The Demon's Mate

Chapter four

The chain dissolved off her skin like ash, crumbling to dust at her feet—severing her from the other girls as if it had never existed.

One moment Nirelle was gazing up at him in shock; the next she was in the air.

His one arm slid behind her back, the other hooked under her knees—lifting her princess style like she weighed nothing.

Her gasp caught in her throat. Both her hands shot up instinctively, wrapping around his neck to keep from falling.

He held her flush against his chest, her legs draped over his arm, her head now level with his jaw. He was so tall, so broad, she felt tiny like this—caged and completely secure at the same time.

Nirelle could feel the solid muscle of his chest under her cheek and hear his slow, calm heartbeat, while hers was racing like a wild horse.

He started walking, each step smooth and unbothered, as if carrying her was the most natural thing in the world. As if she belonged with him. He carried her straight out of the room amidst shocked gasps from the nobles.

One by one, the nobles filed out, whispering amongst themselves.

The faces of the burly man and the auctioneer fell. They had brought four other female slaves, each trained and beautiful, but not a single bid had been placed on them. Every eye, every coin, had gone to Nirelle alone. The rest of the lot remained unsold.

A shadow detached itself from the doorway. Tall, cloaked in black, with a face cut from stone. He walked up to the auctioneer and dropped a coin pouch at his feet with a heavy thud without looking at anyone else.

"One hundred gold crowns for the girl. Now, leave." His voice was cold and low, the kind that made people scurry away.

The burly man and the auctioneer didn't hesitate. They picked up the money, rounded up the remaining females, and fled. The speed at which they left was impressive.

For a man his size, it was funny how fast he fled. One cold word from the cloaked man and the burly slaver was already scurrying for the door.

The money the demon king paid for Nirelle was more than the combined sales of all the male slaves. The auctioneer was more than pleased. The auction had been a huge success. Selling Nirelle had made it so.

Mistress Silvane stood frozen, her face pale. It was the first time anyone had seen an emotion other than indifference on her face.

At the same time, Caspian carried Nirelle into his suite in the diamond castle, where the auction had been held. He crossed the antechamber into the bedchamber and placed Nirelle on his bed.

He sank to one knee before her.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice cold, low and resonant, radiating power with every word spoken. It was the first time that he had spoken to her.

She didn't answer. Her lips trembled, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her breath hitched.

Nirelle's thoughts were everywhere, going haywire.

Why would the Demon King—a man so strong and powerful—kneel for someone like her? What were his intentions toward her? Why had he bought her in the first place?

She didn't understand, and that frightened her. Her hands trembled in her lap as she tried to make sense of it.

His cold gaze swept over her as if checking for any injury. When he was satisfied that she had no injuries, he rose slowly from one knee.

He was impossibly tall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her entire form. His body was large and powerful, chiseled like a statue carved by the gods themselves—every line sharp, every muscle restrained under his dark robes.

His hair was black as midnight, falling carelessly over his forehead, yet unable to hide his beauty. A face so beautiful it was cruel. Sharp jaw, straight nose, lips that rarely knew a smile, and eyes—cold, silver-grey that seemed to see straight through her soul.

He snapped his fingers. Immediately, a knock came at the door. "Enter," he said.

An attendant in her mid-forties entered with her head bowed. "Your highness," she murmured.

Caspian didn't look at her; his eyes remained on Nirelle. "Draw a bath and assist her."

The attendant bowed her head and murmured her understanding before slipping away to prepare the bath.

The moment the door closed behind her, silence fell over the room. It was not a quiet silence. It was heavy and suffocating, the kind that made it hard to breathe. Nirelle sat on the bed, her hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap, trying with all her might not to look at him.

She failed. Her eyes flickered to him for just a second, and her heart sped up. He was already looking at her.

She quickly looked away, her cheeks burning, and stared at the cold marble floor instead. But the feeling of his gaze never left her skin. She could feel it trailing over her hair, her neck, and her trembling hands.

A few seconds passed, and she couldn't help it—she stole another glance.

He was still watching her. That cold, dark, unreadable stare, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of her face.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating until every breath felt too loud in the quiet room. It was only broken when the door creaked open again and the attendant returned.

The attendant stepped forward with a soft, practiced smile and bowed her head slightly.

"Miss, the bath is ready for you," she said gently. "If you will allow me, I will help you wash with warm water and scented oils—it will help you feel better."

She extended her hand toward Nirelle, waiting patiently, her posture humble and inviting. Nirelle didn't move.

She stayed rooted to the bed, her eyes flickering from the housekeeper's outstretched hand to Caspian. She didn't want to go. Not with a stranger. Not when the person she felt safest with wasn't going with her, even if he was the most terrifying of them all.

"I... I can wash myself," she whispered, her voice small.

The housekeeper's smile didn't falter, but her hand dropped slightly. "My lord's orders, miss."

At the mention of his orders, Nirelle's shoulders stiffened. Of course. Everything in this place was his order.

She looked up at Caspian then. He was still watching her. That cold, unreadable gaze that made her feel like he could see straight through her dress, through her skin, to the fear beating wildly underneath.

"Do... do I have to?" she asked him directly, her voice barely above a whisper. It was a stupid and a dangerous question. One doesn't question a man like him.

For a second, the room went silent. So silent the whole world narrowed down to just the two of them.

Then Caspian tilted his head slightly. Just a fraction. "Are you afraid of water?" His voice was low, almost amused. "Or are you afraid of being alone with her?"

The question hit too close. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

He took slow steps towards her until he was standing right at the edge of the bed.

"Go," he said, a bit softer this time. "No one will touch you without your permission. That is my order."