“We’ll see,” she said through a throat gone dry, and began to grind the cinnamon until it was a pile of dust that she scooped back into the jar. “Now, where’s the milk?”
The Guardian of the Abyss hadn’t slept. He never slept. When the Black Castle went quiet for the night, he walked the halls in the company of ghosts. Sometimes, he went back out to hunt, for that was his reason for being, and sometimes, he went searching beyond the village and to the twilight lands, for those like Jissa and Bard.
He didn’t know why he’d saved the brownie and the big lug. No one had ever asked him, but perhaps his strange storyteller would. If she did ask such an impertinent question, he’d tell her it was because he needed servants. A lie. He wondered if she would know, if she would challenge him. Hmm …
Striding into the great hall with that intriguing thought in mind, he halted.
The table was set with toast and pastry and fruit. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It was the scent in the air, sweet and spicy at the same time. Aware of Liliana standing with suspicious meekness by the table, he crossed the black stone of the castle to take his seat, picking up the cup of steaming liquid at his elbow.
Rich and dark, he recognized it as chocolate. But that scent …
Drawing it in, he felt his mind spark, tumbling him headlong into memories that couldn’t be his own, but that he found himself loath to repudiate.
A woman’s laughter. Soft hands on his brow. Contentment.
“Drink.” The whisper came from beside him. “Drink.”
Looking up at his prisoner, who was most certainly a sorceress, someone he should not be listening to under any circumstances, he nonetheless lifted the cup to his lips. Sweet and wicked and wild, the taste seared his senses, took him to places he didn’t know, showed him a kaleidoscope of faces he’d never seen in the Abyss.
The woman’s face was the strongest. Eyes so bright and green, hair the color of sunlight, and a face of such beauty and grace it hurt him to look at her. But she was laughing, this being formed of purest magic, leaning forward to press her lips to his forehead.
Stubborn, so stubborn, my baby boy.
“What sorcery is this?” he asked, slamming down the empty cup and rising to glare at the woman who had likely poisoned him.
Liliana didn’t flinch as she should. “No sorcery, my lord. It is merely a spice named cinnamon.”
Cinnamon, he can’t have enough.
Shaking his head to erase that haunting voice that made things in his chest tear and break, he stared at Liliana, spoke in the gentle tone that made the villagers tremble. “Where’s my breakfast?” He ran the sharp tips of his gauntlet along her jaw. “I do not smell meat.”
“Your breakfast is right here,” she said, her face going white … but she didn’t back down. “And it’s quite delicious, as you’d know if you’d stop trying to terrify me.” Reaching out, she touched him, her hand curving over the black armor of his upper arm. “Please sit.”
He was so startled that anyone dared touch him, he obeyed without realizing what he was doing. When he would’ve snarled, she seduced him into silence by serving him bread studded with fruit and sprinkled with honey and sugar and … cinnamon.
This time, when the scent threatened to ensorcel him, he fought it.
Liliana laughed, the sound an invisible stroke that caressed him through the armor. “No one ever told me the Lord of the Black Castle was so stubborn.” Her father, Liliana thought, hope a jagged pulse within her, had likely not realized the indomitable will within the child this dangerous man had once been. Far more of the prince might have survived his entrapment than anyone realized—though she’d have to be careful how far she pushed him. He might have allowed her instinctive touch, but he remained the Lord of the Black Castle, powerful and lethal.
“Speak to me with respect,” he growled at her, but his lips were dusted with honey and sugar, his hair falling across his forehead. For an instant, he looked unbearably young, deliciously approachable, his mouth a treat for her to suck on.
Feeling her cheeks burn at the scandalous thought, her breasts taut points against the thin black material of the tunic, she went to pull away from the table.
A strong hand clamped down on her wrist, his palm hot and rough, the brush of the razored points extending from his gauntlet an unnamed threat. “Where is Bard?” It was a silken question.
“Outside the door,” she said, realizing he was pulling her down.
She resisted.
He compelled.
Until her lips were on a level with his.
Her heart pounded hard enough to bruise against her ribs, but she couldn’t take her eyes off those sugar-sweet lips. “My lord?” Her voice came out a croak.
His mouth curved, as if he could read her thoughts, and she held her breath, waiting to see what he would do. Right then, she had the sudden, shocking realization that she might permit him any liberty, no matter how darkly wicked, if he would only allow her to sup at those lips, to taste his mouth.
“You smell, Liliana.” He released her wrist. “You must bathe.”
Face so hot she knew she must be a dull, angry red beneath the brown of her skin, she stepped away from the table. “Bathing facilities are rather limited in the dungeon and the kitchen,” she snapped, wanting to slam the candlestick in the center of the table on his beautiful head.
He glanced at her as he bit into a pastry, and she could’ve sworn there was laughter in his gaze, but of course, the Guardian of the Abyss didn’t know how to laugh. “You remind me of a creature in the village,” he told her as he gobbled up her pastries like some greedy, ill-mannered child. “The baker keeps it as a pet, though the kitten is forever spitting and clawing at everyone she meets.”
Taunted, she was being taunted. “This spitting kitten is your cook,” she said, unable to sit back and allow him to get away with it, though no sane woman would have argued with the Lord of the Black Castle. But then, as evidenced by her sinful fantasies, she was in no way sane. “I beg you don’t forget that, or I might forget which is the salt and which the chili.”
Ignoring her threat, he waved her forward. “Pour me more chocolate—” the order of an emperor to his concubine “—then you may go and bathe.”
She really wanted to smash the teapot over his head, but she poured the luscious liquid into his cup, watched his eyes glaze over for an instant as his mind tried to drag him into the past. It was the truth she’d told. She hadn’t ensorcelled either the cinnamon or the chocolate—but some sensual memories were strong enough to act as spells on their own. “Now, may I go?”
“My lord,” he said, licking out his tongue to capture a drop of chocolate on his lip.
Her entire body hummed. “What?”
“You forgot to add ‘my lord.’”
She grit her teeth and put down the teapot with extreme care. “May
