Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
“I’m going to have a word with him about this.”
In a casual tone, Rök asked, “You and he have never . . . ?”
“No. Desh is just a friend.” A thought occurred—along with fresh outrage. “You told me you heard something tasty was here, and you wanted to jump all over it!”
Rök waggled his brows at her.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or alarmed that you would risk your life for—lemme check my notes—a kiss? You really want to check this box, huh?”
“I have many plans for your lovely—”
“Don’t. My gods, doesn’t the meaningless scoring ever get old?”
“Can’t say it doesn’t.”
“Then why keep doing it? Why keep racking up members of your swimbo army?”
“I don’t have any control over that. It’s a smoke demon thing.”
“Deciding to sleep with others is entirely in your control.”
His lips thinned. “Demons fuck, fight, and revel, right? That’s how I’m supposed to pass the centuries. That’s what you and everyone else expect from me.”
“Yeah. Fuck, fight, and revel. Go, you.” What a disappointment he was! She started up the staircase.
Rök clasped her elbow, stopping her. “What else is there for me to do? How should I have spent the last thirteen centuries? You want me to tell you my current existence is empty? It is.” He gave off smoke again . . . from frustration? “Waiting for my mate is as bad as you can imagine. I’ve paced holes in the floor in my cabin, wondering if I’ll go mad. I can be in a room packed with Loreans and feel like I’ve been exiled.”
Surprised, she asked, “What do you wish you’d been doing? Settling down? Starting a family?”
“Is that so insane? But I can’t do any of that without my mate. I’m supposed to be attempting females to find her, remember?”
That was true. Through sex, a male demon could identify his fated one because he’d be compelled to mark her neck and he would spill his seed inside her. Until that time, he could orgasm with a partner but never experience an ejaculation.
“Chin up, Rök. You might find her this Accession.” Then Poppy could stop dwelling on him. She glared at his grip on her arm.
With a reluctant air, he released her. “Older demons keep telling me I’ll sense her during an Accession. My first went by with no sign of her. Then my second. Thinking I’d never have her with me was . . . bleak.” Did Rök show at all those Lore gatherings because he was searching?
If he’d harbored any inkling about Poppy, he would have attempted her instead of remaining with that summoner—someone he knew wasn’t his mate!
As though he’d read Poppy’s thoughts, he said, “Know that what you hate me for . . . I can’t help it. You’re hating me for being myself.”
Why should she expect more from him? He had always been upfront about his rolling-stone, player existence. She was the one wishing he’d change.
When Poppy was little, her mother had told her, “Some things simply aren’t meant to be, even for a witch with miraculous powers. Letting go is a skill, one more Wiccae could stand to learn.”
Poppy had asked, “What if you let go too soon?”
“That’s a risk.” She’d looked at Poppy quizzically, her green eyes seeming to see far more than merely what was before her. “Sometimes one does have to reach the end. When all is lost, clarity can be found. . . .”
Poppy exhaled, deciding not to give Rök grief for what he couldn’t help. Though she saw no future with him, she could work to let go of the past. Clearing her throat, she said, “I don’t hate you, Rök. Look, no hard feelings, okay?” She turned to climb the staircase.
He was right beside her, seeming surprised by her words. His mood had shifted again, his smoke dissipating. He acted as if she’d conceded far more than she had. “You fancy a do-over?”
“As friends.”
“Hmm.” That deep, masculine rumble must be demon for I disagree but will hold my tongue for now.
On the landing, they paused before a large portrait of the white-haired wizard in his robes, his wife, and their two kids, a young girl and boy. The wife, dressed in a strapless ball gown and a golden armband, looked wary, as if she’d foreseen how dire her future would prove. Her beringed fingers clutched her children’s shoulders.
Some detail about that portrait tickled Poppy’s brain. She and Rök both stared at it for long moments.
When they moved on, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Their eyes seem to be following us, don’t they?”
Poppy nodded. “Sometimes tropes exist for a reason.”
“I’ll take a gruesome brawl—innards oozing and hacked-off limbs flying—any day over little jolts of creepiness.”
“Then I’m surprised you can stand hanging with me. Witches broker in creepiness.”
“Yeah, but your creepy is cute. I’m hexually attracted to you.”