To Bewitch a Devil

215 As stale bread

“Do you really want me to come get you there?” Azriel asked.

But Penelope didn’t answer. Like she was being pulled by a force, her feet advanced in his direction, and she only stopped when she was in front of him.

“Closer, Pen,” Azriel said.

She closed up the last of the space between them, and Azriel pulled her with gentle hands to sit on his lap. Penelope could not bring herself to look at him and found the loose thread in her dress suddenly very interesting.

“What are you afraid of?” Azriel asked, his voice soft.

Penelope’s eyes met him at that. He was looking at her with genuine curiosity, and she found it only necessary to provide him with the truth.

“There have been speculations about us two, and you know of it, so I am just afraid to give them the truth,” she said. “And also, I only imagined it would be a one time… occurrence.”

Azriel smirked. “Occurrence?”

“A one-time event.”

.....

“That’s even a worse description,” Azriel said, his hand running up and down her back, and Penelope leaned into the gesture and all the emotions it evoked in her. “And why should you care about what they think? They wouldn’t dare cross you if they know. I would make sure of it.”

“I… it is a lot more complicated than that,” Penelope said.

“Then explain.”

“I am a maid, you are a Lord. That’s as much and as little explanation I can give,” she said. “I have to go. I can’t be in here.”

Azriel’s eyes met hers, and she forgot how to breathe.

“Why aren’t you leaving, Pen?” He asked.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Penelope could feel the wind cool the skin on her back. She didn’t know how and when her gown had come undone. He was blessed with skilled hands, skilled hands that lowered her on the bed, and she was staring up at his face.

“I have been with the King all week long, very busy,” he told her. “But tell me why, every second, I can’t stop thinking of you. What magic is it you hold over me, Pen?”

Pen’s breath caught at that, but she didn’t know what to say to that.

“Anytime you want to leave, just say it,” he said, freeing her hair from the bun she had so neatly tied. “And I will stop.”

But not a word of protest left her lips as his kisses mapped a road down her neck, and as she was coming undone, Penelope sighed as memories were beginning to be relived again.

He was liquor to her; she was water to him.

And getting drunk one more time, one last final time, wouldn’t hurt again, would it?

….

One thing the people of all the Kingdoms would never complain about was a feast.

Merriment filled the air again, and the wedding of the King began celebration all week long. The humans celebrated with demons, an unspoken pact being formed as Zavian married one of their own, a human.

Although there were still rumors of Neera being a demon debated in salons and bars, ludicrous tales carried about her spreading around. Like how she controlled minds, demon minds included, controlling the King to marry her that day. Or how she had always wanted the throne for herself from the get-go. But still, good overpowered the bad, celebrations were in full blow, and negative news was dispelled as nothing more than jealous rumors.

Neera stood in front of the mirror, the shimmering pale green gown tailing behind her in a long train. Her hair was sleeked back. The only style the hairstylist had been creative enough to play on short hair and dusted on her strands were flecks of silver.

She was sparkling like a gem.

Except for the face. Nothing gave off a wedding glow, and if not for her gown, it looked like her face belonged to a funeral instead.

Someone barged into her chambers, and Freya stopped short when she saw Neera standing there alone, unmoving. Her instinct to kill rose, but just like she did every day, she slammed a lid over those thoughts.

“They are waiting for you in the hall,” Freya told her.

Neera turned to look at her. Although blazing with temper, Freya was a stunning sight to behold. She wore the same matching colors as Neera, despite suppressed protests.

Neera held out an arm. “Let’s go.”

Freya could feel her teeth gritting against each other as she locked arms with Neera. As they stepped out, the trumpets could be heard, and Neera took slow steps, dragging the heavily adorned garment behind her.

“You don’t have to marry him,” Freya whispered as they passed the line-up of guards standing at attention on either side of them. The large doors got closer and closer, and Freya was holding at loose ends to stop the wedding.

“You are as persistent and stubborn as the stale bread I had last night, yet you promised to be a good girl.”

Freya cringed at that word. Good girl. Like an obedient dog given a bone to chew in a corner.

“If you disagree with being Queen up there today, you would be saving us all,” Freya continued. “If you want to leave now, I can help you. I can take you away, and I would explain to him.”

“Have your hands healed?” Neera swerved the topic suddenly, and Freya crashed at the threat driving her words underneath. Again, she clamped her mouth shut, her teeth gritting.

When they arrived at the hall, Freya guided her up to the scaffold, where Zavian waited. His eyes softened at his bride, and they met those of his sister’s, but Freya looked away. Their relationship had been under strain since their huge fight, and Freya did everything in her power to avoid him.

Azriel and his men fell behind the King, and Freya took her place behind Neera. Zavian held her hands in his, and the officiate, the same ancient demon that had handled both his and Jasmine’s wedding, gave a long speech.

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