Page 28 of The River of Fire
I grab him by the neck and throw him at the wall, spices hung to dry knocking off it and landing on his unconscious form. Probably not the best move, if alacrity is what I am after. “Does anyone else wish to express objections?”
No one meets my searching gaze as they scatter to theirstations and begin preparing. Good.
The food being taken care of, I will myself to my throne room next, intent on sending a guard to the servant’s quarters to rouse them from whatever task they are engaged in so that they can prepare the dining room.
“Is that mostly-human here?” I hear my son’s voice behind me. I turn and frown at him and Armaros, who is, as always, by his side. “Naamah told me what she’s up to,” Sariel says sheepishly.
Gossips. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You are utterly unbearable.”
“You really need to get with the times, Ash. Who wants to feel like they’re fucking someone’s great-grandfather?”
“I warned you to cease with that insulting diminutive,” I growl.
He ignores me. “First, you should know some important words. Let’s start with ‘creampie’.”
Armaros slaps him upside the head, sparing me the effort. “I don’t want to sleep in the dungeon again, dickwad,” he growls at Sariel.
“Fine,” my son mutters. “Can I meet her?” he then asks me, beaming.
Denying his request is on the tip of my tongue, but then I reconsider. “You may escort her to the dining hall,” I say instead. “She is in my rooms.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. I did not choose an imbecile for a son. “I’m not going to fuck your… your… thing, Father,” he insists coolly. “I will wait to seduce her until you’re done with her.”
“That would be a novel occurrence. Gather the court first,” I instruct. “Armaros,” I hail the other Fallen, “tell the servants to prepare the dining hall immediately.”
They set out to carry out their tasks, Sariel still giving me disgruntled looks over his shoulder.
The chessboard has been set. Now to watch the pieces fall.
Chapter 21 – Lana
Not seeing any other options at the moment, I make use of the bathroom, the water warmer than at Purgatory. Bottles are set out and when opening a few, I’m greeted by the refreshing smell of snowy mountains and pine trees. Maybe the toasted marshmallow scent is all him then? I wonder how the thousands of years old Great Duke of Hell would feel if told he smells of a dessert that’s especially popular with children.
I laugh at the thought of that imperious face pinched in affront. Clearly, I’ve lost it if I can laugh at such a time. He’s probably going to fuck me and then discard me. Hopefully not in pieces. The hell of it is that I don’t know if I would mind. The fucking, obviously, not the dismembering.
I sigh and open the offending dresser. I heard him calling me a lamb and I don’t appreciate it. I am a grown, strong woman, afighter. And I sound like an affirmation tape.
The dresser is full of red and black clothes – shocker. I pick loose and silky black pants and a tight red wrap top with long sleeves. There are flats and heels at the bottom. I opt for flats; it’s not like I’m trying to be sexy.
Just as I’m cinching the sides of the top closed, there’s a knock on the door. I frown at it. Ashtaroth wouldn’t be knocking. Then again, I guess a demon out to make a meal out of me wouldn’t knock either. Since I don’t answer, the person knocking opens the door cautiously, then wider once he sees me looking in his direction.
He’s gorgeous: tall, wide, and muscular, the cords of his biceps straining the skin that’s on display in his leather tank top. His hair is as black as Ashtaroth’s but cropped, except for at the front, where it’s slightly longer and styled up and forward. He has prominent cheekbones, putting the apples of his cheeks and the edges of his jaw in relief. His eyes are completely black, only the sclera white, the pupil and cornea indistinguishable from each other.
“Hi,” he smiles confidently, but warmly. “I’m Sariel. I’m Ash’s son.”
I stumble back a step. Surely that cold-hearted demon couldn’t have raised this creature with crinkles on the edges of his eyes. He laughs at my shock.
“No, no. Adoptive son. I’m a Fallen,” he adds.
“Oh,” I say. Then add, “Did you just sayAsh?”
Sariel grins at me. “Only call him that if you want to piss him off.”
“I see.” That makes more sense than him willingly accepting a nickname. Though his name isn’t the easiest to say. Like maybe in the heat of passion.Shut up, ovaries.I guess I should introduce myself, since he did. “I’m Lana. Nephalem,” I add teasingly, mimicking his clarification as to why he doesn’t have a father.
“Really?” he says, eyeing me with more interest. “You’re rare.”
“I know. Anyway, may I help you? Are you here to spring me out of jail?”
