What is most unnerving and uninviting, though, are the statues. Not just a few, but many. I lose count after twenty. They range in size and shape but are all people. Some of them have horns while others have tails. Their expressions range from fear, to confusion, to anger. They aren’t placed in any particular order, simply scattered about as if someone placed them hastily. Unlike the rest of the courtyard, they aren’t covered in moss or vines. None of them have cracks or erosion, so they are a fairly new feature.
The statues’ eyes seem to follow my every move, judging each step. I mentally shake myself for getting caught up in the gothic, gloomy feeling of the courtyard. Of course, the statues aren’t watching me. They are simply stone.
“What is this place?” My voice echoes around me, disturbing the eerie quiet.
“Demon’s Clan. I imagine it’s quite different from what you are used to.”
I try not to snort at The Guardian’s comment. This is a far cry from the one-bedroom apartment I lived in for the last year. “This damn castle feels like I’m walking into Dracula’s lair.”
“Dracula is not real,” he says unhelpfully. “But King Oziel is very real. He’s also not a vampire; he’s a?—”
“Demon, yeah, you’ve mentioned that,” I mumble. “Where is he? Does he know I’m coming?”
“I’m very aware my human bride is here,” a deep voice says from behind us, startling me.
I whirl around in time to see two figures seemingly walking out of the shadows. “King Oziel,” The Guardian says in greeting.
“Ender,” the voice—rich and deep in pitch—says. I guess The Guardian has a name. Should have asked but didn’t care enough to.
The shadows part for him, revealing the most terrifyingly beautiful man I have ever encountered. The demon king stands tall and regal, an imposing figure clad fully in black. Pants hug his muscular thighs, and despite myself, I can’t help but let my eyes linger before roaming back up his body. Like Ender, this king has two sharp horns protruding from his head. They’re black as if dipped in ink and set out to dry. A crown of thorns rests snugly atop his head.
“You must be my human,” he purrs, churning something low in my belly. I don’t like his possessive nature already. I belong to no one.
Before The Guardian—or rather, Ender—can properly introduce us, I stalk toward the demon king, simmering in my own anger. How presumptuous does one have to be to stake claim to a person as if I were nothing but a shiny new toy? After the last couple of days, my heightened emotions need an outlet.
The man doesn’t back up when I approach him. In fact, he appears amused by my action. This close, I can make out every feature of his stupidly handsome face. It’s chiseled to perfection—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and full, dark lips that curl into a knowing, predatory smirk. His molten-gold eyes gleam with both intelligence and an undeniable primal hunger, as if theysee every secret, every fear, every weakness, and every desire in the soul of anyone who dares meet them.
I decide I don’t like him.
“I don’t belong to you,” I say through my teeth. “I’m here because this”—I gesture to his haunting kingdom—“is better than dying in prison.” A decision I’m starting to regret. “I will be your wife in name only, and do what is absolutely necessary, but nothing more. Do you understand?”
The infuriating man ignores my question in favor of his own. “What’s your name?”
“Isabelle.”
“Isabelle what?”
I huff. “Isabelle Sinclair.”
“Why, Miss Sinclair,” his predatory smile grows, “I smell sin on you.”
That…was not what I was expecting him to say. I don’t even know what to make of that.
“Miss Sinclair has had a…challenging few days.” Ender comes up behind me. “She will need a hot meal and sleep before she is ready to speak with you about the contract.”
I don’t particularly like Ender speaking for me as if I’m not here. But he speaks no lies. I’m hungry and need to sleep for twenty-four hours before I have to come to terms with my new home and…husband-to-be.
“Then Garvan will see her safely to her rooms,” Oziel says.
The man who has been lingering next to Oziel silently takes a step forward. Unlike the king, this man is gangly—tall and skinny. His features are softer thanOziel’s, and his porcelain skin glows in the moonlight. He stands with poise but lacks the egotistical aura Oziel possesses.
Garvan dips his head in greeting, strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Sinclair.”
“It’s Isabelle. Nice to meet you too.” It’s really not, but I’ll play nice. I like him more than Oziel right now.
“Make sure Miss Sinclair receives a proper meal. It would be unfortunate if she were to…perish.” On the last word, Oziel chuckles, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
What the hell did he mean by that?
