The Demon King Davian

“This ought to last you a while.”

“Thank you. You work much faster than I do.”

“I’ll have Morgan send someone with a cord of wood for your patio.”

“That’s nice of you. I’ll take you up on that offer.” Fire was a necessity in her life, after all. Gazing up at him, she asked, “What are you doing here? Other than rescuing a damsel in distress again.”

He chuckled, the sexy rumble adding more warmth to her home. “You hardly fit that bill. You would have managed just fine without me.” The expression on his chiseled face turned more serious. “I wanted to see you.”

Excitement lit her insides, but dread edged in on her as well. They’d both agreed what had happened at the castle was not meant to go beyond those walls. So she asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Not at present. The band of demons Morgan discovered have yet to regroup. The fire wraith is nowhere to be found. And the wide-area patrols haven’t turned up anything.”

“That’s good news.” Her apprehension dissipated. “So this is a social call?”

A surreal notion. Yet an intriguing one.

“I have something for you.” He reached into the wide pocket of his full-length cloak and then handed her a gift.

“You brought Pride and Prejudice to me.”

“Thought it might help to pass the time.”

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

He divested himself of his cloak and gloves before suggesting, “Why don’t we sit?” He motioned toward the sofa and followed her there, sinking into the cushion next to her, which was on the thin side from old age. “It’s very quiet here,” he commented.

“Sometimes too quiet. Although, in the late spring and summer, I open the windows and backdoors so I can hear the river running.”

She’d considered placing pots of wildflowers on the patios to brighten the cottage, though she’d have to move them in during the winter months and hope they survived without much direct sunlight. She hated the idea of them dying on her, so she’d never gotten around to doing it.

“You weren’t afraid of being here alone when you were a little girl?”

She hedged, wondering if there was a purpose to divulging details of her personal life with this man, given their forbidden association. And the affair’s tragically short shelf-life.

As usual, though, it proved impossible to keep anything from him. She admitted, “At first, it didn’t fully register because I was so upset about my parents. I cried myself to sleep every night. Then I started to worry if the shifters would come for me. Ironically, that’s one of the reasons I stayed. I didn’t want them hunting me down at someone else’s home, for fear I’d be putting other people in danger. I couldn’t stand the thought of having what happened to my family happen to others.”

He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, rotating his body a few degrees so he faced her. His presence made her furniture and her cottage seem much smaller, yet in a cozy, intimate way.

“That must have been an extremely difficult time,” he said.

“Yes. Every little noise frayed my nerves. But eventually, I got used to it. Or at least, I’d resigned myself to it. I didn’t want to leave; therefore, I had to keep myself busy and my mind occupied so I wouldn’t be upset all day and night or worry over every crunch of twigs from animals or brushing of tree branches against the side of the house in a stiff breeze. Every owl that cried out.”

“Is that how you learned to suppress your feelings?”

She nodded. “That’s one of the things I did to occupy myself. I worked on pushing all the feelings down to the pit of my stomach. I’d visualize a black hole deep within me, and I forced all the sensations into it.”

“But there’s no lid to cover the hole?”

“Does anyone have that kind of control over their emotions?”

He contemplated this a moment. “I suppose a few do. You’re good at it, after all.”

“Years of practice.”

“And obviously an inherent survival tactic you’ve mastered.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve mastered it.”