“And we need to have this conversation while I’m naked?”
“I’m naked too, Kitten.”
Yeah, I definitely noticed that. It takes all my concentration not to look down at the lengthening member between his legs.
“What do you want?” I turn my back to the king, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I hope it hits him.
“What are your plans today?”
The question catches me off guard in how mundane it sounds. As if we are old friends and not contracted to be married. I’m a stranger in this palace, so my plan is simply to stay alive. So far, so good, for the most part.
“You know damn well I have nothing planned.”
He chuckles, and I can just picture the sly smile on his dumb, sexy face. “Then allow me to be your social event coordinator. You’ll meet Garvan and me in the dining room in an hour.”
“Do you ever ask, or do you simply demand things from people?” I blurt, spinning around to face him. Has he forgotten I have already declined eating with him once? I’m not afraid to do it again.
Somehow, he is closer, his bare chest hovering near mine. My hard nipples are mere centimeters away from touching him.
Or perhaps one meal together wouldn’t hurt…
No! Focus.
“I think you know the answer to that, Kitten.” Oziel leans down, and my heart speeds up. Out of fear or something else, I’m not sure. “But I do so like our arguments.”
His words shouldn’t be sexy. Nothing about his sentence is sexy. And yet my core heats. “Must be a kinkof yours.” Silently, I scold myself. Out of every fucking thing I could say, my brain came up with that?!
Oziel’s grin takes on a darker, sultrier vibe. “One of many, Kitten. Perhaps one day you’ll learn more.”
I feel tongue-tied. Too flustered to produce a good rebuttal. Oziel licks his bottom lip in a suggestive manner before stepping back. “One hour, Miss Sinclair. Don’t make me come find you.”
With that, he spins on his heels and makes way to a small alcove, grabbing a towel. “Oh, and Miss Sinclair?”
“What?” I snap.
“This was the last towel.” Then the bastard laughs darkly, snatching not only the last towel but the night dress I wore here before leaving the washing chamber.
“Fucking ass,” I murmur under my breath. Part of me wants to stand him up out of spite, but another part of me is interested in what he has planned.
By the time I’m finished, more demons have made their way to the washroom, and no towels have been brought in to replenish the stash. I use my hands to cover myself, even though it hides nothing, and I half run, half waddle back to my room, cursing Oziel’s name the entire way.
I swear I hear laughter in the distance.
Chapter 12
Oziel
Isabelle naked is a glorious sight. One I commit to memory, every dip and curve of her body. Did I detect jealousy from her when she noticed the two demons near me? I paid them no mind, of course, but I admit, I made no effort to move away from them either. Not with her delicious anger permeating the room.
Her beautiful, sinful anger.
I gave Isabelle an hour to meet me. Fifty-five minutes have passed, and the servants have started setting the table, bringing out fruits, pastries, and cinnamon porridge. The gold chalice by my plate is picked up and filled with a sweet wine. I bring the chalice to my lips, letting the sweetness coat my tongue. The watch in my pocket continues to tick away, taunting me with each second that passes.
Perhaps she won’t come. I’ll be forced to bring her against her will. As fun as that sounds, I don’t particularly want to fight with Isabelle. It’s fun, sure, but I also must get this woman to like me—or at least tolerateme. More than just lust. It’s a task I fear I’m woefully unprepared for. What do I, the demon king, know of love? I have nothing but memories of roses to remind me that love is a sickness, weakening those under its spell.
My parents were proof of that.
Soft footfalls from the entryway seize my attention. Isabelle—no longer naked, sadly—wears a black chiffon gown I had set out for her. She fills it out nicely, looking every inch the queen she is destined to be. Her hair, still slightly damp from the shower, is tossed over one shoulder, a low braid keeping the strands together.
