Venators: Promises Forged. Devri Walls

name, Grey escaped the bed and fled to the peace of the balcony.

      The night was still, and the forest spread out below him, ambiguous in its shadowed texture. The muted light of night washed away the defining features of Eon and offered the illusion that he could’ve been anywhere. A cabin, maybe, in the mountains on his side of the gate.

      It was in this space—a tiny sliver of reality where the fantasy felt real and smelled real and granted him the ability to ignore the full truth of his situation—that Grey allowed himself to breathe. He stared out across the distance, unmoving lest he break the illusion, until his legs and feet ached. He ignored the pain. He didn’t want to go inside.

      Couldn’t go inside.

      The room the council had given him was beautiful but filled with dated, museum-quality décor. Each piece of archaic ornamentation acted as a mouthpiece, whispering, as he woke, that none of the nightmares had been a dream. The walls, the rugs, the unlit chandelier, all pressed in with one suffocating truth: this world he’d so desperately dreamed of was nothing more than a new variation on an all-too-familiar cycle in his life—a cycle of being used and abused. He trembled under the built-up pain that, over the last few days, had been morphing to rage.

      When the ache in his muscles refused to be ignored a moment longer, Grey reluctantly turned, deciding to read a book, only to remember there were none in his room. In fact, he hadn’t seen any at all.

      Grey swore under his breath and scrubbed his hands over his tired eyes. At home, he’d drowned his angst in books. The total escape of fiction and the research of nonfiction both distracted his mind with the same effectiveness. But he wasn’t home—he was here. In Eon. Stuck in a room in a barbaric castle without books, internet, TV, or anything else that might distract him.

      He was faced with only two choices: dreams he couldn’t control or an illusion he could.

      There was a knock at the door. Grey jolted and surged forward, reaching for a weapon.

      Woah! Relax. Although their position in the council house was precarious, given his and Rune’s actions two nights ago, it was unlikely an assassin would announce their presence by knocking at the door. Right? Probably unlikely.

      The knock came again.

      Grey grabbed his shirt off the back of the chaise and headed for the door. He jerked the black shirt over his head and struggled to tug it down around his chest and stomach with one hand while grabbing the doorknob with the other.

      The door was half open when he froze.

      Wearing a pale-blue silk dress that slid over her curves like a second skin, Tashara waited in the hall. The succubus’s hip was cocked to the side. One hand, pale and delicate, rested at her waist. She was stunning, perfect in an uncanny way that was nearly off putting.

      Nearly.

      His cheeks heated, and he couldn’t decide where to look.

      “No, no, no.” She tsked. “Grey, you’re blushing. We talked about this. Try again.” Tashara reached out, took the handle, and pulled the door shut between them.

      Grey groaned and dropped his head against the door. He’d gone to Tashara for help after they’d returned from the hunt, asking for assistance in becoming someone other than who he was before he managed to get himself killed. It had been an impulsive, desperate move—one he regretted.

      He was so damn exhausted with pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Prior to crossing through that portal, he’d honestly thought it couldn’t get much worse. Irritation at the miscalculation poked its head up, looking to lash out. He shoved it away.

      Tashara knocked again. The vibrations tickled his forehead. He’d have ignored her if he’d thought for a second it’d work. Grey growled, straightened, and jerked the door open.

      The succubus had reset her stance and adjusted her dress—the slit was now open to the top of the thigh. He swallowed.

      “Grey!” Tashara put a hand on his chest and pushed him to the side. She slid past him, a wave of floral aroma trailing behind. “During yesterday’s lesson, you almost had control. What happened?”

      Grey pushed the door shut, stammering. “I . . . You . . .” He pointed, gesturing first down and then up, and finished with a wave that was supposed to indicate that all of it was what had happened.

      She scoffed. “I look no different than last we met. In fact”—she smoothed her hands down her sides, trailing the well-defined curves—“I’m more demurely dressed.”

      Grey cocked an eyebrow.

      “It’s true. The only difference between now and then is that you haven’t had time to desensitize yourself.”

      He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, just—give me a second.”

      “You don’t get the luxury of time. Your initial reaction is what will be scrutinized. Both with the council and others. It’s imperative you appear distant and disinterested, no matter your emotional or physical reaction. It’s one of the few advantages you can truly own.”

      The information was not new. She’d hammered it home yesterday. And it was valid, but the lessons had left him feeling frustrated and completely overwhelmed. He’d been careful not to let her see it at the time, but right now, he was beyond exhausted, and pent-up frustration hammered at the back of his lips.

      “What?” Tashara slid one hand beneath her waterfall of blonde hair and pushed it over her shoulder. “There’s something you want to say.”

      “No. Nothing.”

      “Don’t lie to me.”

      “I’m not lying.” Grey ducked his head out of habit. “It’s just not important.”

      Tashara leveled on him a sultry gaze. She put one foot in front of the other, stalking forward. “You think you can brush me off so easily? You’re adorable, Grey, but incredibly naive.”

      She looked human but moved with the grace of a wild, predatorial thing. A lump formed in his throat, which irked him because he knew she wasn’t using magic—he’d felt the flex of that and knew the difference; this desire was his alone. And while he didn’t have a problem feeling attraction for another, he despised feeling this much attraction for a predator.

      She ran a finger coyly down his cheek. “Your ears are turning red again.”

      Her touch, that look—he felt like a parakeet waiting for a cat to pounce. Grey shoved her hand away with a snarl and stepped around.

      Tashara’s voice turned cold at his back. “Let’s not forget, you came to me for help.”

      He gripped the rolled top of a heavily upholstered armchair to keep his hands from balling into fists. Breathing in tightly through his nose, Grey fought to keep his voice even. “What do you want from me? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

      “Tell me what you’re so angry about.”

      “Who said I was angry?” He’d attempted the statement as a light deflection. It came out as a confirming punctuation.

      “You did—the way your chest jerks, that tightness in your jaw. I’m an expert in the human form, as you know, and I—”

      “Fine, I’m angry.” He’d held on to one hope in life, one, and that was escape. The fact that his dream of a new life had turned out to be a different hell in another realm racked him with bitter disappointment . . . and a healthy dose of shame for his childish thoughts. “Did you want to hear everything I hate about his place?” The question came out as snidely as it felt. “Or would you prefer examples?”

      “Start talking, and let’s see where it goes.”

      Grey didn’t have to see Tashara to visualize the wry twist of her mouth. Irritated at her amusement, he glared at the balcony doors. The thick, wavy glass