Demon's Captive Mate by Sera Bishop

Author:Sera Bishop [Bishop, Sera]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781739003814
Published: 2023-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29

VASIA

Rone isn’t gone fifteen minutes when General Leuther enters the yard flanked by two captains. He dismisses the company, and Vasia stands quickly as the demons swarm to the armory to shed their swords and leather armor. As they scatter, Vasia slips in among them, hoping to escape notice.

He’s not quick enough.

“You, angel!” one of the captains barks, grabbing Vasia’s arm.

Vasia tries to wrench free, his heart rabbiting in his chest. “Let me go!”

“I’ve got orders for you, little spy.” The demon’s grip is like iron. “You’re to show up at the sick room in the Obsidian Wing tomorrow. You’ve spent enough time as Captain Romanos’s pet—time for you to be put to work.”

Vasia reaches inside his coat for the knife. “Work?” he demands.

He’s never so much as held a weapon, never mind used one, and the pommel is a terrifying weight in his hand. Yet he’s too frightened to think logically. The demon’s hand is bruisingly tight on his arm and his breath is hot on Vasia’s cheek.

The demon yanks him closer. “You’ll prove your worth or be locked up.”

Vasia pulls the knife free and slashes at the demon frantically. A sickening feeling jars his arm as his blow connects with flesh, and the demon yelps.

“You little prick,” he snarls, letting Vasia go with a jerk.

Vasia stumbles back. “I don’t answer to you.”

“You think Captain Romanos will protect you?” The demon shakes his hand and ichor goes flying. “I’ll wring your neck for that.”

“Captain Clarus, what’s this?” Leuther strides across the courtyard.

“The little beast has teeth,” the demon snarls.

“You can’t handle one angel? Pathetic,” Leuther snorts. He turns to Vasia. “Show up to the sickroom, or I’ll have Romanos strung up in the feast hall and carved open like a slab of meat. Don’t imagine I won’t.”

Vasia nods, mute with rage and helplessness.

“Get out of my sight,” Leuther says.

Vasia’s hand trembles with the desire to sink the knife into General Leuther’s back, an impulse that turns his stomach. Violence isn’t his nature. His shoulders slump as Leuther leaves, his fingers still frozen into place around the knife handle. He has to pry them loose so he can sheathe the ichor-stained blade.

Rone will be angry. Vasia waits for the demons to abandon the courtyard before hurrying through the halls. It’s not yet dusk, but the Court is quiet—a tense quiet, like the pause before a great exhale. The Hunter is late with the new feast and the whole Court is hungry. Even the lamps are dim. Vasia can sense hollows lurking just beyond the veil of the aether, waiting for night to fall, waiting for their own feast.

Inside the room he slams the door behind himself, panting. He sinks to the floor next to the couch, the spot where Rone likes to sit. He smears ichor all over the silk brocade as he gulps in air.

That’s where Rone finds him. Gentle arms come around him, lifting him from the floor and depositing him onto the bed.

Vasia is utterly sick of Hell.

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