Page 45 of Demonic Delights

With a silent nod, he helps me get up and lower myself on all fours facing the mirror, the depression of my spine deepening as I curve my back to raise my ass high up in the air.

“This will probably hurt,” he warns me before he aligns his cock with my pussy and starts pushing into me slowly.

He is not wrong. It was one thing to feel the shift to his true form with him already inside me, but it is another to have him breach me like this.

I whimper, and I hiss, and then I press my face down onto the satin covers. I bite into the fabric to stifle my cat-like wails. I adjust somehow once he’s as deep as he can go, only for the struggle to resume with his thrusts, less cautious than before.

Their impact is merciless.

His demon skin is rougher than its human counterpart, and the backs of my thighs are getting rubbed raw with each loud, ruthless slap of his hips. He’s dislodging my organs and shoving them out of the way like they mean nothing to him. I don’t think I’ll have any cervix left by the time he’s done ramming into it like a hammer.

But what pain he’s causing me is generously balanced with violent pleasure tearing from my G-spot, numbing me to all other sensations, another orgasm already coursing through me, and then another almost immediately after, like a phoenix rising from its own ashes.

I convulse madly with undying euphoria boiling through my veins and barely register it when he throws his head back with a roar, his taloned fingers digging into the flesh on my hips until he draws blood as he jerks with his own climax.

My centre is burning with his seed, its red essence flowing out of me and swirling all around us, mixing with the wisps of dark smoke rising continuously off his body. Its sting snaps me out of my high before Sangrel fully descends from his, and this gives me time to act.

Too bad we’ll never be able to do this again, I think a little sadly to myself, my eyes lingering on his horns, his large hands, the harsh gash of his mouth containing that miraculous tongue.

I could have snuck into his office at work and done this in secret. But when I said I wanted to see his face, I mostly meant that I wanted to see it when I cage him, taking away his portal, his easy escape.

I want to savour the look in his eyes when he realises that he fucked up. That I know he will not hurt me more than I can handle because Silas could never consciously harm me. Weak men only ever do damage to others while steadfastly convinced they’re being good. There is no stamina in Silas’s soul to be deliberately evil. Which means that from now on, Sangrel and I will be playing by my rules.

“That was really nice, Daddy,” I say sweetly. “But now it’s time to earn some spanking.”

Reaching forward, I close my fingers around the mirror’s frame, and I yank it to the ground, where its fragile, old glass shatters into a dozen sharp pieces.

19

ROXANA

6 months later

Sunlight falls into my eyes through a gap between the curtains, and caresses my face the way a lover would, its touch warm and sensual. I yawn and stretch like I’m trying to touch the ceiling with my fingertips. Then I sit up slowly, the covers sliding down my bare breasts and stomach, revealing the healed pentagram brand, faint and smooth.

I glance over to the empty side of the bed and smile, already looking forward to my husband’s return from work.

Then I get up, put my black satin bathrobe on, and go downstairs. I make myself some coffee, and I sit down at the table and savour a few bitter sips before the inevitable cannot be postponed any longer. My new book was released yesterday, and it’s time to check the sales. I flip my laptop open and wait for everything to load, already bracing myself for all the usual zeros.

I take a final, fortifying sip. And then I nearly choke on it, coughing and wheezing whilst my mind processes what my eyes are telling me. Because yes, there are zeros. But not the way I’m used to seeing them.

All those numbers ... they don’t start with zeros. They end in them.

Well, well, well ... what would Goodwoman Stubbs say if she knew that the bully professor story I pulled out of thin air just to scandalise her would be the one to finally send me from a publishing rock bottom to the stratosphere?

Poor thing would be turning over in her grave, no doubt.

But it’s been half a year since she fell down that steep, spiral staircase while climbing down from her favourite hideout. She was found lying sprawled on the landing with a broken neck and with her blouse torn where her tasteless golden rose brooch caught on something during the fall. Everything pointed to an accident so very clearly that foul play was never even suspected. Never even investigated. That unfortunate soul. Now she doesn’t get to have an opinion on the success of my messed-up little book. Nor does she get to tell anyone any secrets. Hers or mine.

And so, there isn’t a person left besides me who ever knew of the existence and the purpose of the mirror with that black, lifelike skull on top of the frame.

Well, Silas, technically. But Silas hasn’t been Silas for months now, not since the night when the mirror was destroyed. Even though I can still see traces of him sometimes, those traits or little gestures that I have always liked, I am now the wife of Sangrel Morvian. Not Silas Moore.

The whole day passes me by in a whirlwind of emails, messages and social media posts. I barely even have time to make more coffee. It’s incredible, like something out of a fever dream. When my husband gets home, he finds me still in my bathrobe, my eyes tired and stinging from hours of staring at the computer screen, but my face adorned with the widest smile of my life.

I get up to kiss him, wrapping my arms around his broad torso and closing my eyes as his tongue invades my mouth.

“Hello, Daddy,” I whisper to him, my lips brushing against his, our breaths fusing.