Page 125 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

He stood just beyond the archway, half-silhouetted by the warm light spilling in from the sconces. Jacket gone. His tie loosened. One hand lifted, deft fingers working the knot free from his throat, each movement effortless.

She couldn’t look away.

The tie slid from his collar with a whisper of silk. Then, he unbuttoned the first, then the second clasp of his shirt, giving her a glimpse of skin—dark gold in the low light, the curve of his throat leading to the hollow at the centre of his chest, one swirl peeking from beneath his silk shirt.

Her mouth went dry.

It was nothing, really. Just a demon unwinding after a formal event. Yet, here, in the quiet sanctuary of his home, it felt like the disrobing of armour. A shedding of names and obligations. This was not Varil Arkenoth, the mysterious artifact hunter from Aegis & Ash. Not the demon heir, or the Daemar’s son. None of the curated façades he wore so well.

This was Ark. Just Ark.

“I don’t throw out that kind of rare magic,” he said. “Especially not when they bloomed only for me.”

She wasn’t sure when he moved. One moment, she was watching him, and the next, he was pressed against her, and her fingers curled into his collar, tugging him down.

Their mouths met with no preamble. No soft testing. No second-guessing. It was a kiss rooted in knowing—in every look, every longing silence, every brush of fingertips. His lips were hot and sure on hers, his hands finding her waist with that easy confidence he wore like a second skin.

She gasped as he lifted her onto the sideboard, her body flush against his, knees parting to cradle him close. The cold marble beneath her thighs was nothing—forgotten. All she felt was the drag of his mouth, the heat of his palms sliding up her thighs, the ache pooling low in her belly.

He kissed her again, slower this time. Languid. Like he had all the time in the world to memorize her mouth. His tongue teased hers in lazy, deliberate strokes until she was panting, her fingers trembling where they clutched his shirt.

She wanted to burn this moment into her memory. The way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. The way he always touched her with reverence, but with need too, as if some part of him still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this.

To have her.

She curled her fingers into his hair, tugging gently until he looked up. His gaze was molten. Worshipful.

“I want you,” she whispered.

Those lips quirked. “You have me.”

The bare honesty in his eyes stung hers. He dropped to his knees. Her breath caught from how right it felt. From the sight of him there, between her legs, pressing close, hands sliding up her thighs beneath the layers of her gown.

He kissed the inside of one knee, then the other.

“Cassia,” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just above the seam of her undergarments. “Let me taste you.”

She leaned back, legs parted, breath shaky as he kissed her through the fabric. Then his hands—those hands—slid the scrap of lace down, and his mouth replaced it. Open, slow, reverent.

She moaned, fingers buried in his hair when his tongue found her with devastating precision. Her hips lifted to meet him, her body arching, eager, a little wild. But he anchored her—hands on her thighs, mouth moving in a rhythm that scattered her breath and thoughts and everything in between. A sound tore from her throat that she didn’t recognize. She moaned his name, over and over as she undulated against him, the syllables dissolving like sugar on her tongue.

And still, he devoured her.

She let him. Because if these were to be her final moments with him . . . then let her remember the way he worshipped her. Let her remember how he fell to his knees to make her feel like a queen.

Ark rose slowly, hands sliding up the backs of her thighs as he stood. She didn’t realize what he intended until he gripped her waist. She moved with him instinctively, wrapping her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders. Their mouths met again—hot, messy, breathless—as he carried her deeper into his home. Past tall archways and warm oak paneling. Past soft light spilling through frosted glass and into the bedroom.

The room was simple. Shadowed. Beautiful. Like the rest of his home, it felt intentional. Clean lines softened by texture—linen sheets, a carved wooden headboard, a dark wall hung with something soft and woven. A single lamp cast the space in a dim, amber glow.

He lowered her to the edge of the bed, hands cradling her like she was glass. She sat up slightly, fingers at the clasp of her gown—but he beat her to it.

“Let me,” he whispered.

His mouth ghosted her jaw as he worked the fastenings, voice rough against her skin. Fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her waist. Cool air kissed her bare skin. Then his hands, reverent and warm, swept down her sides. He kissed her collarbone. Her sternum. The swell of one breast. His breath skated across her skin as he undressed her slowly, like this wasn’t just undressing, but unwrapping something for which he’d spent his whole lifetime waiting.

He stood. She watched him undo the buttons then shrug his shirt off with practiced ease. Her eyes dragged over the stretch of skin revealed—broad shoulders, the lean cut of muscle, the strength he always wore so discreetly beneath impeccable tailoring.

Her breath caught again from the sheer beauty of him. The broad planes of his chest. The ridges of his abdomen. The dark lines of his markings appeared and disappeared like ink and runes across golden skin. His horns gleamed under the dim light. He looked every inch the demon lord—until he stepped closer and knelt like a man about to worship.