Wicked Game (3 page)

             
She flicked off her lamp and slipped into bed, watching shadows dance on the walls, wishing wholeheartedly that she had never cast the stupid spell.

             
There was a timid knocking on her door and she sat bolt upright, startled, having been close to drifting off.

             
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” the demon's gruff voice came through the door.

             
“Sleep wherever you like. I don't care,” she huffed, throwing herself back down on the pillows and scrunching her body up into a protective cocoon, as if to preserve heat, though merely the sound of his voice made her feel hot and flustered.

             
What was it about him? Was it magic? Or was it nature, pure and simple biological lust? She'd never reacted to any man in this way before and it was maddening, like her own body was betraying her.

             
“Okay.”             

             
She didn't hear him walk away, deciding that he must have, for he didn't bother her again. Let him sulk somewhere, she didn't care, he wouldn't be around long enough to affect her.

             
She closed her eyes and let the sound of wind whistling through the trees outside lull her into a deep and demon-less sleep.

C
hapter Three

The first thing she saw was darkness, black eyes gazing back at her, the glittering, dangerous, dark eyes of the demon she had summoned, his face so close to hers that their noses were touching ever so lightly, ever so intimately. Her brushed his lips against hers in what was almost a kiss before she came to her senses and leapt back, falling from the bed and landing with a loud bang.

             
He sat up and stretched leisurely, edging his way over to the other side of the bed on his knees, looming over her. He was naked again, the leather pants lying discarded on the back of the wicker chair she used for late night reading. His eyes flashed with amusement, as dark as midnight, as sensuous as sin, an effortless, sardonic smirk slipping onto his perfect face, his hair ruffled from sleep...or from sex.

             
But the chord on her pyjama bottoms was tight, every button on her blouse still done up and apparently untampered with. She felt fairly certain that had he meddled with her in any way she would have awoken immediately and put a stop to it, no matter how much a part of her wanted it, wanted him. This was her body and hers alone, to do with as she pleased and to refuse who she liked. No black magic could change that.

             
He cocked his head to the side, a lock of hair falling across one eye as he studied her curiously, before his hand slid under her pillows to where she'd stashed the letter opener, the closest substitute for a knife. He turned it over with his long, supple fingers, the silver blade catching bright sunlight shining through the window and reflecting it back at her, making her wince.

             
“You were going to stab me?” he asked quietly, his tone light and inquisitive. He sounded more amused than angry.

             
“I was going to defend myself,” she replied honestly. She had no reason to lie to him.

             
There was frenzied knocking on her bedroom door.

             
“Hazelle?” that was her mother's panicked voice, muffled by wood, “Are you alright?”

             
Hazelle glanced up at the pink Hello Kitty clock on her night stand. It was a few minutes past eight. Mom being up this early after a night out on the town was a good indication she had come home alone.

             
The handle was pressed down and the door rattled in its frame as her mother tried to get in. Hazelle's eyes widened as she saw the bolt still pulled across, locking it, barring intruders from her bedroom...or so she had always believed. She glanced at the demon accusingly and saw the mischievous glint in his eyes. Clearly locksmiths hadn't taken inhuman intruders into account.

             
“I'm fine, mom. I just had a nightmare,” she called back, before muttering under her breath, “And it isn't over yet.”

             
“Okay honey, as long as you're okay. Breakfast is in ten minutes.”

             
Hazelle heard her mother go downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief until the demon stood up, blankets falling away to reveal his huge, quivering member, primed and ready for use. She cringed and looked away. Did he ever think of anything else?

             
Of course not. That was his purpose in life. His very reason for existing. That was what he had been designed to do, that's what women begged him for. He was a demon of desire, pure and primal, and if he had it his way she would already be in bed with her legs in the air.

             
The floor would be good enough for him too, she doubted he was very picky.

             
“How did you do that?” she demanded, his nudity distracting. She forced herself to look back and not blush, not let him see how he could affect her. If he wasn't careful he would have someone's eye out with that thing.

             
He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

             
“The door. How did you get in while it's locked?”

             
He rolled his eyes, exasperated, and then stepped away from the bed, standing before her in all his golden skinned glory.

             
“I'm a demon. Use your imagination, Hazelle,” he said disdainfully. It was the first time he had spoken her name since the basement and it wasn't any less stimulating.

             
“Oh, I don't need to,” she murmured sarcastically, flushing when she found her gaze lingering on his eye-watering appendage. For some reason her fingers itched to touch him, to weave through his tousled hair, her lips tingling in anticipation of tasting his lush, golden flesh.

             
She shook her head, still flustered. “Put some clothes on please.”

             
He bowed mockingly. “As you command.”             

             
She climbed to her feet, still woozy from the fall and the shock of finding him in her bed, as if he belonged there. Her ribs were aching in protest and she knew she would have a nice shiny bruise on her hipbone by the end of the day. She limped to the door and unbolted it, before bolting it again and unbolting it, testing the mechanism for any flaw. There was none. Mystified, she opened the door and darted out, closing it behind her, hoping he would have put on some pants by the time she returned.

             
Hazelle took a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away the last of her disorientation and then she brushed her teeth, contemplating how he could have sneaked into her room without waking her, and more bafflingly, without disturbing the lock. Had he climbed in through the window? Teleported? Turned to smoke and infiltrated her bedroom through the now defunct keyhole? She had preformed magic to bring him to her, and had accepted that magic actually existed, but she was still unaccustomed to the rules and regulations, to the restrictions of what he could and couldn't do.

             
He was wearing the leather, figure hugging pants when she returned to her room, and she admired the contrast between dark leather and his burnished skin, tanned from the sun or fanned by the flames of hell she didn't know. She wondered if he could abide sunlight or if his skin would shrivel and melt away, until she saw him stood by the window, the curtain drawn back as he watched the world go by, the world he didn't belong to, the world he couldn't belong to, the world he had trespassed in long enough already. She reminded herself that he was a demon, not a vampire, but just because he didn't burst into flames and disappear in a puff of ashes it didn't make him any less dangerous.

             
“Keep your eyes on the window,” she told him stringently, walking to her wardrobe. She was wrapped in a towel and, in hindsight, should probably have grabbed some clothes before her shower. She had just wanted to get away from him before she let him do something to her that she would regret later.

             
She darted behind the wardrobe door as an extra precaution. When she chanced a peek around the door all she saw was his back, rippling with muscle, covered in luscious, lustrous skin, leather snug around his clenched buttocks. He was suppressing his lust, though she didn't know for how much longer his self-discipline could last.

             
She changed quickly, choosing a casual dress of dark wool and thick leggings that would keep her warm, the outfit purposely covering as much skin as she could, short of wearing a burka. There was no point in waving temptation in his face when he seemed to have so little restraint as it was, and it was still bitterly cold for this time of year, with snow not uncommon.

             
After running a comb through her hair she coughed quietly to get his attention.

             
“You can look now,” she said monotonously, sounding silly.

             
He turned slowly, his eyes darkening in disappointment when he saw that the dress covered all of her desirable flesh and didn't show a hint of cleavage. Apparently that didn't discourage him. He stalked towards her, his eyes focused on her face, blazing with such intense, primal, possessive heat, and then, without her permission, he ran a hand gently through her hair.

             
“So long...so shiny...so soft,” he whispered intimately, sending shivers down her spine, making her want to close her eyes and simply let him take her.

             
If she did that though, if she gave herself to him freely then there would be no renouncing evil, no salvation, no going back. Ever. It would be final, undeniable, irrefutable proof that he was real, that he truly existed, that he wasn't a fantasy made flesh, that magic wasn't a fairytale and she had gambled her soul for sex.

             
“I'm going downstairs for breakfast,” she informed him, biting her lip and looking away. His lips were so inviting, his eyes so captivating, his scent so erotic she could barely breath. The magnetism he exuded from every pore was irresistible and she felt like she was starting to lose control. What did he see when he looked at her? What did she make him feel? Did he want her as much as she wanted him?

             
The bugle in his pants betrayed him.

             
“Breakfast sounds wonderful,” he said cheerfully, flashing her a charming smile.

             
“That wasn't an invitation,” she snapped, unusually grouchy. Perhaps it had something to do with finding an uninvited demon in her bed.

             
His smile faded as he narrowed his eyes at her, all humour evaporating.

             
“I'm starving...for food and for you, Hazelle. Which one of my appetites would you prefer to satisfy?” he purred.

             
She growled in frustration, which only intensified when she saw him smile, his teeth strong and pearly white, a complete set of sparklers that would be the envy of any Hollywood hunk. He really was the perfect specimen of male, so raw, so powerful, so dominating and masculine it would have put Channing Tatum to shame. Perhaps if she couldn't make any use of him her mother would. He looked to be about the age she preferred her men to be, not so young that she was old enough to be their mother, though not that far off.

             
But he was a demon and appearances could be deceiving. He was masquerading as a human now, but maybe, perhaps, under the light of a full moon...

             
She had to remind herself that he wasn't a werewolf either.

             
She slouched downstairs, defeated and dreading what her mother might think of her, or even worse, what she might think of the demon that had spent the night in her bed. He was behind her, every step of the way, so close she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck and the heat radiating from his body, making her feel more than uncomfortable. Did he realise how intense he was? Did he know what he did to her? Surely he must, or he wouldn't take such pleasure in tormenting her.

             
Mom was stood at the stove, frying eggs. Hazelle was relieved to see her fully dressed in jeans and a sweater. She was a petite woman, much like her only daughter, though with a thinner waist and a bigger bust. Her hair was dark while Hazelle's was light, her eyes brown and flecked with green, Hazelle having inherited blue eyes from the father that had died during her first year of life, a man she would never know beyond photographs and stories. Apart from being vertically challenged and a few facial similarities Hazelle didn't have much of her mother's natural beauty and sophistication, the allure that allowed her to play with men and take what she wanted from them. Men Hazelle's own age would overlook her for a taste of her mom.

             
Hazelle drew back a stool at the breakfast bar. It wasn't until her mother heard the scrape of a second stool that she turned her head, surprise becoming curiosity when she saw the unknown man sat so brazenly next to her daughter, wearing only tight leather pants that left little to the imagination and a smile that was enough to make any woman melt into a puddle at his bare feet. It looked as if he had crawled right off the front cover of one of those erotica novels she liked to read.

             
“Well,” she said loudly, appraising the half-naked demon, her eyes brightening favourably, “Looks like I'm making extra bacon.”

             
“Sorry mom, this is my friend.”             

             
“Nice to meet you,” the demon said pleasantly, holding out his hand, giving another dashing smile that was enough to weaken the resolve of any protective mother.

             
“Does your friend have a name?” Mom asked, taking his hand hesitantly and shaking it. Hazelle noticed her mother didn't blush the way she did when the demon touched her. She envied that woman and her nerves of steel in any situation, especially when it came to interacting with attractive men.

             
The demon glanced at Hazelle inquisitively. He had given her no name, no formal title by which to address him, and the book hadn't named him specifically.

             
“Kaden,” she invented on the spot, “His name is Kaden.”