Kresley Cole: Kiss of a Demon King

Horns. And she'd be taking this demon into her body in mere moments, if her plan worked.

If not, she had her poison ring. Under a ruby was a sleeping powder prepared by the Hag in the Basement, their resident poison and potion preparer. Demons were highly susceptible to both.

Drugging Rydstrom wasn't Sabine's preferred plan, but if it came down to it, she would use all means neces­sary to get him into the dungeon cell they'd prepared for him-one he couldn't break free from despite his demonic strength.

It was mere feet from them.

Directly within the cell, Lanthe had created the seamless portal that opened up to the road. To conceal it, Sabine had woven one of the largest, most intricate illusions of her life, making the dungeon look just like a part of the scenery along the road.

It seemed an eternity passed before Rydstrom finally lurched from the smoking wreck. She released a breath she hadn't known she held.

And there he was.

He certainly was big-approaching seven feet tall with broad shoulders. His hair was as black as night. His horns curved out from just past his temples to run along the sides of his head, their shell-like color stark against his thick hair. Indeed, one was damaged, the end bro­ken off.

Though he reeled a couple of steps, he didn't look too injured. No visible blood.

Sabine arched a brow just as Lanthe silently said, "Your demons just. . . fearsome-boking."

She was about to correct Lanthe and say, "Not my demon." But the male before them would indeed be hers. For a time. "He is a fearsome male, isn't he?"

From his appearance, Sabine would have guessed him to be an assassin or cutthroat criminal of some sort. How odd, since he was supposed to be a bastion of reason, a wise leader who liked to solve conflicts and discover solutions to complex puzzles.

Rumor in the Lore held that a lie had never left Ryd-strom's tongue. Which must be a lie in itself.

"Are you going to try to seduce him first or just spring the trap?"

"Seduce him first. He might go demonic over his capture." She smoothed her hands down her pale blue

dress

"You look good," Lanthe said. "Sweet. Nothing says

'darnel' like pastel."

"That's just unnecessary, Lanthe." Since Sabine hadn't wanted him to know she was a sorceress, she'd worn an elegant but conservatively boring gown. She'd thought it wouldn't hurt to appear virtuous, which she assumed a good demon king would prefer.

He had better like her shuddersome new look. Except for her ring, not a single ounce of gold adorned her body. No makeup, either. She'd left her hair unplaited, curling almost to her waist-without a headdress. And it felt wrong.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Lanthe asked. "No second thoughts about taking one on the chin for

Team Evil?"

Eyes locked on her prey, Sabine murmured, "Not in the least."

A goal, a plot, a possibility ... all lay before her.

Once he staggered back to survey the damage to his car, crunching over glass and debris, the demon whistled in a breath at the sight, but his attention quickly turned away from the wreck.

"Is someone here?" he called. With each second that he shook off the accident, his shoulders went farther back, his chin lifting, his demeanor unmistakably kingly. "Are you hurt?"

Sabine didn't answer, instead letting his voice roll

over her. It was pleasingly deep-toned, with the British-tinged accent common to noble rage demons.

When he loped in her direction, he snagged a cell phone from his pocket and peered at the screen. She heard him mutter, "Bugger me." No reception out here.

He wore a dark jacket over a thin black sweater that molded over his broad chest. His clothes were simple in cut but expensive-looking. Tailored, of course. No off-the-rack garments would fit his towering build and wide shoulders.

The battle scar on his face carved across his fore­head, then jagged down his cheek. He had to have received that injury before the age when he'd been "frozen" in his immortal body-she guessed when he was thirty-four or thirty-five years old-or else it would have healed seamlessly.

The scar gave him a dangerous air that clashed with his royal bearing and rich-looking clothing, as did his horns, his fangs, his black claws ...

"I'd do him," Lanthe said.

"Since you'd do anyone, your comment is meaningless in the definitive sense."

"You're just jealous."

Yes, yes she was.

When he glanced back up, he met eyes with Sabine. His were the most startling green she'd ever seen.

"Go now," she told Lanthe. "Be ready to shut the portal

directly behind us. Once I capture him, report my success to Omort. Loudly. In front of all the fools at court." "Will do. Go get 'em, tigress. Rar!"

With Lanthe gone, Sabine devoted her full concen-tration to him. His gaze narrowed as she made the night appear dreamlike. The stars shone brighter for him, the moon seeming heavier in the sky. Brows drawn in con­fusion, he started toward her.

She could see him assessing her, his gaze flickering over her long hair, and over the modest gown that for-tunately had grown damp in the humid night and clung to her breasts. When he peered hard at the outline of | her jutting nipples, he ran a hand over his mouth.

Time to get him through the portal. When she began sauntering along the road away from him, he said, "No, wait! Are you all right?"

She turned to him but continued to step backward toward the trap.

"I won't hurt you." The demon hastened after her. "Do you have a car out here?"

"I need your help," she told him, continuing her I damsel-in-distress act.

"Of course. Do you live near here?" Finally, they I neared the portal's edge.

"Need your help," she said once more, ducking I behind what appeared to be a willow by the water's I edge, but was actually an illusion within the dungeon.

He joined her there-and Sabine sensed the portal g closing. The trap had worked, and he'd never felt a thing. I

"I have to get to the city," he said. "But then I can I come back to help you."

Before she caught herself, her gaze flitted over the deep I scar on his face--the first time she'd seen it this close.

He noticed and seemed to be waiting for her to react.

The scar didn't bother her as much as it clearly did him. She could use that against him.

All in all, he wasn't anything like she imagined. He was .. . better. And if she looked at those intense eyes long enough, she could almost forget what he was. When she arched closer to him, he drew back, suspicion in his expression.

She hastily said, "Help me now." Grasping one of his big hands in hers, she kissed it with smiling lips, then placed it over one of her breasts.

As if he didn't realize what he was doing, he cupped her flesh with a growl.

"This is what I need," she murmured, arching to his rough palm.

"And the gods know that I want to give it to you, right after I've settled-"

"I need it"-she took his other hand and placed it on her inner thigh- "now."

He squeezed her breast and leg too hard, as if he were holding on for dear life. Yet still he seemed on the verge of leaving her. She delved to read his mind, but demons could deflect her probes. She only heard his stray thoughts, and only because they were so strong.

- "Been so long without a woman . . . can't have her . . . responsibilities." -

Exactly how long had he been celibate? And was this brute truly thinking to deny her? For responsibilities! The rejection was intriguing.