Page 10 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating
“My lady,” he mumbled. “I brought your meal.”
I ushered him inside, watching as he set out roast chicken, bread, and vegetables on a low table near the fireplace.
“Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”
He stared at the floor. “Pip, my lady.”
I thanked him for the meal, and he fled. Despite the knot of anxiety in my belly, I realized I was ravenous and devoured every bite. I’d just finished mopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread when the lock clicked and the door swung open without warning.
Firelight hissed lower, and shadows clawed across the rugs an instant before Kazimir strode through the doorway. He wore a fitted jacket of glossy black scales—dragonskin?—that shimmered darkly in the firelight. His eyes, just as black, raked over me from head to toe. A thin red line on his throat marked where I’d cut him earlier.
He flicked a glance at the folded cloak on the chair, then at me. “The green suits you better than that.”
“Your minions have interesting taste,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Though I’m grateful they didn’t force me into a dress covered in black roses. I barely survived the ones in the vases.”
His mouth tightened, but he prowled farther inside, one fingertip grazing the petals of a black rose. The bloom folded beneath his touch. “Griffin’s been reminded of his... excesses. He tends to forget that not everyone appreciates carnivorous flora.”
“Poor Griffin. He’s probably sobbing into his man-eating roses.”
Kazimir ignored the jab. “I came to set the wards. They’ll keep you in this suite unless I grant you passage beyond.”
“And here I thought you’d come to properly propose.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I trailed my finger over a velvet-covered chair. “But I suppose that would be too traditional for the Dark Lord.”
He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. His fingers flexed once at his side. “Traditional? You’d prefer I drop to one knee?”
“Well, you did kidnap me,” I pointed out, crossing my arms. “I guess some semblance of courtesy wouldn’t kill you.”
For an instant, wariness flickered over his features. He stepped back, surveying me with those cold, beautiful eyes.
Then, to my utter astonishment, he dropped into a graceful kneel. But there was nothing submissive about the motion—if anything, he seemed more dangerous like this.Muscles tightened beneath the dragonskin as though measured violence might spring from that graceful crouch. His gaze lifted to mine, dark lashes framing a lethal smirk as he took my hand in his.
“Lady Arabella Evenfall, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he asked in a low voice. “I promise to cherish your power, and to make every submission worth the risk of wanting more.”
His question rumbled through the room, bass notes vibrating in my spine even after the words faded.For one reckless heartbeat I wanted to lean into that velvet voice.
I swallowed the impulse. “That may be the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”
He stood in a swift motion, maintaining his grip on my hand. Leather and scale whispered as he rolled his shoulders. The air shifted, carrying that same scent of winter storms and charred wood across my skin. “List your previous offers, and I’ll decide whether I should be insulted or amused.”
I let silence stretch, studying him as though I held the scales. “How many proposals have you made? How do I know I’m not the latest in a long line of dead brides?”
“You, Lady Evenfall, are my first.” His voice rumbled through me again.
“First... what?” It was important to pin these things down. Villains were notorious for creative interpretations of the truth.
A glint of humor lingered in his eyes. “First proposal.”
“Then perhaps you’re unaware that threats aren’t usually part of courtship.” His thumb traced a circle on my palm, and I pulled it from his grasp.
“Threats aside,” he said, draping himself casually on the arm of a chair, “I suspect you need more than empty promises of devotion. You strike me as someone who values a certain edge.”
That was more accurate than I cared to admit, so I just shrugged. “Speaking of edges... I’d like to negotiate the terms of this arrangement.”
He watched me intently, giving away nothing. I took the lack of immediate refusal as permission to continue.
“You want me, specifically,” I said, stepping around the bed to keep a barrier between us. “For my bloodline, presumably. And you need me to show up at the altar without kicking and screaming.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips, though tension hardened his posture. “Go on.”
