wraps around my throat in a possessive gesture I know so well.

With shocking speed, he flips me around until I’m on my belly. Ropes slither toward my wrists and ankles, stretching me to the point of discomfort. He caresses my spine once until the skin stretching over my vertebrae tingles. My hair is in my face, my neck twinging, but he makes no move to fix it.

Good.

My need for him to be bad and prove me right is overwhelming. I am too weak to resist his lies, and if he keeps spinning twisted words of love while looking at my face as if it’s the single most beautiful wonder in his world, I’ll lose. My heart will break out of the protective shackles I locked it in and fall right into his callous hands.

Brutal Woland is who I need. I need the devil who makes me hurt and reminds me what I am—a tool and a toy.

When he kneels between my uncomfortably spread legs, I expect him to slam into me with force, making it hurt. So it’s a relief and a frustration, too, when he parts me gently, the tip of him barely grazing my skin as warm hands spread my cheeks open.

He doesn’t hurry, teasing me with this excuse for a penetration, and I clench my fists and try to squirm. I am utterly at his mercy, and I hate that mercy is what he chooses to show me.

“Is this the best you can do?” I taunt him, my voice muffled by the pillow.

“I’ll use you how I want,” he says through clenched teeth, thrusting just a bit deeper. “But I can do worse.”

He pulls my hair sharply. I cry out from the strain, my head lifted so high, I struggle to breathe. As he thrusts halfway in, pulling even harder, I clench with helpless need.

“It’s so perverse that you love this ,” he hisses, pulling out. “Yet when I want to make love to you the way every consort before you begged me to, you hate it.”

“You were supposed to be quiet,” I force out through my stretched, hurting throat.

“You don’t make the rules.”

When he sinks in to the hilt with a moan of pleasure, fear squirms in the pit of my stomach. In my urgency to make the world right again, I forgot my basest fear, but now I realize where he put his mark. He said he would heal me only if I let him, but his word is not good enough.

“What does the mark do?” I ask hoarsely, coughing from the effort.

“It shows anyone who sees you naked who you belong to.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else.”

“You’re lying.”

He lets go of my hair with a heavy sigh and pulls out, and gods, but I hate myself for being so afraid. I need this.

“Fine. I don’t care which hole I get to fuck.”

He spreads my cheeks roughly. Warm spit lands on my back hole, and careful fingers work it in while magic sinks into my flesh. I gasp when I feel my muscles relaxing, unnatural slickness covering me there. More magic pours in until I moan, my entire lower back melting in deep relief.

When he slides inside me, the stretch is uncomfortable, hot and cold tingles running up my spine. I whine and try to squirm, unable to take the fullness, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes deep until the flat, harmless thorns at his base press into my buttocks, and then he spreads me open wider and goes just that bit deeper.

“Ah!”

“Different, isn’t it? At least you can stop being so fucking scared.”

He sets a slow rhythm, and despite his magic that helps me relax and makes me wet, I still struggle. He’s big, and I’ve never had anything shoved in my ass before. Shivers crawl down my back, a faint ache nestling deep in my belly every time he bottoms out. And yet, it’s perfect. I relax, knowing there’s no chance I will get pregnant this way, even if he tampers with my scars.

When the last of my discomfort fades away, Woland reaches around my hip to pinch my clit. His other hand wraps around my hair and pulls slowly until my head lifts, just on the edge between uncomfortable and deeply relaxing. The way my hair pulls at my scalp feels obscenely good.

I come with a hoarse cry, my muscles tightening around him. That’s when he loses control. Measured, even disinterested before, he makes a low, obscene noise in the back of his throat, thrusting hard until our bodies smack together.

“My witch,” he breathes, his violent pace sending jolts down my spine. They are so powerful, I feel them in the back of my skull. “Fucking finally. Nothing ever felt better. Your body is my new fucking shrine, the only one where I’ll visit in person. Those who pray to me can kneel in front of you. Squeeze me tight again, sweetheart. You feel so fucking good.”

He pounds into me, long, jarring thrusts making my whole body shake, and I lose my voice and sense of space, becoming a shapeless ball of crushing sensation.

“Just like this. Just like this, love. You please me so much.”

He slams deep with a beastly grunt and spends himself inside me. His thorns pierce my skin, dozens of thin, venomous needles, and I cry out from debilitating pain and even worse bliss. A long, drawn-out orgasm almost makes me black out. He breathes hard on top of me as I come again, squeezing him so tightly, we both moan and shake.

When it’s over, Woland releases my arms and legs, turning us until we’re on our sides, his body molded to mine. The thorns stay embedded inside me, and I wonder why, since their purpose is to facilitate conception.

“I’m sober at last,” he says into my hair. “Time for confessions is over. I’ll fuck you again once my thorns release, and you can sleep until then. Goodnight.”

Sober. Not once did he seem drunk. His speech didn’t slur, his movements were sure, and yet, he claims belladonna affects him like a strong liquor. My head whirls with questions—what’s true and what’s a lie? It’s impossible to tell. I drift off to sleep, my body heavy and warm, intimately connected to him.

In my dream, Woland laughs at me, cruel and mocking. His laughter sounds distorted, low and growly, and his teeth are sharper than normal as he opens his mouth wide, howling with mirth at my expense.

I feel so small as I shake from the cold, hugging myself, and he laughs and laughs. I want to leave, but there’s nowhere to go. There is only infinite darkness, his shadows barring my way, and his horrible laughter echoes off far walls of the dungeon.

I wake with a start to him moving within me, his hot body pressed to my back, his legs tangled with mine.

“There, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

I realize my face is wet, my throat tight. When I take a shaky breath, he thrusts deep and stills, his careful hand pushing tear-moistened hair off my cheek.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“I don’t know.”

The dream wasn’t scary in an obvious sense. After all, it was just him, laughing. And yet, the feeling of utter desolation, of being completely alone while he mocks me, stays in the pit of my stomach, freezing me from within. Woland’s warmth at my back and the bulk of him inside me don’t melt the cold.

He fucks me slowly, caressing my face and breasts, and I do my best to forget everything. When his thorns pierce me again amidst pain and ecstasy, I finally ask him.

“You said it’s to make sure a pregnancy takes. So why are you using them now?”

He presses me closer, caressing my stomach until his fingers inevitably stray to my scar. “They just come out. Maybe it’s because I like it inside you so much. Sleep, pet. I’ll fuck you again in an hour.”

This night is breathless and dizzying as I drift in and out of sleep. Woland doesn’t leave my body even for a moment. As soon as his thorns release, he moves again, and I sleep through some of it, only waking when he speeds up, jarring me with rhythmic thrusts. It’s sweaty and confusing, his hot breath and curious fingers my only anchors in the absolute darkness.

He is mostly silent, and when he murmurs sweet words in my ear, I tune him out. The door opens when he fucks me leisurely for the fourth or seventh time, the sheets thrown off our sweaty bodies. Heavy steps thud on the floor, and he doesn’t stop. I’m too woozy to immediately understand that someone’s here.

“Should I come back later?” Draga asks politely, standing by the bed.

“Come back tomorrow,” Woland answers, slamming deep. “She’s excused today.”

“Of course, master.”

When he finishes inside me, he sits back against the headboard, sitting me in his lap. We’re joined, his thorns pulling and stinging with every move, but his venom courses in my blood, dulling the pain and bringing out the pleasure. I feel raw and well used, and finally— finally —his atrocious lies lose their power. I can’t imagine a man using a woman he loves the way Woland used me, and that thought fills me with peace.

“Bring breakfast for me and my consort,” he speaks into his palm, where a little ball of shadow glitters indigo.

The ball floats away, and I know someone will come soon.

“Drink,” he orders me, pushing his bleeding thumb into my mouth while his other hand dives between my legs, fingers moving easily in the slick mess. “I want to make sure everything heals properly.”

His blood amplifies my pleasure as he brings me to a quick, easy orgasm. When I open my eyes, I realize we’re not alone. A bieda arranges food on a small table by the bed, her eyes averted.

Woland huffs into my hair. His fingers strum me again, and I catch his wrist with both hands, embarrassed. He doesn’t stop, murmuring softly, “They need to know my consort is doing her job, pet. Close your eyes. It feels so good when you squeeze me tight.”

I clench my teeth and shut my eyes, perfectly aware the bieda hears his every word. Woland chuckles, pinching my clit as he sends a current of magic directly into it. I yelp with shock, a strong, painful orgasm tearing through me. I can’t bite back the loud scream despite how embarrassing it is.

“Good consort,” he says with a laugh. “She left. We can eat.”

Later, when I am dressed and bathed, he sits me down and combs my hair with a glittering comb that looks like it’s made of bone encrusted with green and yellow jewels. I sit passively and let him do whatever he wants, my body sore and well-used despite the blood he fed me. When he braids my hair around my head with quick, sure movements, I’m not even that surprised. I’m too tired for shock.

“I taught myself how to braid hair after I fell in love with yours,” he says softly, running his fingers over the finished braids. “I wanted an excuse to touch it, I suppose.”

My heart wrenches, but it received so much abuse last night, I can’t even suffer much. Gods, how I’d love to believe him. I’d love to trust that my hair is loveable, that I am loveable, but no amount of Woland’s sweet words will convince me.

“So, does my month as your consort officially start now?” I ask with a wan smile.

He snorts, pressing his face to my crown of braids. He runs his lips along it, and I swallow thickly, unbalanced by all the odd ways he shows me affection. It feels like he’s trying too hard. It’s too much, all at once.

“I already told you, pet. I’m not letting you go. In fact—here. I made it one night, thinking of you.”

His hand disappears in a cloud of shadows. When they disperse, a small, glittering thing lies in the middle of his palm.

A ring.