When Darkness Ends

  When she’d left the privacy of her room she’d been determined to be cool, controlled . . . civil.

  It shouldn’t be a difficult task.

  She’d been playing the role of the perfect princess for over two centuries.

  It should be child’s play to slap a smile on her face and pretend she didn’t want to stab a stake into the center of his chest.

  But the second she’d caught sight of Cyn, her good intentions had shattered.

  She didn’t understand why her emotions became a tangled mess, or what made her nerves feel as if they’d been scraped raw, but she did understand that her reaction left her vulnerable.

  “Cyn . . .” She forgot how to speak as his head lowered and she felt the touch of his lips against her throat. “Stop.”

  “Why?” His tongue traced the vein that he seemed to find so fascinating. “I smell your desire.”

  Fallon struggled to remember why she was convinced this was wrong. The gods knew it didn’t feel wrong. Not when he was lightly scraping his fangs over her sensitive skin to send jolts of electric excitement shooting through her.

  Oh . . . mercy.

  She’d never met a man so tactile. His hands skimmed along the sides of her body, as if he was endlessly fascinated by her slender curves, while he continued to nip and nuzzle a path of kisses down her neck to the scooped neckline of her robe.

  She instinctively reached to grasp his shoulders, her knees feeling oddly weak.

  “I’m a princess,” she forced herself to mutter.

  She had to remind herself why she shouldn’t be melting against his hard, savagely male body as his hands pressed against her lower back, urging her into contact with the thrust of his arousal.

  His tongue traced the neckline of her robe. “I forgive you.”

  Fallon squeezed her eyes shut. He was stirring raw, primitive sensations that were threatening to overwhelm her.

  “I mean my father has promised me to another,” she said.

  He slowly lifted his head, his brooding gaze locked on her flushed face. “Ah, the fiancé. Do you love him?”

  She blinked in genuine confusion. “It isn’t about love.”

  His gaze lowered to her lips. “Then it’s about sex?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There’s no need to sound so shocked.” His large hands gripped her hips, his incredible jade eyes dark with a sensual hunger that made her heart give a dangerous flutter. “The best relationships are based on lust.”

  Lust? Toward Magnus? She choked back the sudden urge to laugh.

  “My marriage to Magnus is a—”

  “What?”

  “A melding of two powerful Houses.”

  His brows snapped together, an expression of disbelief on his painfully beautiful face. “Is that a joke?”

  “Why would it be a joke?” Fallon was genuinely puzzled. Arranged marriages weren’t uncommon among many species of demons. “My father is king and I am an asset he can use to solidify his position.”

  A chill cloaked around her. “An asset?”

  “Yes.” She warily tried to tug from his grasp. Why did he seem so angry? “Magnus brings to the marriage a large dowry and the loyalty of his very powerful House.”

  His hands tightened on her hips, his sensual charm decidedly absent. “And what does he get out of the deal?”

  “His heirs will have royal blood.”

  The chill became downright frosty, making Fallon shiver. “So it is about sex.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She should tell him to go to hell. He had no business prying into her relationship with her fiancé.

  But she didn’t. It was almost as if his steady gaze was compelling the words from her mouth.

  “It will be my duty to provide at least six live heirs,” she muttered, revealing the truth that had been giving her nightmares since the engagement documents had been signed and her father had promised her future to a man who was little more than a cold, distant acquaintance.

  “Duty?” Predictably he pounced on her revealing word. “Shouldn’t that be a pleasure?”

  “I don’t know yet which it will be,” she muttered.

  “You mean . . .” Something that might have been satisfaction flared through his eyes. “You haven’t slept together.”

  Her blush deepened. “It’s forbidden until after we wed.”

  His hands slid up the curve of her waist, halting a tantalizing inch from her breasts. A low groan rumbled in his throat.

  “He must be a fucking saint.”

  Fallon’s mouth went dry. Her breasts were suddenly tingling, the nipples tight with a need she didn’t understand.

  “Not really.” She grimaced. “Magnus is allowed to keep a harem.”

  A hot, dangerous hunger blazed in the depths of his eyes as her voice came out as a low, husky whisper.

  “And you?”

  It was growing difficult to concentrate on the embarrassing conversation. She’d never had a man span her rib cage with his big hands, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. Or look at her as if he was imagining her naked.

  “I’m expected to remain pure until the wedding night,” she managed to rasp between dry lips.

  A sound that was purely male was wrenched from Cyn’s throat as he leaned into her, his lips stroking a cool path of destruction over her cheek to the edge of her mouth. She barely dared to breathe as his intoxicating sensuality wrapped around her like a cloak.

  “And you call me a barbarian,” he said, the tip of his fang lightly scraping her bottom lip. “I, at least, appreciate that a woman has the right to make her own choices.”

  Her own choices . . .

  The fog of desire was abruptly pierced by a familiar pain.

  For God’s sake, did he think she wouldn’t give everything she possessed—her fortune, her palatial quarters in the palace, and even her position as princess—if it would mean she could gain control of her life?

  If she could be truly free?

  Her hands lifted to press against his chest. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Fallon—”

  “I need bowls,” she abruptly interrupted.

  He lifted his head, his brows arched. “Bowls?”

  She gave another push against his massive chest. He was more than just invading her space. He was battering her with sensations that were as unfamiliar as they were unnerving.

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps sensing she’d reached the limit of her endurance, Cyn reluctantly loosened his hold and backed off the step.

  “I will have food delivered.” He folded his arms over his chest, looking all broody again. “I assure you there’s no need for you to slave in the kitchen.”

  As if she would know how to slave in a kitchen even if she wanted to.

  “I need them to scry.”

  He gave a curt nod. “Fine. I’ll take you there.”

  “If you’ll just tell me where—”

  With a blinding speed, Cyn was grasping her shoulders and sealing her mouth in a kiss that spoke of hunger and irritation and a smoldering frustration that was oddly echoed deep inside her.

  Fallon was too shocked to immediately respond.

  No doubt a good thing since she didn’t have a clue if she wanted to slap his face or melt into his arms.

  Instead she whipped up a less than convincing appearance of outrage as he pulled away.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’ll let you know if I figure it out,” he growled, turning as if he intended to lead her to the kitchens. Then, without warning, he was whirling toward the front door, his fangs fully exposed. “Wait.”

  Fallon clutched the banister, her heart halting. Had her father found her? Or worse . . . Magnus?

  “What is it?”

  “Gargoyle,” he snarled, the word barely leaving his lips before there was the sound of a small pop and a tiny creature with large fairy wings and stunted horns appeared in the middle of the foyer. “What t
he hell are you doing here?” Cyn demanded.

  “Siljar sent me,” the gargoyle said, spreading his arms and grinning at the furious vampire. “Lucky you.”

  Tonya had all sorts of reasons to be in a PMS mood as she switched on a lamp to battle the gathering shadows.

  She was stuck in Chicago instead of taking care of the demon club that she managed for Viper. God only knew what disasters would be waiting for her when the Anasso allowed her to return.

  She’d be lucky if the damned place was still standing without her to keep an eye on the volatile clientele who didn’t consider a party started until someone was bleeding.

  And now she was seated at the massive desk in Styx’s library, staring at the mind-numbingly gorgeous Chatri prince who was strolling across the priceless carpet with enough arrogance to make her teeth ache.

  A part of her wanted to grab the heavy crystal paperweight off the desk and toss it at his head. But a larger part of her wanted to rip off his black slacks and crisp white shirt and rub herself against his lean muscular body.

  It was annoying as hell.

  He was a rude, condescending ass who was clearly convinced she was far beneath his lofty royal position.

  Precisely the sort of man she detested.

  But the moment he walked into the room, she was zapped with such an intense sexual reaction that she felt physically compelled to reach out and touch him.

  She tried to tell herself that it was merely a predictable reaction to being near a Chatri. They’d once been worshiped as gods by her people, hadn’t they? The urge to become his ready, willing, and eager concubine was surely nothing more than a primitive instinct.

  Or maybe she was just one of those women who had shitty taste in men.

  She had, after all, believed herself to be in love with her boss, Santiago, who’d recently mated his beloved Nefri.

  Whatever the cause, she found her nerves rubbed raw as the prince came to a halt in front of the desk, his expression haughty.

  “Where is the Anasso?”

  His power wrapped around her, the scent of aged whiskey teasing at her nose. She shuddered as a decadent pleasure bubbled through her blood.

  “Do I look like a receptionist?” she forced herself to demand.

  He narrowed his stunning cognac eyes. “You look like a lesser fey who should know her place.”

  Her hand reached for the paperweight. She wasn’t going to throw it. Not yet.

  “My place is at Viper’s club, but because of you I’m stuck here.”

  He peered down the length of his noble nose. “It should be an honor to serve me.”

  “It’s a waste of my time.”

  A frown touched his brows, as if he didn’t know what to do with a female who refused to play by his rules. Then he gave a sharp shake of his head, the overhead chandelier catching the ruby highlights in the long length of his hair.

  “I did not come here to speak with you,” he said, his cultured voice holding the edge of an accent. “I need to see the vampire.”

  “Why?”

  “It is not your concern.”

  Her fingers tightened on the paperweight. Styx hadn’t forbidden her from doing bodily harm to the prince when he’d insisted she remain in Chicago.

  Still, she didn’t know how long she was going to have to deal with this aggravating male. After punching him in the nose it would probably be better if she resisted further bloodshed for as long as possible.

  “Unfortunately it is,” she said stiffly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Styx has forced . . . requested that I be his liaison.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Any requests you have for the King of Vampires must go through me,” she informed him.

  He made a sound of impatience. “That’s unacceptable.”

  “No shit,” she muttered. “But that’s the way it is. So what do you want?”

  Magnus studied her for a long minute, taking careful note of her stubborn expression. At last he heaved a resigned sigh.

  “I wondered if he was aware there has been an imp circling the estate for the past hour.”

  “An imp?” Having expected some ridiculous demand, Tonya was caught off guard by the prince’s question. With a smooth motion she was on her feet and heading toward the windows that overlooked the rose garden. When the Chatri had first made their appearance in Chicago, the King of Vampires’ estate had been nearly overrun by fey who were desperate to catch sight of their one-time gods. Then Styx had sent his Ravens to warn the various imps, sprites, fairies, and nymphs that his house wasn’t a damned tourist attraction and that he’d start putting fey heads on spikes if they didn’t stay the hell away. It’d been enough to send the gawkers fleeing in fear. It seemed almost unbelievable that there would be an imp brave enough to invite the Anasso’s wrath. “You’re certain?”

  Outrage touched the lean, beautiful face. “Of course I am certain.”

  “Male or female?” she demanded. “Did you get a good look at them?”

  His gaze followed her hand as it slid into the back pocket of her leather pants to pull out her cell phone, lingering on the lush curve of her ass before it was abruptly jerking up to meet her taunting smile.

  “A male,” he said, his voice frigid although Tonya didn’t miss the color that stained the pale honey of his skin. The prince had been sneaking a peek. “And I didn’t see him at all.”

  Tonya’s brief flare of amusement was forgotten as she studied him in confusion. “Then how do you know there’s someone out there?”

  “I can sense them.”

  She blinked in shock. “Even through the layers of magic?”

  He shrugged. “It is my talent.”

  Her first thought was that he was lying. No one had the ability to detect an imp that was several hundred yards away and on the opposite side of the thick shields that protected the estate.

  Then she realized that he had no reason to make up a story.

  Not when he could so easily be proved wrong.

  “I’ll let Styx know.” Tapping a brief text to the vampire who was no doubt just rising, she lifted her head to meet the cognac gaze that was studying her with an unnerving intensity. “Is there anything else?”

  “Are all imp females so—” Words seemed to fail him.

  “What?” She tilted her chin, her expression warning that she wasn’t opposed to planting another punch to his nose. “Beautiful? Clever? Sexy?”

  “Outspoken.”

  Tonya shrugged. “We’re all different, but most have no difficulty in sharing their opinion. Does that bother you?”

  “True ladies—”

  “Careful,” she drawled, hiding her stupid reaction to his barely concealed disdain behind a façade of mocking indifference.

  She was intelligent, capable, and most men found her sexy as hell. What did it matter if this prissy prince found her less than a woman?

  “It is no wonder Sariel wished to separate us from this world.”

  Stepping forward, Tonya allowed her fingers to lightly stroke over his chest. “Are you afraid of a real woman?”

  He stiffened, but he made no effort to slap away her hand. Instead his nose flared. Anger? Or was he breathing in her scent?

  “The Chatri women are trained to be elegant, well-mannered companions who honor their mates,” he muttered.

  Tonya shivered as her fingers continued to trace the chiseled muscles beneath the silk shirt. She’d intended to torment Magnus the Magnificent, but suddenly her body was no longer connected to her brain.

  Instead her thoughts were being fogged by the sensuous pleasure of at last touching him.

  “They sound like schmucks to me.”

  His hands lifted to grasp her wrists, but he didn’t pull her hands away. Instead his thumb absently stroked over her pulse that throbbed beneath the skin of her inner wrist.

  “That word is unfamiliar.”

  Her gaze moved to linger on his lips. They
weren’t as lushly curved as most fey, but Tonya discovered a sharp-edged hunger to feel those hard, sculpted lines pressed against hers.

  “Idiots,” she said, speaking more to herself than explaining the meaning of the word.

  His fingers tightened on her wrists, covertly tugging her closer to the enticing heat of his body.

  “Because they appreciate a strong mate?”

  She should pull away. Or better yet, push him away.

  Anything to escape the surge of lust that was making her melt with a potent need.

  Instead she glared into his beautiful face and leaned even closer.

  “Because they’ve obviously allowed themselves to be bullied to the point that they’re incapable of thinking for themselves.”

  His brows snapped together at her accusation. “I would never bully a female.”

  “No?” She lowered her voice to mimic his earlier words. “Why are you not on your knees, woman? I am your master. Yadda yadda.”

  He made a sound deep in his throat. “You are—”

  “What?” she prodded, her heart thundering with sexual excitement.

  “Extremely frustrating.”

  “Good.”

  He released a sharp breath, his gaze skimming over her face with a blatant confusion. “You are nothing like my women, so why do I want to kiss you?”

  Her heart missed a necessary beat. “Maybe you like to go slumming.”

  The prince released her wrists so he could frame her face in his slender hands. “What is that?”

  “Some men get a kick out of sleeping with women who they consider trash.”

  “Don’t say that,” he snapped.

  “But you—”

  “Hush,” he growled.

  “Did you tell me to—”

  With shocking speed, he captured her lips in a kiss that demanded utter capitulation. For a second she stiffened, her survival instincts warning her that she was making a huge mistake. She was a common imp who worked at a demon club. He was a royal Chatri who would soon be returning to his home with his precious pure-blooded fiancée.

  Then his tongue dipped into her mouth and she no longer gave a shit about the who or the why as a liquid heat seared through her.