She woke Death’s heart.
Woken from his centuries-long sleep, Pasdor, a demon known as the Prince of Death, must find the being who pulled him from his rest. Furious and determined to enact vengeance for such a slight, Pasdor finds himself at odds with his instincts when he sees the one who called to him.
Carwynn, a slave and prisoner to a mortal, longs for the relief of death. But death isn’t what she thought it was. Now, faced with the massive male who refuses to let her hide, she has to come to terms with her life. She’s actually a powerful fey, and she must decide what path she will choose to follow.
Pulled together by their hearts and then forced apart, Carwynn and Pasdor must risk everything to save themselves and those who have sworn fealty to them.
Content Warning: sexual content, demon and fey temper tantrums, and violence
Pain ripped into Pasdor’s soul with the force of a thousand tiny daggers, and his heart stuttered. The ripple of a weak cry circled like waves on a pond with a stone dropped in.
“Who dares to wake me?” he growled. The room shook as he marched forward.
He inhaled a deep breath, the smell of smoke and burning flesh filling his nostrils. Screams of the damned carried from a distance along with the boisterous sounds of demons. He shivered. A sharp pain through his chest had him staggering. His grip on his axe loosened, and it fell to the ground. The ripples spread, and wave after wave of agony and despair crashed over him.
It ripped through flesh and bone, digging in like barbed claws. He hit his knees, his throat tightening at the pain shredding him. Choking, he closed his eyes, his fist clenched against his chest. Through the agony, he could sense the holder of the pain. The essence wrapped around his heart, making it race.
Frail and weak, the soul cried out, exhausted, tormented. She begged for deliverance, for death, a succor too far from her grasp. Trapped in the realm of the living, the soul mourned.
Jagged edges sagged in misery even as its natural beauty trickled away. His heart flared, pounding against his ribs, each throb a drumbeat of anger and need. Pasdor tilted his head. His ears caught the faint wheeze of air through damaged lungs. Was it possible?
“You wake early, my son.” Heavy, wet wheezing drew his attention. He whirled and stared at the dark figure shuffling toward him.
Shrouded in flowing black robes, the ancient god approached, his cloak rippling across the stone like a living creature. Around the room, flames roared, reaching high before retreating. With each step, sparks and embers whirled.
The odor of sulfur and blood filled Pasdor’s head with a familiar warmth. The smell was enough to clear his mind, and he exhaled a slow breath.
“Aye, my lord, Nerafail.” Struggling to his feet, Pasdor picked up his axe and turned to face his king. “Though I was promised eternal sleep, it appears it is not to be. Someone has stirred the heart within my chest, pulling me from my long slumber. I can feel it—a soul calls out to me.”
“A soul?” Nerafail frowned, shuffling closer. Sparks skipped across the folds of his robes, dancing along the stones like impatient children.