Page 7 of The Demon King's Unruly Mate

The consummation.

The thought sent a jolt of heat through me that I immediately tried to smother with guilt. This woman was Javed’s sister. I’d killed her brother. And now I was expected to bed her.

What the hell have I done?

Talia stopped before an ornate door and pushed it open without hesitation. I followed her inside, scanning the room automatically for exits and threats. Old habits.

It was a large suite, clearly her personal chambers rather than some guest room. The walls were lined with bookshelves interrupted by tall windows that looked out over the gardens. A massive four-poster bed dominated one side of the room, while a sitting area with plush chairs occupied the other.

Talia kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief that seemed startlingly intimate, then reached up to unpin her hair. Dark waves cascaded down her back, transforming her from prim and proper princess to something wilder, more dangerous.

My mouth went dry. She was stunning, there was no denying it. Light red skin that seemed to glow from within. Delicate black horns curling from her temples like an artist’s brushstrokes. Her tail, slimmer than mine, moved with a languid grace that drew the eye. And her scent—jasmine and embers—filled the room, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

Stop it. She’s not for you to admire. Not really.

She crossed to one of the chairs and draped herself across it like a cat claiming territory. Everything about her posture screamed indifference, from the tilt of her chin to the loose dangle of her fingers over the chair’s arm.

It was as much a mask as the demure princess act she’d put on for her father. I recognized the performance because I’d spent my life doing the same, showing only what others needed to see, keeping the rest locked away. Nobody trusted a panicked leader.

But what was she hiding?

“Are you going to stand there all night?” she asked, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

I remained with my back against the door, keeping a respectable distance between us. “I killed your brother.”

The words hung in the air between us, ugly and unavoidable. Better to name the dragon in the room than pretend it wasn’t there, breathing fire on everything.

Something flickered across her face, too quick to read, before her expression settled into practiced blankness. “Yes, you did.”

“And now we’re mated.” My mate. Fires below, she was mymate.

“Your powers of observation are truly remarkable,” she drawled, examining her nails. “Is this what counts as expertise in your clan?”

I ignored the jab. “How can you stand to be in the same room as me?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, and for a moment, I glimpsed something raw and honest in them. Then it was gone, replaced by that cool, unreadable mask.

“My brother brought his fate upon himself,” she said simply. “We’ll carry on without him.”

I hadn’t expected that. Javed had been cruel, yes. And gods, once the full truth of his bullshit came out, I’d have torn the court apart to keep Rava from his grasp, ancient agreements and honor be damned. But to hear his own sister speak of him with such clinical detachment...

“Still,” I pressed, “I took your brother’s life. I took your family’s heir.”

“And now you’re the heir.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut. “Funny how things work out.”

The casual way she referenced the position I’d—we’d—just been forced into set my teeth on edge. Did she think I’d orchestrated this? That I’d killed Javed as part of some elaborate scheme to seize power?

Fuck, I hated this shit. Politics and lies and all the damn intrigue. Give me a straightforward fight any day. At least I knew where I stood when blood was spilled and blades drawn.

The silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring. I cleared my throat.

“Drink?” she asked, gesturing toward a decanter on a nearby table.

I moved mechanically and poured two glasses of amber liquid, my mind racing. This woman was my mate now. Mine to protect and provide for. Mine to know. And yet I knew almost nothing about her beyond her lineage and what little intelligence my clan had gathered over the years.

Princess Talia Fitsum. The quiet one. The sister who’d happily faded into the background of court politics. Or so we’d thought.

Looking at her now—the gleam in her eyes, the perfect posture even as she lounged—I wondered how we’d underestimated her. There was clearly more to her careful demeanor than simple survival.

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