The wine and the events of the day were wearing on me; I could resist the pull of sleep no longer. Everything could be dealt with later. I flopped headfirst into the pillows and succumbed to the darkness.

  When I woke in the morning—was it morning or only hours later? It was hard to tell without any light—my head was pounding but my chest felt remarkably lighter. I felt like I could finally breathe.

  That’s when I realized the laces of my gown had been undone, the bodice gaping uselessly in the back. I stripped the horrid thing, heavy skirts and all, from my body and left it in a heap upon the floor.

  My face heated. Who had undone the laces?

  The king underground and I were married, by ritual, if not by human law. Had he come looking for a wedding night and found me, drunk and snoring, instead?

  The thought of the king’s claws catching on the delicate laces sent a shiver down my arms, even though the room was pleasantly warm.

  Had that irritated him?

  I wasn’t dead yet, but there was still time.

  Excellent work, Cornelia, maybe you can irritate him into killing you instead.

  I sighed and surveyed my surroundings again, since I did not take in much of them last night. There was a fairly large armoire and a wash table with a basin and pitcher. I was delighted to find water in the pitcher, so I could at least rinse my hands and face. The cool water did wonders for my wine headache.

  I checked the armoire next.

  It was full to bursting with gowns and dresses of all colors and styles and beautiful fabrics. I let my fingers trail over them, feeling their finery, and my heart dropped. Of course. They were all tiny, cinched things, and I doubted any one of them would cover one of my thighs.

  Any residual fear was burnt away by my own irritation. Was he mocking me? Was he expecting something else?

  I marched from the room, cheeks hot, to be faced with the same gods-forsaken corridor. Where in the nine hells was he?

  I stepped into a room that had just previously been more expanse of empty corridor. The sudden change made me stagger.

  “Ah,” he purred. “Found at last.”

  It took me a moment to gather my bearings in the new space. This room was large, even larger than the dining hall, and long, also, light. I blinked rapidly in the light, which somehow seemed too bright after so many hours in the dark.

  The light was coming from small, hovering orbs that lined both sides of the room leading straight to him.

  It was a throne room, I realized, very much like the one back home. Built for some mighty audience, but it was just me and…him.

  The king himself sat on a stone throne on a raised dais at the end of the hall; there was an identical empty one beside him.

  Oh.

  I took a few halting steps forward, suddenly very aware that I was in nothing but my linen shift, garters, and stockings. His gold predator eyes tracked every movement.

  I wanted to fold my arms over my breasts, pull the fabric up over my bare shoulders. But, no. If he was a king then I was a queen and I would not cower. He was the one who had left me with nothing suitable to wear.

  I let the indignance stiffen my spine and my resolve. He held my gaze as I stomped towards him, only stopping when I was directly in front of the dais.

  He was wearing fawn breeches today, tall boots, and a billowy white tunic that exposed too much of his chest. One hand lazily swirled a glass.

  “Nothing in the wardrobe fits,” I spat.

  His eyes raked my body and I felt the flush that surely covered my chest and throat. How much could he see through the gauzy fabric? It’s not like clothing did much to hide the swell of heavy breasts or the breadth of my hips, but what else could he see? This time, I did cross my arms, nipples hardening under the brush of fabric.

  A small smile curved his generous lips. “The issue has been remedied, my queen.” He gestured to the empty seat with his free hand.

  Without my indignation, I felt truly exposed and adrift. “My thanks, my…my king.” I attempted a proper court curtsey, which was a mess as I was still trying to conceal my chest.

  The king’s lips quirked again, as if he were amused by my attempts at etiquette. “Sit. There’s no one here to see.”

  Another glass appeared and he sat it on the arm of my chair. “Have some wine.” His eyes glittered as he took a sip of his own.

  That insidious thought again, of him untying my gown. Of him in my room, without my knowledge.

  “Come Cornelia, I don't bite.” A real smile finally revealed long white incisors, longer than a mortal man. So, he did have fangs after all.

  I took my seat to find it immediately and horribly uncomfortable. I did not reach for the wine.

  “You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours.”

  “Is it important?”

  “If we are to address one another, yes.” Why didn’t he want to tell me his name, of all things?

  He sighed, as if I had asked him to perform some gargantuan task. “I've gone by many names but you can call me Maelriel.”

  “Maelriel,” I repeated, trying to copy his pronunciation. It was surprisingly soft, lyrical. It was a name that danced in your mouth. I repeated it again, quietly.

  “You shouldn't do that with your tongue when I've had this much wine,” he said wryly. Then downed his glass.

  The line was meant to provoke, surely, but I was too curious for it to land. This was a different creature than the one I met last night. He was positively chatty. How long could I keep him talking and what would he reveal? I was still alive. Which meant I could fight for my continued survival. But I would need information.

  I tried to settle in the stone chair, pulling my heavy braid over my shoulder so I’d have something for my hands to fiddle with. “May I ask you questions?”

  Without looking at me, he waved his hand for me to continue.

  “What happened to the others?” The wardrobe of abandoned dresses haunted me, as did the fate of their owners.

  “They left.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “After their service ended, they left. Don’t you understand yet?”

  My ire rose again. This man, or creature, or whatever he was, was absolutely infuriating. “What am I supposed to understand?”

  “This castle. It can provide anything. Can be anything. All you have to do is wish for it and it will be so. The others went to the rose garden when their time ended and it took them anywhere they wished.”

  As if to emphasize his point, a silver tray materialized between us, laden with fresh fruit, a variety of cheeses, and warm pastries.

  If brides were able to leave this place, how come I had never heard of one coming back? There were no stories, no legends, not even whispers of brides actually coming back. And I had already drunk the wine.

  “How is that possible?” I demanded. “I have never heard of it.”

  “Maybe they are very much like you, my prickly wife. Betrayed and forsaken by their families. Would you go home?” He arched a thick, dark eyebrow.

  If I could go anywhere in the world, would I go back home, to the family that had decided to make me their sacrifice? Was it a punishment, then, to leave the next generation as hopeless as the one before it?

  “But why do you do it?”

  His head whipped towards me, golden eyes pinioning me to my chair, and bared his fangs. “You think this is what I want? A parade of terrified and sobbing women, each one a little less bearable than the last?” His nose crinkled with distaste. “Fear has such a pungent odor.”

  I couldn’t breathe properly, not until his gaze left me and turned instead to the pastries. Without its weight, I sagged against the back of the chair. Was he trapped, much as I was? If we were both prisoners, then who was the jailer? And how did we break the cycle?

  “How long?”

  “Hmm?” His attention was focused on picking a choice cherry tart.

  “How long is the…service?”

  “A year.”

  It was my turn to sigh. A year. Trapped in a lightless, magical castle, with a creature who may or may not still eat me. He had finished his tart and was meticulously licking crumbs off each shiny claw.

  It was terribly distracting.

  I turned my attention to the platter and reached for a slice of apple.

  Faster than a blink, he had snagged my hand with his long fingers. His eyes narrowed.

  “You’re injured.”

  His skin was warm, surprisingly so, almost scorching.

  The marks left by the thorns did not hurt anymore and I had forgotten they were even there. I tried to tug my hand away, but his grip was firm.

  The pad of his thumb brushed across my knuckles, sending heat through my whole body.

  I was not wholly unfamiliar with pleasure. I had a copious amount of free time and an unsupervised library. I had a collection of novels that would make my mother recoil in horror. I had my fingers in the dark. I had Tatyanna’s sordid tales of the dalliance she’d had with a minor lord. She wouldn’t stop talking about the experience for months. I think she enjoyed the way Tahlia’s ears would pink.

  Unfamiliar was the feel of his fingers, the heat of his gaze on my exposed throat, the heaviness in my chest. The way my nipples ached, as if they were begging for touch.

  “It’s—” I cleared a suddenly dry throat. “It’s nothing. I just did not think this was real. When I was in the garden.”

  I was babbling now, anything to keep my mind off the way his skin moved against mine.

  “There.” He dropped my hand, and it fell like a stone into my lap, barely missing knocking the whole platter to the floor.

  The pale skin was now unmarred, as if the small scrapes had never been. I curled my fingers into a fist.

  Maelriel refilled his cup with whatever magic he and the castle commanded and the moment passed.

  Alone in my conjured room, I could not stop the images that flashed through my mind. His golden eyes, the white strands of his hair brushing sharp cheekbones, a fang snagging on a plump lower lip.

  Maybe I had truly lost my mind. Maybe that was the real torture of this place.

  Slowly, I pulled the hem of my thin shift up my legs. The heat from the fire pressed into my skin and made me feel cocooned, safe.

  I ran my hands over the insides of my generous thighs; the skin there was smooth, devastatingly soft. I wondered what it would feel like to have a fang or claw rasp over the sensitive flesh.

  Maybe my mother had made the right choice after all—the most depraved, weakest daughter. What kind of woman craved the touch of a monster?

  I slipped a finger into my slick folds, moaning as I caressed the aching bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs.

  That’s when the warmth vanished, as quickly as if someone had snuffed out a candle.

  My body froze and I knew instantly I was not in my room anymore. My eyes flew open in a panic but I couldn’t see anything; the room was pitch black, without even the tiniest pinprick of light. It was suffocating. My chest heaved.

  “You continue to surprise me, Cornelia.” His silken voice whispered from the edges of the darkness.

  No.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. This could not be happening.

  What have you done now, Cornelia?

  Panic continued to rise in my chest, but it was mixed with something else; something entirely different made my hands shake. I pressed my thighs together to stop their quivering.

  The bed dipped as his body settled close to mine, not quite touching.

  “You know,” his breath landed hot on my neck, the tip of his nose barely brushing along my jaw, “desire has such a sweet, sweet smell.”

  My heart thumped wildly. My hands were still buried between my legs; I did not even have the wherewithal to remove them, not that it would make a difference.

  Maelriel’s body pressed up flush with mine, the heat from his skin positively scorching mine. I kept my eyes shut, but I could feel the defined planes of his leanly muscled chest. Feel the hardened length against my hip. My breath hitched.

  “Please do continue,” he said, and I could hear the devious grin in his words. But I couldn’t. I was frozen in indecision and shame that he’d caught me doing something so improper. It was not fitting for a woman of my station.

  “Maelriel,” I managed to choke out, his name a strangled plea.

  “Do you want me to touch you?” I felt his fingers dance over my collarbone, the thready pulse in my throat.

  I nodded, certain he could see me clearly in the dark, even if I couldn’t see him.

  “Hmm.” His finger stroked along the gaping opening of my shift. “I need to hear you say it, sweet Cornelia.”

  “Touch me,” I begged.

  I heard the fabric of my shift split as he dragged a claw down the front, the chill of the room pebbling my nipples. I gasped when he rolled one of the hard buds between his fingers, claws catching on the delicate flesh, sending spasms down my body.

  His body shifted higher over mine, to give better access to my breasts. His hot mouth clamped down on the other nipple and he sucked while I let out the most unladylike moan. I reached up to drag my fingers through his silky hair as he played my body like a finely-tuned instrument.

  His hand traveled lower, over my full belly and the curve of my hip. His fingers traced the path mine had wandered only moments ago across my inner thigh. My body vibrated with new urgency, the ache at my core almost unbearable.

  “Maelriel, please,” I rasped. My legs quivered with need and longing. I grasped uselessly at his shoulders. His dark chuckle danced across my collarbones.

  “Who knew my prickly wife could be so, so soft.”

  I felt the whisper of fangs on my throat at the same time his hand finally cupped my sex, one long finger trailing through the silky, slick folds.

  He stroked, finding that little nub of pleasure, and I cried out, digging my short nails into his skin. He hummed with satisfaction, sharp teething pressing harder but still not breaking the skin. His free hand tangled in my hair, pushing my head back to expose the length of my neck.

  I felt his smooth tongue right as he slipped a finger inside. My whole body was shaking and my mind was torn, trying to focus on the sensations at both my neck and my core. Maelriel added a second finger and the pressure was a delicious sear. The sounds coming from my mouth were wild, shameless, licentious.

  My cheeks burned with heat; I wanted to be embarrassed, but there wasn’t time. The pressure inside built and built and built with every stroke of his fingers. He trapped one of my flailing legs between strong legs, hot, hard length burning against my hip.

  “Let go, sweet Cornelia. Let go. I’m here.” His whispered words were followed by the sharp prick of his fangs and I was undone.

  A deep moan escaped my ravaged throat as I tipped over the precipice, spiraling into my pleasure, sex throbbing and clenching over his hand.

  Air left my lungs as I relaxed into the aftermath, fingers uncurling. “Did I…did I hurt you?”

  His tongue lapped at my throat. “It would take a lot more than that to hurt me, sweet one.” The spot on my neck twinged, but it was distant.

  “Did you…bite me?” The question came out shocked, like that was the most scandalous thing we’d done.

  His lips feathered soft over my neck and jaw and cheek, the slow movement hypnotic. “Only a little. Now sleep, and no more wishing and wanting tonight.”

  I was in a hell of my own making.

  At night, Maelriel would push me over the edge of ecstasy over and over and over again with his devious mouth and dexterous fingers.

  During what passed as our days, we usually gathered in the throne room, but Maelriel invented up luxurious sitting rooms and elaborate gardens as well. We drank wines from all over the world and platters and platters of out-of-season delicacies—grilled peaches, dates, sweet berries in cream sauce. There was no one around to make comments about how much I ate or that the second bready pastry was going to ruin my gown. The wardrobe he had dreamed up for me was a riot of diaphanous, gauzy day dresses in rich jewel tones that complimented my pale skin and dark hair. They usually laced under my bust and dropped off the shoulders, much like the thin shift I had come to him in on the first day.

  He demanded to know every detail of my small mortal life, as he put it. He wanted every memory, every triumph, every painful disappointment, that I could remember. Every scraped knee, the loss of a beloved childhood pet, the death of my father, my sisters. My mother.

  Today we walked through a hedgerow garden that felt like a labyrinth. The conjured sky was the purple-black of a fading bruise, a forever twilight. The magical spheres of light bobbed behind and ahead of us through the garden.

  I had forsaken the wearing of stockings and pinching shoes and my bare feet slipped gloriously through the cool grass.

  Maelriel trailed behind like a well-dressed, dandy shadow. “Ah, your mother. The one I did not get to have.”

  I snorted. “She never let me forget that, you know. Never let me forget how strong she was, where my grandmother had been weak.”

  “Your grandmother decided to defy the curse to save her only daughter. You think that is weakness?”

  I stopped to examine the pale-yellow roses sprouting from the dense hedgerow, trying not to appear overly interested. It was the first time I had heard him refer to our present situation as a curse. Curses could be broken; I just had to figure out how. “My grandmother paid dearly for her choice. Her people paid dearly. What is one daughter compared to the well-being of many?”

  It was a rote speech, the one I had heard all my life. What is the life of one daughter compared to the well-being of a whole kingdom? Sacrifice the one to spare the many. It was hard to argue with my mother’s logic, but she had not been the daughter that had been sacrificed. She had been the daughter who had been saved.

  We had come to a small clearing in the maze, covered with a canopied pergola, cushioned couches and a tray of wine and water already waiting.