Page 47 of Infernal Bindings

Incubus. Duh.

“Have I fed too much already?”

I roll my eyes at him, and it’s embarrassingly difficult.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. Faintly, I’m aware of the grounding stone buzzing against my neck, because I’m staring at him rather than doing my job. But I also can’t bring myself to care. Reaching between his twisted horns, I curl my fingers in his silky hair and insist that I really am alright.

“You’ll tell me if I take too much of your energy,” he orders. There isn’t a touch of playfulness to his tone, and I wave him away. “I’m being serious, Annie. Humans die from fucking incubi all the time.”

“I’m not worried,” I tell him. “I trust you.”

Sighing, I slip my fingers from his hair and rest my eyes for what feels like just a minute. When I open them again, something cold presses against my lips.

Water, I think.

“Drink,” Daemon orders, tilting the glass back. Ice clinks against the sides of it as I obey him, downing the clear liquid in a single gulp—not water, but something sweet. The chill is a balm to my warm flesh, spreading from my stomach outwards, settling in my muscles and bones until I feel awake again, though my lips still tingle.

Is sweat a symptom of being fed on? Gross.

“It’s not actually healing you,” Daemon clarifies. “It just makes you feel like it is. It helps our humans last longer, but it also makes it easier to miss the warning signs that we’ve taken things too far.”

“What is it?” I ask, staring at the now empty glass.

Daemon snaps his fingers, and it teleports to a nearby lounge table. At least a dozen glasses are stacked there, and when I peer at the other canopied chaises, I see several more in human hands, or empty on the red-tiled floor.

“It’s ambrosia,” Daemon says. When I give him a confused look, he clarifies. “Juice from the forbidden fruit. Salios cultivates it here.”

I was drinking literal forbidden fruit.

That’s the most sacrilegious thing I think I’ve ever done.

And I want more.

When I ask for it, Daemon shakes his head. “You might trust me, but I don’t trust myself. Not if you’ve drunk too much of this stuff. Maybe later, when we’re back at my house.” Lifting me by the armpits, he returns me to his lap, ignoring the way I pout at his answer.

On instinct, I inhale him, and it must look absolutely ridiculous that I’m breathing into this behemoth of a man-creature. Then again, his scary demon form isn’t all that bad now that I’ve gotten used to it. Intimidating? Sure. But also safe in some weird, twisted way. He’s giant enough that I can’t imagine anyone giving him trouble, even the other incubi.

“Annie?” Daemon asks.

“Hmmm…” I twist the suit jacket in my fingertips, staring at the now-empty stage absentmindedly.

“We’re next. If you’re ready for it.”

“Oh.” I’m instantly tense. But then Daemon strokes my hair, and my muscles turn to jelly again. “You won’t hit me, like that incubus did with the redhead?”

Daemon shakes his head. We’re both speaking quiet enough that the other patrons won’t be able to overhear. “No. I won’t do anything to you that leaves a mark, and you can still cross your fingers at any time, and I’ll stop.”

“Okay then.”

I feel him tug on my leash again.

The canopy swooshes as we step past it, Daemon—obviously—leading the way. He pulls me onto the stage where a warm spotlight shines overhead, bathing both of us in bright cherry red. A complete match to my outfit. Daemon doesn’t announce we’re there. He doesn’t need to.

The minute we step onto the platform, the entire crowd seems to turn our direction, their shadowy silhouettes every bit as intimidating as the witches that had gathered at my baptism—maybe worse, given the twisting horns and claw-tipped wings coming from them. Seeing them sobers me up quickly, bringing me down from my orgasmic high.

All these people are watching me.

Making a spectacle of me.