He walked the zig-zag streets. The smell of fresh bread and hammered iron within the same breath. The steelworks and bakeries were a peculiar trend in his city. Sure, weapon and armour manufacturing were the highest in the realm. It was the city of wrath after all. But the dozens of shops, spanning from sandwich delis, local craft stores, and the hottest blacksmith’s steel, shards could buy.

  He noted that this economy seemed to form around the culture of workers, first with numerous places to feed such hard-working crafters, and then it grew to include ways to repair, clothe, and sew equipment. The business of providing everything for a shop owner, a labourer and then the families that started to form.

  He didn’t even know this would happen, and he ran this city. He just wanted a way to keep the feral demons off the streets and earn some income. It turns out that all those troublemakers just wanted a job, a hard, decently paid one. And the rest is now a bustling street in the kingdom of wrath.

  But he might have liked it if he hadn’t had all those eyes staring at him. The shy salute, from sooty men, the gawking florists and the smiling bakers. It was too much attention, too much respect for someone who just taxed them and sat on a throne. They made this city, not him.

  But more distractingly, there was the woman strolling at his side, her eyes scowling the whole town down. He could feel her judgment, feel that knife in his back. He deserved it, of course. But waiting for the puncture might of been more agonising. When his next step could be his last. When the blow could come at any moment.

  He wanted to fly off at his point, take the rest of the trip by rooftop and air. Maybe that would release the tension, stop the twist in his chest. But like a warden, her frown grounded him. Her hand, inches from his. So close he could reach for it. So close she might break it if he did.

  He chewed his lip. His gaze was unable to unstick from hers. Dark, red, and showing her fangs. He had bitten her, and she had bitten him back. By tradition, that was a vow of blood. A Valkar ceremony between mates. A simple share of each other. A bond that would hold as long as blood pumped.

  Marriage.

  However, watching her glare at everything around her, her brows creased. She was definitely mad at him. Definitely not thinking of vows or bonds. And it might be unwise to test that.

  He grimaced at the idea, she might kill him for real if he said ‘mate, lover, wife’. It was an accident, an in-the-moment surge of blood soaking his lips, her taste lacing his tongue.

  She glanced at him, her fingers suddenly inching her long, smooth neck.

  He cleared his throat, hiding his expression at all costs.

  It didn’t look weird, right? She didn’t know what he was just thinking?

  She continued her deadpan stare, something penetrating about it, like each moment she started to peel at his armour. Dig inside, find what should remain hidden. He couldn’t tell her. He dared not speak it himself.

  But what he did notice was the way the crowd lingered around them. Whispers gossip, and all eyes were on Lorelai. Still dressed in her torn shirt, still smothered in grime. She looked more beggar than the oil-soaked demons in the workshops.

  And the words that followed, like a chatter of snides, snarks, and judgment. It started with the florists. More noble than the rest, all dressed up in tight corsets and sharp lips.

  An outer circle formed, not that anyone dared say anything, but the looks they had said it all. Why was she walking with him? Tramp, vagabond, succubus—Whore.

  He turned to Lorelai, her expression hidden by the shade that covered it, the dark that soaked her eyes. And oh hell, he wanted to move, speak, just do anything.

  However, whipping her tail, snapping a box of bread like an annoying fly, she stopped.

  “Wait here”, she said.

  He frowned, “Wait, why—“

  She leaned in close, too close, her breath kissing his skin.

  “Shut up and stay,” she said.

  Then, without even confirming, she turned and strolled into a shop, Marsh’s eyes lingering on her back as she entered through a curtain. Her tail curled the fabric as she disappeared.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The broken sign above claimed to be a second-hand trader, a cleaning service, and a gadget repair shop. All in one. But he still felt stiff, the afterimage of her being so close, so within his range. A rhythm pumping in his chest.

  It was so loud that he expected Shadow to make a stupid quip, to point out that he had just drooled over the woman, craving a taste. Watched her go and hated waiting.

  He shuffled his boots. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he leave? Why couldn’t he deny it? But he waited anyway. Waited to see what weird thing she pulled out, waited with the masses. She was unpredictable, if he put it nicely. She had this odd, impulsive energy to jump off a cliff, because she felt like it. The sort of thing that kept him on his toes. Kept him watching. That was all it was. He was just fulfilling his duty. Protect the princess, and wait for Rosalind to do whatever she did. It was simple. He had no alternative. None, not at all.

  Then he heard some old voices. Their fingers poked, their giggles too loud in a crowd.

  “Did you see her...”

  “Oh, I smelt her first, haha.”

  “What is the prince thinking?”

  One pushed the other.

  “Don’t blame the younging. I was quite the Tramp in my day, but I still scored my child maker.”

  “Back in the day! Girl, you still are.”

  The croons shook each other, like wrinkled bags of skin. One demanding she take it back, the other hiding behind her demon-shaped shield.

  They were harmless. Just old demons with too much time, and an outdated mentality. Their intricate dresses were wrapped in so much gold that it could blind someone, said enough.

  But it still pressed his fangs, stirred something in his core. Even Shadow started to wake up. But the fragment slammed his eyes shut harder as if still pissed with him for jumping into gunfire.

  Still, he couldn’t contain himself, his fingers rolling into a fist. Stupid wretches, they didn't understand anything, knew what he did. They roll in their graves if they knew. It was Edric’s daughter they insulted. The real king of Wrath.

  But he folded his arms. He wasn’t about to kick over some old ladies, as much as part of him wanted to. Shadow’s half-baked roll over, just confirming it.

  “What's taking her so long?” he muttered.

  His foot tapped; this gossip curdling his ears. His eyes were fixed on the curtain. His posture reverting to stone, his days as a soldier taught him well. It didn’t matter how long it took; he could wait. That was his mission.

  Then—

  “Shameless that one, is she trying to be a princess?”

  This time, the voice was younger, higher-pitched.

  Another woman giggled. “In her dreams, the prince must be giving her pity.”

  Marshal twisted, but before he could, the curtain drew back.

  And hitting him like spiked roses, her crimson eyes met him, her totally smug lips curving as his gaze. She strolled out, her old dress, perfume, and swirl, like a glue that absorbed light, giving out a shine from her fanged lips.

  For a woman always in rags or blood, seeing her glow like a queen, smile like a goddess.

  He didn’t have a word for it. But one thing did come to mind.

  “Princess”, one old woman barked.

  The word was stolen from Marshal’s lips. Yes, she was. A gorgeous one.

  But as Lorelai moved closer, her cynical expression returned.

  And then as she walked beside him, she pushed her nose up, eyes meeting his.

  “He will pay for it,” she said.

  After that, she just continued walking off, past him, past the doubting old ladies, past his reach. She parted the crowd like a sea, let her heels click. Let her legs show him what he couldn’t have, her tail wagging like she just won a bet.

  “Ah, sir. I- mean you highness.”

  The merchant came out, eyes low as he seemed afraid to ask, a check in his fingers.

  Marshal sighed and pulled out his ID.

  “Charge my estate, send anything else she got there too.”

  The timid demon bowed. Not daring to ask anything else.

  “I’ll make it so.” He said.

  But Marshal just turned to the sneaky sucubus, the woman who carved a path to his manor.

  “What am I going to do with her?” he said.

  Shadow leaned a ghostly hand on him.

  “Marry her. Obviously.”