Bargain with the Devil, page 14
It’s a lace thong bodysuit and a high waisted black mesh skirt. I quickly change into the outfit before examining how it looks. The bodysuit fits like a glove and the see through mesh skirt ends at my ankles. I openly frown at my ass being on full display. I like the bodysuit and I like the mesh skirt, but I don’t like them paired together. I wouldn’t feel comfortable going out in public with my butt out for everyone to see.
Except we’re not going just anywhere. We’re going to Hell where the inhabitants would call my outfit modest. The thought strangely eases me, knowing I won’t draw too much attention to myself dressed as I am.
Holding onto that thought, I slip on the black designer brand name heels Balthazar left me.
I glance at the mirror again and, with my new perspective of the outfit being Hell appropriate, I’m amazed by what I see. A badass stares back at me. I look like I go around breaking hearts for enjoyment. Guys like Chad would slut shame me and call me ugly because I’d be something they could never have but desperately want.
My lips pull back into a smirk.
This is the kind of energy I want to exude from now on. I’m dead to anyone who loves me. I might as well reinvent myself into someone I’d be too scared to show them. Besides, it’ll only be temporary. Once I figure out how to get out of this deal, I can embrace the old me when I return home.
“You look absolutely ravishing,” Balthazar’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
I turn to him, the smirk turning a little more coy as I walk confidently towards him.
“Don’t I?”
He chuckles as he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his body and stares down at me with open hunger. My heart flips at his candid appreciation. I’ve never denied my attraction towards him, but I’ve always hated that magnetic pull.
Today, though, I don’t hate it so much. It’s hard to hate it when I have that sinful image of him submitting to me last night. The beautiful arch of his throat, those heated hooded eyes, the slight tug against my hand as he defiantly fought my grip–
“We’ll be meeting with the Lords again,” he says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Remember to be my pretty little mute.”
My eyes roll skyward as the smile falls off my face and I reply in a dead tone, “Seen, not heard. Got it.”
He chuckles again as he squeezes my hip and then snaps his fingers. The pressure of traveling is something I’ll never get used to. Each and every time it presses down on me from all sides as if squishing my body between the floor and a ten ton boulder. Who could ever get used to a feeling such as that?
For a brief moment, I think about how much better it is to travel with Umbra instead of Balthazar, but then my head feels like it’s splitting open from the pressure. A painful moan is ripped from me right before we arrive in Hell.
Balthazar snaps his fingers before I have an opportunity to breathe in. There’s no insanely dry air to make me cough or heave. No excruciating heat that burns my flesh. He adapted me to Hell as soon as we arrived.
“How are you feeling?” he asks and the question catches me off guard.
He’s never once asked about my well–being before. It’s strange that he’s doing it now. My eyes dart back and forth in his gaze, hoping to find some trick or hidden answer in there. Is he being considerate because of last night? It can’t be that simple. Can it?
“Fine. I’m fine,” I manage to answer as our eyes stay glued to each other.
“Do you require a moment before we head to the hall?”
“Um... no… why are you–” I stop myself short before I finish the question.
“Why am I?”
“You’re being… weird,” I venture to say and he openly laughs.
“Am I?”
“You’re being nice,” I point out.
He arches up an eyebrow while he smiles. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Kind of.”
Balthazar chuckles at my answer as a frown pulls at my lips. His arm remains comfortably wrapped around my waist as we continue to gaze at each other. He dips his head forward so our foreheads are almost touching each other.
“If you prefer it, I can go back to treating you like Ephirian swine.”
He’s teasing me. His black and red eyes are dancing in delight at how uncomfortable he’s making me feel. Bastard. Two can play this game.
I close the distance between us, pressing my forehead into his as our noses touch and I square up against him.
“I may be Ephirian swine, but you live beneath me.”
His eyes flash red and a low growl escapes his mouth. My breath hitches in my throat as his fingers grip me painfully tight around the hip. Tight enough to bruise. He slides his head down to my ear, his breath hot, and it elicits goosebumps down my body.
“You never fail to disappoint,” he whispers sensually and a tingle zings through me. All too suddenly, he’s pulling away. “Come, we should go.”
He says nothing else as he releases his hold from me and walks out of the room we’re in. It takes me a few seconds to recover before I’m scurrying after him.
We walk down the same hallway as before. Or at least it’s identical. The decaying arms reach out for us from the flaming walls, their hands grasping at empty air. I walk the exact path Balthazar takes and desperately try to keep my attention away from the walls. I’m afraid if I look directly at them, I’ll stumble right into them and won’t be able to break free.
The hands continually swipe and miss their target until the fire fades away, making them disappear with it. Several feet later, we reach the grand doors leading into the throne room. The sheer size of the doors is daunting and the ease in which Balthazar opens them with his magic still amazes me. I can’t suppress the little prickle of envy that blooms within my chest. I want powers like that.
Only when the doors are fully open does Balthazar hook his arm around my waist and usher us into the room. He’s the last to arrive just like last time. The murmurs of the Lords die down as he walks across the room towards his empty throne.
Remember, do not speak, he reminds me telepathically.
I won’t.
His fingers squeeze my waist in silent reply as my heels clack against the floor. I once again have to take particular care so I don’t step into one of the lava channels and burn off my foot. Balthazar walks as though the floor is one solid slab of stone, his foot never once getting close to any channel. He’s clearly memorized the layout. Bastard, I think. He smirks but says nothing.
“What is she doing here?” the devil beneath the wolf throne demands to know.
House Lupus, Balthazar reminds me. The fifth House. Lord Priscilla.
I stumble in my steps, but Balthazar quickly corrects me. I gape at him in open shock. He’s willingly supplying information without being prompted first? This seriously can’t be because of last night. There’s absolutely no way, but that’s the only thing that’s changed in our relationship. What is he playing at?
Better for you to memorize the Lords’ faces instead of my own, Balthazar teases and a slight blush dusts my face.
I quickly turn my gaze away from him and at Lord Priscilla of House Lupus. She’s plump with a rounded face and sharp, near black eyes. Her alabaster skin is marred by a scar along her neck and her hair is an odd shade of blonde. It’s wrapped around her head in plaited braids and her antelope–like horns have two tiny flames at the tip of them.
She wears a see through black robe that does nothing to hide her modesty. The hem is lined in red and black gemstones. Her feet are bare and, admittedly, I find her outfit a little underwhelming. She’s basically wearing a decked out bathrobe to a meeting with the Lords of Hell. Then again, two other devils are completely naked. Was this meeting last minute or something?
Balthazar clicks his tongue as a serpentine smile spreads across his lips. “Lord Priscilla, I’m sorry to hear your memory has escaped you. Perhaps we should think about replacing your seat.”
Her face darkens into a shade of red as her hands curl into fists. She straightens up in her seat as a glower grabs hold of her face.
“That’s not a bad suggestion,” the devil sitting at the cat throne says.
Lord Idris of House Felis, the sixth House.
Priscilla immediately turns to him, her fangs bared as she raises her left hand.
“You so much as make a move, Lord Idris, and I will spear you where you stand.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, as he wiggles his eyebrows in amusement. Lord Idris has smooth tawny brown skin, short black hair, and a dad bod physique. He doesn’t wear a shirt but instead is draped in layered, golden necklaces. Some of them are bejeweled while others are plain chains.
He wears a cream colored skirt that reminds me of a kilt. His legs are completely spread apart but the cloth of his skirt drapes over his knees and keeps his goods hidden from view. I don’t imagine he’s wearing any type of underwear under that skirt and I’m grateful for the length of his garment.
His horns extend out of his temples before curling down towards the floor. Golden circlets with dangling chains adorn his nearly black horns while his face is adorned in a full face of makeup. Dark smokey eyes, shimmering eyeshadow, and luscious lashes. I’m grateful to see I’m not the only one who takes makeup seriously.
Down two steps and to the left of Lord Idris’s throne sits another devil. Due to the proximity between the two, my assumption is the devil is associated with Idris’s house.
I glance around the room, doing my best to memorize everything I see. Each House has two seats located on the fifth step–slash–landing. There is a seat on either side of the throne, creating a triangular shape.
Not a single House has all three seats filled. Only two Houses have both additional seats empty. There’s no congruency on how the additional seats are being filled. Some Houses have the right one occupied; other Houses have the left one filled. Does it mean something or is it a matter of personal taste?
Balthazar and I steadily walk up the stairs before he discards me in the chair on his right side. The decision to have me in the right seat instead of the left feels premeditated, like the left seat was not an option for me to sit in. What is the significance of me in the right versus left seat?
Doing my best to play the part of a pretty little mute, I fluff my mesh skirt as I cross my leg over my knee. I spare a quick look around the room and regret it. These devils look ready to murder me. As much as I hate to do it, I need to embrace the role of Balthazar’s pathetic wife. Better that than accidentally provoke a devil into killing me.
The Lord who sits at the bat throne on Balthazar’s left surprisingly pays me no attention. If I remember correctly, her name is Lord Carmilla. She originally protested my presence but apparently doesn’t this time around.
However, the devil sitting in one of Carmilla’s chairs does. She openly stares down her nose at me with fair, pinkish skin, dark red lips, green vibrant eyes, and the hatred of an entire world. She’s dressed similarly to me, but a touch classier. She wears extravagant jewelry and her make up isn’t as done up as mine.
Her long, dark auburn hair is styled in a fancy braid that’s pulled over her left shoulder. Her horns protrude out her forehead and curve back over her scalp in the same exact way as Carmilla’s. Both they’re horns are so incredibly black and shiny that they reflect the light spilling from the fire chandelier hovering in the middle of the room.
Clear disdain washes off her as she turns her attention towards the other devils. When she speaks, her voice is dripping with utter disgust.
“It’s absolutely absurd Lord Balthazar is still entertaining this Ephirian trash–”
“Ivy, you shoot too high. My wife is Ephirian swine,” Balthazar clarifies, his voice full of mirth.
Odd that swine is lower than trash, but I store that information away in case I ever need to insult someone from Hell.
Prick, I think as loudly as I can so Balthazar can hear it. There’s a faint chuckle behind me and it should annoy me that he finds my insult amusing, but it doesn’t. Instead, our insults are gradually shifting from outright hatred to dark humored affection. It should alarm me that I’m slowly becoming attached to the devil who owns my soul, but I’m too grateful for the lightheartedness after such enduringly difficult days.
Ivy lips turn downward in disgust as she glares at me like I’m spoiled meat she’s accidentally stepped on while walking through her pristine neighborhood.
“She has no right to be here,” Ivy states before she glances over at Carmilla. “Am I wrong, Mother?”
Ivy is the spitting image of her mother, but admittedly, they look more like sisters than mother and daughter. Ivy appears to be in her mid–twenties while Carmilla doesn’t look a day over thirty. It’s freaky to think they could look so close in age as mother and daughter but I guess that’s how immortality works.
Carmilla is dressed in a glittery black gown that hugs her upper torso and flushes out past her waist. Her hair, a shade lighter than Ivy’s, drapes down her back and shoulders in soft, beachy curls. Her eyes have a hint of blue swirling within the depths of green and are exponentially colder than Ivy’s.
Carmilla clasps her hands together in her lap as her elbows rest on the throne’s armrest. “There are no laws that forbid her presence.”
“Mother–”
“As Balthazar’s wife she has every right to attend these meetings,” she cuts Ivy off. Carmilla keeps her head high as she addresses the other Lords. “After the Ephirian’s wish is complete, I suggest we amend the law, preventing something like this from ever happening again.”
The devil at the snake throne, the one directly to our right, laughs loudly. “No, I should think not, Lord Carmilla. It’s far too entertaining having an Ephirian in our presence.”
“Majority vote rules, Lord Meik,” Carmilla states coldly.
“Aye, it does. I wonder just how many would rule in your favor,” he hums as mischief dances in his gray eyes.
“My Lords, I’m rather bored with the topic at hand,” Balthazar cuts in. “Either get to the point of this meeting, or my wife and I will leave for some marital bonding.”
He says it so matter of fact as if he’s discussing the color of the sky, yet I can’t help the heat spreading through my cheeks. Bonding could mean a number of things, but we all know he’s alluding to sex. I’ve never been in a room full of people where someone talked so openly about having sex with me. It’s humiliating and the only saving grace is that no one appears to care. Well, no one but Ivy. She’s clearly repulsed he would even touch me, let alone have sex with me. The urge to taunt her flare’s to life within me.
Careful there, Sloane. She’ll remove your head for looking too long.
I swallow thickly as I quickly turn my eyes away from her. Duly noted, I reply.
“Where is Finthorn?” Balthazar asks the Lords.
A moment later, a devil magically appears in the center of the room. He’s dressed in a three piece tailored suit with tan skin that reminds me of Greece, short black hair, and deer–like horns that are similar to the devil sitting in the spider throne, though his are much smaller in comparison. Like he’s a fawn barely growing his horns out as opposed to a full grown deer.
The air shifts behind me as it drops a couple of degrees. I risk a glance at Balthazar. His entire demeanor has changed in the presence of Finthorn. There is no kindness, amusement, or even mischief to be found. He looks every part the unforgiving heir to the most powerful House in Hell… no, Jeznia.
“Tell me why you’re here,” Balthazar demands, his voice low, cold, and menacing.
It sends a shiver of fear wracking through my body as goosebumps dart down my arms. He’s only directed that kind of hatred towards me once and I nearly shit myself as his face melted off to reveal his real appearance. I never want to be on the receiving end of that kind of anger ever again.
“My Lord, I must admit I’m a little confused about why–”
“Wrong answer,” Balthazar growls as he snaps his finger.
Finthorn’s leg audibly cracks and he grunts as he shifts his weight to his other leg. Amazed horror fills me. It looks like Balthazar snapped his femur in half. I’ve heard that’s one of the most painful breaks a person could have. Yet, Finthorn stands there breathing heavily through the pain and doesn’t cry or scream. Just shifts his weight onto his other leg as a grimace darts across his face.
“Is it so wrong that I want more business?” Finthorn asks through his pain.
There’s a harsh glare on his face as he pushes all the hatred he feels into his dark gaze at Balthazar.
“Why do you get the west and east coasts all to yourself while the rest of us are left with the slim pickings of the middle? The highest populations in the U.S. are on the coasts and we’re just supposed to let you have them all because you’re a Lord?”
The fire in the chandelier above us flickers as cold air whooshes through the room.
“Yes,” Balthazar answers in that layered voice and my entire body shifts to attention.
The only time I’ve heard that voice felt like someone was pounding away at my brain. His voice hasn’t reached that level yet; it lacks the gravel and bite to it, but I imagine he’s nearly there.
“You’re free to challenge me for those souls, but to steal them from me is an egregious miscalculation.”
The fullness of his voice bellows out and I wince as it bears down from behind me. Thankfully, his voice lacks the physical effects it had the last time I heard it. That would mean he has control over who feels the full wrath of his voice. It’s an equally terrifying and amazing thought.
“The only reason you are alive is because of Lord Taron. Should you steal from me again, my retaliation will be worse than death.”
“This is bullshit,” Finthorn loudly snaps as he whirls around to where the demon on the spider throne sits. “You must think so, Lord Taron! A Lord shouldn’t even be a Contract Liaison, yet you all let him prance around stealing our merits!”
