Demon Forged

decision that destroyed those feelings.
    He’d pleaded. For her, he’d pleaded. “Please do not do this. If you trade yourself this way, Irena, I will be nothing. Let me die here, still a man. With honor.”
    She hadn’t agreed. His honor would hold as long as he fought. It hadn’t been his honor at risk, but his pride.
    And so Irena had chosen between his pride and his life.
    She’d wanted to cry, to scream. But she’d held on to her calm and ordered the demon to give Olek back his hands, so that they would heal quickly. Her heart had ached. But she’d walked into the room and used her Gift to seal it.
    Her body would withstand this bargain. But if Alejandro came in, fought, Irena would fight beside him and break her bargain—and her soul would be lost. So she’d locked the room, and locked her heart and soul away, too.
    The first form the demon had taken resembled Michael. No one could copy the Doyen’s appearance, but only try to mimic the bronze skin and close-cropped black hair. She’d expected pain, but he’d been gentle. He’d played with her like a lover. He’d licked and kissed, had whispered compliments into her ears. He’d put himself inside her, easing his way with practiced caresses that her body responded to, but that Irena hadn’t felt . She couldn’t physically resist him without losing her soul, and so she went to the same place she had when she’d been violated as a human. She’d sculpted in her mind, practiced with her swords, imagined the smile of Alejandro’s eyes. For two days, maybe three, the demon had used her body—but he didn’t touch her. And the only pleasure she’d felt was in his frustration that she didn’t respond.
    Then he’d shape-shifted into Alejandro’s form.
    It had been her shock and anger that had done it—formed a tiny crack in her defenses. And for an instant, when his lips had touched her neck, she’d wished it was Olek. Had imagined it was him.
    And in that instant, she’d lost. She couldn’t physically resist him, and so there was only herself to fight as he’d touched her. By the time his mouth had moved between her legs, she’d raged at him to get off her.
    She’d battled the first orgasm—and every one after it. Fighting, resisting her reaction, hating that her need for Alejandro had given the demon a tool to use against her.
    She hadn’t stopped fighting. It was the only thing about those two weeks that didn’t shame her.
    She hadn’t stopped fighting—but she’d felt the urge to give in. To stop resisting and clutch him to her. To move with him and glory in every physical sensation.
    Demons had their own specialties. For that one, it had been destroying humans through their own need. He’d done his job well, and she’d learned what a demon was. Their evil was not just that they hated humans, that they loved pain, that they wanted to destroy mankind; their evil was that they led humans to hurt themselves—and to crave the very thing that destroyed them.
    Irena still didn’t know if she’d have broken, or how long it might have taken. It didn’t matter if she could have resisted for centuries—she’d seen the possibility in herself, and that recognition had been more horrifying than anything the demon might have done.
    But she hadn’t reached that point. Michael had come looking for them. He’d teleported into the room and beheaded the demon while it labored over her rigid form. Without a bargain to hold her, she’d kicked the dead demon off. She’d snarled at Michael to leave. And when he’d gone, she’d taken out her rage on the demon’s body.
    She had no memory of tearing it apart. Only of how shocked she’d been when awareness had returned, and she’d seen what she’d done. There were a few pieces of the demon larger than her fist—but not many.
    And so she’d learned that about herself, too—that she could completely lose herself to anger.
    Devastated, she’d staggered out of the room to find Alejandro attempting to melt his way in through the thick walls. The deep well in the iron had shown how long he’d been trying. His hands had been burned down to stumps.
    The pain that had descended on her then crushed her. She’d wanted to kiss his hands, to hold him—but she’d also been burning with a rage and need that wasn’t only for him, and she hadn’t been able to separate them. And how could she tell him that she’d almost been broken? She could not. Shame had added its weight. She barely