“We will be married, soon,” he says, his nostrils flaring in defiance. He looks at Sarvi. “There’s nothing you need to do about it. It will be a civil ceremony, with Kalma officiating. You will be there as witness, that’s all. I know Lovia will be disappointed there isn’t a big party, but after Surma revealed his intentions, I don’t think waiting will help anything. This world believes in the prophecy; it’s the only hand I have right now.”
I shake my head. This is moving fast. Way too fast. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
He grins at me, looking more wicked than handsome now, a truly devious king. “It was your suggestion, fairy girl. Don’t you remember what you had first put on the table? You told me you would marry me. You said I could make you my bride.”
“If it came to it,” I protest, feeling panicked.
“Well, it’s come to it,” he snaps, his eyes taking on a harsh glint. “As you know, I am not someone who goes back on my word. I let your father go, I cured him, not because I wanted to, but because I promised to. You must keep your word to me, Hanna.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You will,” he says, his hand coming to my chin again and holding my face, his grip tighter now, his gaze hardening. “You have no choice in the matter. Unless you want me to do to you what I did to Surma.”
“Are you threatening me?” I practically sneer at him. He wouldn’t dare!
“Does this surprise you too? For shame, fairy girl. So much naivete.” With his hand still on my chin, he glances at Sarvi. “Off you go now.”
Sarvi nods. Giant black leather wings unfurl and the unicorn leaps up into the sky, flying away, leaving Death and I alone in the garden.
I watch as Sarvi’s dark shape in the periwinkle blue sky disappears and then I feel truly afraid.
“You’re angry with me,” Death muses, his gaze roaming my face.
“I’m always angry with you.” Frustration rolls through me and I try to whip my face from his grasp, but his grip is strong.
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Not always. Not when I’m giving you release. When I’m making you come. You’re beautiful when you give in, when the pleasure overrides your desire to be in control, when it makes you surrender. There’s no anger there, just you at your purest self. Is it any wonder I’m addicted to making you feel that way? It’s like a gift, from you to me.” He pauses, giving my chin a hard squeeze. “Your soul on a platter. All for my consumption.”
I refuse to back down from his eyes. “I’m not giving you anything,” I deride. “Not on a silver platter and most definitely not my soul.” To give him my soul…would mean death, would it not?
“You give me your body every night,” he says, his hand releasing my chin and trailing down to my breast where his thumb slowly grazes across the fabric, my nipple hardening under his touch. “I don’t even have to ask. You just give it to me, begging for me to take you anyway that I can. You want to be consumed, little bird. You want your feathers plucked, your wings clipped.”
He leans in and kisses my neck and I fill with the smoky sweet bonfire smell of him, mixing with the bracing sea air. “But perhaps,” he murmurs against my skin. “It would be better if I did ask for your hand in marriage, instead of taking it.”
His tongue licks up the side of my neck, breath hot beneath my ear, and I hate the way my body automatically responds to him, like a puppet on a string. My eyes fall closed and I try to suppress a moan, a useless attempt.
“If I did ask,” he goes on, taking my lobe between his teeth and tugging lightly, his breath heavy, “would you say yes?”
“I would say no,” I whisper as I try to find my resolve. “My answer would be no.”
He growls, the sound making me shiver.
“Then it’s a good thing I take and never ask,” he snaps and suddenly he’s reaching down and hiking up my dress, his hands gripping my ass and lifting me up, pressing me against the wall.
My legs automatically wrap around him, my boots digging into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him against me. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m mad as hell at the idea of being forced to be his bride, no planning, no discussion. I know it was the end goal, at least the one that Bell had put into my head, but I didn’t think it would happen this fast and I didn’t think it would be non-negotiable. I thought there would be a proposal and fanfare, that Death would marry me because it was something he wanted, because he loved me, maybe, or at least saw me in some sort of romantic light. That there was some kind of meaning behind it all.