The crisp night air did nothing to cool my temper. Chest heaving, I gripped the balustrade. A string of curses toward the Weaver and the Reaper didn’t help either.

In the morning, I’d collect Assyria and then we’d be forced together all hours of the day for the foreseeable future.

How was I going to control myself in front of the army? If I couldn’t keep a level head around her, how was I supposed to protect her?

“Fuck,” I swore, banging my fists and glaring at the heavens.

I was the Halálhívó, the fucking leader of the entire Demon army. I had hundreds of thousands of males at my command. These soldiers, this bond, and this infuriating female all needed to remember that I was the one in charge and that I alone could save them.

If they did not, the consequences would be swift and severe.

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***

The female’s hands shook as she realized she bled from between her thighs. The sight was met with a tumbling mixture of relief and trepidation. Her husband wanted nothing more than for the burgundy-eyed female to produce an heir for him. She wanted nothing less. Two years had passed of him entering her at least once a week and filling her with his seed. Other females in the village had borne children within a year of the priestess declaring them wed.

More than anything, she wished she could speak with her mother, to seek some comfort in her situation. Of late, her husband had become more aggressive toward her, especially as her belly continued to remain flat. Her sister, too, would have been a welcome reprieve from the unending dullness of her married life.

Yet he would not allow them to visit their estate, nor was she allowed to leave it to visit her family’s farm.

If their roles had been reversed, the female would have snuck in to see her sister. She had always been the rebellious one, though, where her sister kept her head down and followed all rules.

“Assyria,” her husband barked through the door, causing her to jump.

“One moment please,” she called back, quickly swiping a cloth and cleaning herself.

Glancing around the bathing chamber, the wife searched for a place to stash the offending object so she could remove the stains later, without her husband or their housekeeper knowing. He was so desperate to elevate his station. He’d said so that very morning. She’d begun to suspect he was tracking her cycles with how closely he’d been watching her these last days.

She waited too long, for the handle twisted with a metallic clang and her husband barged into the room. His attention immediately snagged on the red rag in his wife’s hand. A similar shade rose to his face.

Stomping toward her, he snatched her wrist and tugged. His wife stumbled into him, and he caught her by the throat, fingers wrapping tightly over her windpipe.

“That is your fault,” he snarled, then threw her backward.

Her foot caught on the edge of the cabinet, and she crashed to the ground, cracking her head against the polished white tile. Yet the sound of it and the tears running down his wife’s face did nothing to remove the anger from his countenance.

“Vagach, you hurt me,” she mumbled, blinking and trying to clear her vision.

Her husband towered over her. “You harm me by not being pregnant.”

Her brows dipped together, and her mouth parted slightly as if she were searching for words with which to respond to his statement. “You’ve never laid a hand on me before,” she mumbled, pushing herself upright and swaying when she reached her feet.

The wife didn’t remain that way for long as her husband slapped her and sent her careening into the cool stone countertops. She managed to catch herself, bewilderment still clouding her thinking.

The husband had been cordial, even nice, to his wife at the beginning of their marriage, despite being strangers. He’d coveted her burgundy eyes and hoped to produce powerful offspring for his line to impress the Kral. She’d been reluctant to accept him, but her father had the final say in her life, and the Kormánzó had offered a handsome price for his daughter.

Pressing a palm into her stinging skin, she whirled to face her husband. “How dare you.” Finally, she realized the first fall had been intentional.

“I will do what I please with my property,” the husband snarled, trying to intimidate her.

She bared her teeth and shoved against his chest. “I do not belong to you.”

He snatched her wrists again. She winced from the pain. “Yes, you do.”

Securing them in one hand, he grasped the hem of her dress and shoved it up her hips. Twisting in his hold, she tried to jerk her hands free. She managed one and shoved again. He stumbled backward, catching both himself and her before she’d made it three steps away.

“You may be bleeding, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy your body,” he snarled, shaking her shoulders. “After all, it is mine to do with what I please.”

She brought her knee up to his groan, and he released her, grabbing himself instead. Snatching her success, she bolted from the room. Portraits judged her as she raced down the hall and toward the kitchen. There, two doors offered her a chance to flee.

Steps before she breached the threshold, her husband caught the end of her hair and yanked. With a cry, she crashed to the ground, and a moment later, he was on top of her, pinning her beneath his weight.

She bucked and writhed, trying to dislodge him.

A sinister chuckle slid out of him as he caught her arms and pinned them above her head. Then, with his free hand, he unbuckled his belt. “Oh, I am going to enjoy this one. Very much.”

The scream that tore from his wife’s throat was made all the sweeter by the fact that no one was around to hear it, and no one was around to save her.

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32

Amale stormed into the sleeping chamber, tearing me from sleep with a shriek. “Get up, it’s time to go,” he growled. Horns of wicked ebony curled from his scalp, a mask like a black skull covering the rest of his face. But a set of burgundy eyes burned down at me, visible even in the dim light.

“How about a please, Rokath?” I hissed, clutching the sheet tighter to my chest. The motion drew his attention there, and a string of curses burst from behind the mask.

“Put some fucking clothes on,” he snapped, spinning on his heel and leaving me bewildered. The sun wasn’t up yet, what little light the waning moon offered cast blurry shapes around the room.

Fucking Rokath and his brutish attitude.

Striking a match, I lit the lantern on the bedside table, allowing me enough light to find clothes and dress myself. “How about a bag for some clothes? Or is that too much for your pet to ask of you?” I called out with as much snark as I could muster.

Still can’t believe he threatened to leash me.

Last night was a fucking twister of emotions. From the giddiness that hummed through my veins as I appeared in the ballroom, to the fury that immediately followed Rokath dragging me out of there, and the lust that flooded all my senses as he pinned me beneath him and licked my core until I came, with a final circle back to rage as he instructed me to be a good girl and stay here.

Today wasn’t going to be any better.

Not when all night, I dreamed of him between my thighs again, making my entire body shake with the way his tongue moved against me. So, so expertly, like he knew my body better than any male before him. Better than even me. The orgasms I’d had with Izgath were nothing compared to that moment with Rokath.