“I think you should reconsider the sacrifice tonight,” he speaks plainly.
My brow cocks up. Every demon ball starts with a sacrifice of blood—not our own, but a criminal from another kingdom sent here for punishment. The ceremony is ancient, said to have started in the early ages of demons. This practice no longer serves the same purpose it once did, having slowly changed over the centuries, but traditions have a way of continuing on despite their ineffectiveness. We do it simply to remember our ancestors. And because the smell of blood and slaying a corrupt soul serves as an adrenaline rush.
“You don’t think we should sacrifice the pixie? Fine. The fae will do?—”
“No, my lord,” Garvan cuts me off, shooting me an apologetic look for interrupting. “I think we should sacrifice the Nephilim.”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes like a bored child. Garvan has taken upon himself to be unsatisfied with any other sacrifice but the Nephilim.
“You know how I feel. I will not risk the safety of the demons to slay a Nephilim in the open. It comes at much too high a price.” Surely he understands the risks and uncertainties that come with harboring a Nephilim. Those are risks I’m willing to take with him locked in a secure prison. Bringing the Nephilim into the public would pose far too many risks without the safety protocols of the dungeon.
“It’s because of that danger we should rid our kingdom of the creature,” Garvan argues.
I see his point, but keeping the creature alive has other advantages too. The main one being Isabelle’s ability to communicate with it in a way I cannot. Already she’s provided valuable information—at the expense of her own safety, I might add—that has proven pivotal in understanding Nephilim and their origins.
“The Nephilim is too important and too risky to simply dispose of in a large, public setting.” I push myself out of my chair, moving swiftly past Garvan. He falls in step behind me out of the room. I can’t stay in my chambers any longer, not when the roses sit there, teasing and mocking me.
“My lord, just think about it. It would be a show ofstrength. The king takes down a Nephilim, sacrificing him on the day of his celebration.”
I take the stairs two at a time, as if that will carry me farther away from Garvan. Except my courtier is an incessant demon, not willing to back down easily. It’s a trait I usually admire, just not today.
“It might stop the progression of the curse. Maybe the Nephilim being here is speeding up the process. It is their magic cursing us, after all,” he says.
These things have all gone through my mind, making me question the Nephilim’s captivity. The truth is, our people would fall to the curse regardless of whether the Nephilim is here or not. The roses and whoever is poisoning the River Hel are assuring that.
“My lord?—”
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I whirl on him. Garvan hesitates on the last step, fear flickering in his expression. He hides it well, but I’ve known this demon for decades. He’s not hard to read.
“Enough. I know you mean well, but I won’t entertain this idea any longer. The Nephilim stays in the prison until I say otherwise. We will sacrifice one of the pixie or fae prisoners—I don’t fucking care which one—and I’ll hear nothing more of it.”
Garvan’s expression tightens, his jaw clenching as a flicker of anger flares in his eyes. The emotion simmers beneath the surface, controlled but unmistakably present. He is no fool, so he swallows his frustration, burying it beneath a mask of composure. With a curt nod, so slight it’s nearly imperceptible, he finallyspeaks, his voice measured and devoid of emotion. “As you wish, my lord.”
Tension simmers around us, only broken up by the soft click of heels from above. We turn in unison just in time to see Isabelle stop at the top of the stairs. The shadows in the candlelit hall flicker as if bending toward her, drawn to the descending vision. She steals the very breath on my lips. A growing need burns bright within me. Even Garvan seems captivated by her beauty.
She’s draped in midnight and gold. The gown clings to her torso like sin itself, the sweetheart neckline exposing the delicate lines of her collarbone before the fabric billows into a cascade of darkness. Gold embroidery embellishes the gown like enchanted fire, each delicate leaf and vine gleaming under the flickering sconces. The contrast is breathtaking—her mortal fragility wrapped in something fit for a queen of demons.
For the first time in centuries, something stirs in my chest. Not rage, nor hunger, but something dangerously close to reverence. My jaw clenches, clawed fingers tightening at my sides as I exhale slowly, getting my bearings.
She is ethereal. Untouchable. And yet, she is mine. At least at this moment.
A slow, dark smile curves my lips. “You’re playing a dangerous game, little wife,” I murmur. “Dressed like that, you’ll have demons falling at your feet.”
Crimson colors Isabelle’s cheeks in an adorable blush. Her painted red lips part as she looks down at herself, almost as if she’s also seeing for the first time. “It’s a bit much.”
“It’s perfect,” I say immediately.
“You look like the queen you are,” Garvan adds, and I have the intense need to claw out his eyes. Though he isn’t the only one who will look at Isabelle with affection and lust in their gaze. It would be unbecoming of me to blind an entire kingdom.
Doesn’t mean I’m not tempted.
Like a mistress of the night, she steps onto the staircase, her gown cascading around her like liquid shadow. She lifts the voluminous skirts just enough to reveal golden heels that wrap around her ankles like delicate, gilded vines. Each step is deliberate, the soft click of her heels against the polished stone filling the expectant silence.
I move toward her. The black suit I wear is a masterpiece of dark elegance and tailored to perfection, the fabric absorbing the dim light like the void itself. Subtle gold embroidery traces along the cuffs and lapels, intricate and sharp, resembling the accents sewn into Isabelle’s dress. A deep crimson pocket square peeks from my breast pocket.
We meet in the middle, the air between us charged. Isabelle’s gaze flicks over me, her eyes dark with something unreadable. She hums, a sound both appreciative and teasing.
“I suppose you don’t look completely hideous,” she murmurs, though her voice is too breathy to make the insult convincing.
