He lunged in a snap and grabbed the back of her knee and her face simultaneously. She struggled against the bindings suddenly around her wrists, her throat. Papers flew. Her phone crashed to the floor, and she kicked, but his grip only tightened.
His increasing grasp was enough to make her words stick in her throat. He had her cheeks pinched between his fingers, nails digging into her flesh and drawing blood from both her leg and her face. Millie’s knuckles whitened against the edge of the desk with every involuntary whimper as he stilled just an inch from her face. Fear and hunger flashed in her eyes, and he knew his own gaze had turned scarlet in the lightning strike—an action that he knew she would be grinning about the moment he let her go.
“Updates,Milliscent,” he hissed in a growl that were it anyone but her, their fleeting pulse would have sent his cock twitching.
Millie swallowed, and he watched her breasts heave, her eyes flutter, as she replied, “Yes, my King,” in a single breath.
The tension eased just so in his fingers, and then stroked her cheek, knuckles softly brushing over the red bruise left behind as he scanned the damage.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispered, flicking her chin before letting her go.
Millie rocked off-balance, blinking furiously and coming back into herself as the amber lights overhead brightened once more. He stood while she took a moment to collect herself, and he didn’t miss the sight of that delighted smile spreading over her lips when she sat herself in his chair to take over.
“Who needs coffee when your boss makes you bleed upon walking in the door?” she said with a wink.
His amused gaze danced back at her briefly, lips lifting, before he then focused his attention out the dingy paned window.
“If you were my type, I’d be on my knees begging you for more,” she continued, moving into his chair to better access the computer. “Okay, there’s a meeting today at noon. You’ll need to be on the chat for this one, and I’ll go uptown to be in the room. It’s about exporting goods to Firemoor. Since that bitch infiltrated and cut down their king, the entire nation has been in chaos. Not to mention what’s happening in the Spine. At least they are being peaceful about asking for help. Damien says they’re rebuilding well.”
He cursed the mention of Firemoor, the riots that were happening within it since the woman all the nations had dubbed as ‘The Tower’ had infiltrated their monarchies and murdered their kings. As for the Spine… they were Shadowmyer’s closest neighbor. A small, elongated territory whose king had also been taken by The Tower. He had sent some supplies through to them before as one of his own demon army commanders, Damien, was so well known within its streets.
The other kingdoms were falling like flies beneath her, and he silently smiled every time he heard it happening, even with Millie condemning this woman every time her name came down the horn.
“We have another meeting at three,” Millie continued. “I’ll come here for that. It’s with Damien. He wants to chat about upcoming plans for his legions.”
“Cancel the meetings,” Death said without looking away from his garden.
“But—“
“Millie.” His gaze shot in her direction with a snap, and Millie nearly snarled.
“You’re making a mistake…” she muttered in a sing-song voice, now typing away on the keys a little more forcefully than before.
“Damien is handling our people in the Spine fine,” he said. “They just need to continue helping the people rebuild. As for Firemoor… my position hasn’t changed.”
“I still think you should take the meetings,” she mumbled.
“Did you notice the ravens on your way up?” he asked.
“I noticed the crows dive-bombing some graves,” she answered. “Why?”
When he didn’t respond immediately, the noise of the tapping keys went amiss.
“Sam?”
Sam.
The name everyone knew him as. Sam, the artist.
It was never Samarius or Cain or King Arius or even Death.
Always Sam.
And he liked it that way.
“Do you remember the poem from one of the witch texts,” he began, “from before the last war when the covens were on every corner. About Death.”
“‘Death meets his match when ravens fall,’” she recited incorrectly. “That old poem?” She rolled her eyes and slumped back in the chair. “You can’t be serious, Sam. Do you really believe it?”
