Chapter 8
Jakfros
She is afraid. Of course, she is afraid. For some reason, part of the enchantment wore off the moment her nimble mind took notice of the small oddities teasing it awake. I should have anticipated this. But she is right to be afraid. If I was half the frost demon I was raised to be, I would have followed through with what I had been taught since I was a youngling, trailing after my mother during her hunts.
Mother had very specific ways of dealing with those humans who were too clever. Ways that would not interfere with the feast. I still remember watching the confused humans wandering through the snow, their terror growing as they become more lost and colder until they were stumbling and weak. Only then did Mother lead them back to the cabin. By then their suspicions were crushed under a desperate need for survival that they were happy to drink and feast and engage in whatever merriment that Mother led them to.
Admittedly, it had been my first unthinking impulse when I gathered the winter clothing and opened the door. And yet, I cannot do it. Even before Shawna stepped outside, I knew that I could not do it. Oh, I have done it before without even the faintest feeling of reluctance. But not to Shawna. Not to the female who entranced me with her laughter and awakened my heart with a warmth that seemed greater than any casualmerriment of the feast. I have formed an unusual attachment to her, and it chills me to my core. A frost demon getting attached to their prey is always a bad idea. Even now, the panicked flutter of her heart sends sorrow piercing through me so that I release her and draw my hands away.
I step back to give her some space, and she turns to stare at me with wide eyes. It is only then that I realize that she can see me. I blink at her stupidly for a moment before retreating another step further as I begin to draw the shroud of my magic around me.
“Don’t you dare,” she blurts out, and I instinctively freeze, allowing the shroud to release back into the aether. We blink at each other in mutual surprise, and her gaze slowly moves over me before gradually returning to my face. She gives a shaky laugh. “So, this is you, the real you, Jak?”
My gaze lowers to my clawed hands, and my fingers twitch. I know what I look like. I am lean, leaner than most powerfully built demons, though it is deceptive because I am not weak. But I am built like a hungry wolf, with a lanky frame, a prominent nose and an angular face, and a mouth full of sharp, merciless teeth to bite even more sharply than the coldest wind. And if that is not enough, I am as colorless as frost and snow. All except for the tip of my tail and the webbing between my wings, all of which are a startling icy blue hue. Even my horns, which curl back over the top of my head, deepen from white to a similar hue of glacial blue. I likely resemble a creature of death to her. Even my lack of warm clothing bears a striking appearance in this weather. Though my feet are clad in boots, I wear nothing else but a pair of leather pants hanging from my hips and a belt of bells. Beyond this, my chest, torso, and arms are bare and sharply defined. There is no doubt in my mind that my appearance, as we stand out here amid the snow, fails to resemble anything remotely human.
“It is,” I rasp.
She thins her lips at me, but her expression remains shuttered, revealing nothing of her inward thoughts.
“I thought you were a spirit of holiday magic, something that possessed a form more of thought and energy... like the Ghost of Christmas Present,” she adds with a hint of a smile. “But not—”
“Not a monster,” I finish for her, and I smile sympathetically, not bothering to hide my teeth.
She shivers a little, but her jaw hardens and her pointed chin thrusts out in a rare show of courageous spirit that is admirable. There have been only a handful of times where a human has seen my true appearance, and every single one of them was in my youth when I struggled to control myself in the midst of my hunger. And every single time they stared at me with such horror that the memory of it has been imprinted upon my spirit.
“You are not a monster,” she corrects, and the heat in her voice curls my toes within my boots. I am not entirely sure who she is trying to convince... me?... or herself?
She contains such exquisite passion. But she also surprises me with her boldness. How can she look at me and refuse to see a monster? Even among the demonic races, frost demons are some of those most avoided.
“You are right, I am a demon,” I murmur. “A frost demon, a species of demon that even most other demons avoid due to our... hungers.”
She shivers again, her eyes growing round, but she does not back away or attempt to flee. Instead, she takes a deep, steading breath and takes one inquisitive, creeping step toward me as she narrows her eyes thoughtfully.
“You... you don’t look like a half-starved creature ready to attack.”
My lips twitch despite myself. I am undeniably charmed. Still, I must be all kinds of an idiot because I tempt fate andlower my head so that I am able to look her more directly in the eyes and am nose-to-nose with her even though I am forced to curve my back and bend my knees to accomplish it. The action makes my bells jingle without my magic acting to suppress the sound, and the whimsical tinkle briefly brings a dear smile briefly to her lips.
“I assure you that I am quite famished,” I reply in a quiet growl that makes her shiver again. But this time I notice that there is something distinctly different about her shivers. She doesn’t stink of fear. Instead, I cannot help but notice that she smells sweeter than a hot apple pie, and it is utterly delectable.
“But it is not time,” she breathes, startling me, and I incline my head in response.
“It is not time,” I whisper in agreement.
Her tongue slides over her lips and I am momentarily distracted by its pink hue that is so different from my own black tongue. It causes a strange reaction as something twists deep within my belly. “And what is it that you feed upon?”
I freeze and slowly straighten, my tail curling defensively around my thigh. If I tell her, she might not cooperate and join in any further—but if I keep silent, she will think the worst.
Shawna fidgets as the silence stretches between us. My gaze drops to her restless fingers twisting nervously together. Noticing the direction of my attention, she immediately clasps her hands to still them as an uncertain smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“I will be blunt. Is this some sort of Hansel and Gretel bit? Are you going to try to throw me into an oven and cook me?” she asks, and her eyebrows arch inquisitively at me.
I am so startled that I laugh. It is perhaps not the politest response, but I am so caught off guard that I am incapable of stopping it.
“This again? Do you truly imagine that I wish to eat you?”
Not that the thought of having any small part of her body within my mouth lacks appeal. But it is far more carnal than anything she imagines. She would be shocked if she knew. I am shocked myself. My few encounters with females, when I have drawn their life force, have always been quite pleasurable, but I have never actually indulged in the carnal aspect of things. The ache in my loins has never been more than a temporary discomfort. One that is shed during the feast, my cock spewing its essence of pleasure as I drink deeply of their sweet energy.
But Shawna tempts me like no other has, and I am unable to help the quiver that overtakes me as I wonder what pleasure might be found with my cock sheathed and filling her even as she fills me. It is a melding of beings that I haven’t dared to think about since my youth, and yet the possibility of tasting what my mother forebode leaves me lightheaded.
