Page 60 of The Demon Prince

All she knew was that her entire body hurt. The walk back had been arduous and long. The voices of her friend and patients had rung in her ears the entire way.

“The monster has done this.”

“Will we never be free of him?”

“It’s your duty, Katherine, to take care of this for all of us. If he won’t stop because he has a specific blood donor, then he’s never going to stop. Your heart was true, but it’s in the wrong place.”

And none of it felt... right. None of it. No matter how many times she’d stitched those patients or held their hands while they died, she knew that this wasn’t Gluttony.

He hadn’t left the castle. Sure, she slept through the night and he might have gone then, but why would he attack so many? He’d existed on just a few drops of her blood long before he’d taken her neck. And even then, drinking that much from her had satisfied him for a week! More, maybe, if she’d stayed without antagonizing him.

And those wounds... They hadn’t looked right. She knew what wounds Gluttony would make. She’d treated women like herself multiple times. Even when he tore their flesh, it didn’t look like the wounds in the almshouse.

None of this was right. None of it. And everyone was so quick to jump upon the idea of the monster in the castle who clearly was their problem rather than looking around themselves.

It had made her angry. So angry that the emotion itself had carried her all the way to the castle and then even to this moment.

But she wasn’t angry at him. How could she be angry at the man staring down at her like she was a gift from the gods themselves? He had never been unkind to her and had gone out of his way to take care of every one of her needs. He was a good man, and she refused to believe otherwise.

Not, at least, until he proved himself unworthy of those thoughts.

“Katherine,” he said, and the tone of his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

That shudder made her entire body weak. Oh, she wanted him. And she was tired of denying the sparks between them. Did a demon taste different from a man?

His breath puffed over her pulse. “Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure,” she replied. More confidence than she really felt melted into her words. “You are not the monster they say you are, Gluttony. And I am not afraid of you.”

The deep groan that echoed through his chest rocked into her a moment before he latched onto her throat. The sharp prick of his fangs punctured through her neck, a little painful like the last time, but no worse than a paper cut. And then there it was. Again.

The long, slow draw of his tongue against her skin as he drew her blood into him.

And, just like last time, it felt a little religious. As though she had given herself to a god of this kingdom, allowing him to draw her soul out through her throat as he dragged upon the very essence that kept her alive.

She curled her fingers into his jacket, holding onto him as she swayed against his chest. It was wrong. This was a demon feasting upon her flesh and yet white hot heat flooded through her entire body.

Slickness rushed between her thighs, so much that she could feel it as she tried to press them together. Nothing eased this torment, though. She remembered it from the last time. How she’d gone back to her room and spread the softness between her thighs, seeking a release from the pressure that only he could inspire.

A breathy moan escaped her lips and, for a split second, she wanted to snatch the sound back. Heat flooded her cheeks, embarrassment turning her bright red. How could she make that noise?

It was wrong.

It was right.

Because his answering groan rocked right into her core and she clenched her hands in his shirt. Drawing him closer as his hands spasmed against her back, crushing her against him.

She didn’t know which one of them started walking backward. Perhaps she dragged him with her, but it felt like he led her in a dance until her back hit the wall. Something rattled beside her, a vase he’d set out maybe, and then a candelabra fell onto the ground.

“The fire,” she whispered with a soft laugh as he ripped away from her neck to yank his shirt off.

And oh.

Oh.

She’d seen him shirtless before, but only in darkness. The liquid warmth of the candles illuminated the impressive planes of his chest. The rigid bumps of his abs, the “v” of muscle dipping into the low hanging pants that barely clung to those narrow hips. She could have counted the bumps of his ribs if she wished, and the tiny mounds of muscle that framed them before he dropped the shirt on top of the flames and stomped them out.

Then he was on her again. His chilled hand sliding around her waist. The other, he braced above her head, his forearm pressed against the wooden paneling as he slowly dipped his head back to her neck.

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