Devil's Mate

DEVIL’S MATE PROTHEKA WORLDS CYN BLADE CONTENTS About the Book Devil’s Mate 1. Jenna 2. Verrin 3. Jenna 4. Jenna 5. Verrin 6. Jenna 7. Verrin 8. Jenna 9. Verrin 10. Jenna 11. Jenna 12. Verrin 13. Jenna 14. Jenna 15. Verrin 16. Jenna 17. Verrin 18. Jenna 19. Verrin 20. Jenna 21. Verrin 22. Jenna 23. Verrin 24. Jenna About the Author ABOUT THE BOOK While barely surviving under the thumb of oppressive orcs, Jenna daydreams of happiness and freedom. So when a con artist offers to trade a chance at her heart’s desire for her family heirloom, she jumps at the deal. But instead of love, she’s bonded to a sexy demon who tells her she’s put all of humankind in danger of annihilation. Verrin, conjured from his luxurious life on Galmoleth, is forced to live among the humans and the beautiful woman who summoned him. His demon mind wants to return home, but his conscience won’t let him leave her in potential danger. It will take more than just magic to save the world from ending and keep his demon heart from shattering. DEVIL’S MATE NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR MILLY TAIDEN writing as CYN BLADE This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. Published By Latin Goddess Press Winter Springs, FL 32708 http://cynblade.com Devil’s Mate Copyright © 2023 by Cyn Blade All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Property of Cyn Blade March 2023 Created with Vellum —For my readers, Another smoking hot story for you. ONE JENNA I am used to the sensation of the sun spilling over the foot of my bed, slowly crawling up to my slumbering face. I have to be out of bed at daybreak, but I’m generally already awake. My body has grown accustomed to the routine my mind has been stuck in for what feels like eternal damnation. I don’t mean to be so dramatic, but life hasn’t given me the most fulfilling hand as of late, or actually, for a very long time. I woke with my eyelids glued shut, and I made my way into the bathroom. To have running water, even if it is cold, is a small luxury we have here in Tlouz. My eyes slowly fluttered open, the only light in the bathroom was from the sunlight seeping in, and I teased the thick wash of flaming red hair flowing down the front of my chest. My eyes are a dim, gray-green shade, and I once considered myself to be rather attractive when that kind of thing interested me. But that all seemed like decades ago, back when pleasure was commonplace. Now, it is an extravagance I rarely, if ever, give myself permission to indulge in. Right after I washed my face, I watched the amorous daydreams filter down the drain, and my routine began like a soldier in a military camp proceeding into their day. It is strict, but it keeps my swirling emotions at bay. I don’t need anything interfering with my duties because, at this point, my responsibilities are crucial to not only my own life but the life of the main person I love, my mother. I moved into the kitchen to make breakfast. The mornings are tranquil and quiet. The glow of the orange sun is splashing across the floor like a painting. I notice these beautiful scenes because they are so rare in the goings-on of my day. Every now and then, beauty charms me, but in the grand scheme of the day, it only fuels the anger I keep in the depths of my heart and soul. So is the life of a human on Protheka. I use products that are naturally grown after decades of nourishing and committed cultivation on behalf of my father from our farm, which is on the outskirts of an orc-controlled village. I think of him thousands of times daily. The clink of the metal spoon sitting in the pot of tea is akin to the clank of our plow moving across the fields. I was once told that grief never goes away and that it lasts a lifetime, so we must get used to the pangs in our hearts that remind us our loved one is gone. I always rejected that notion, a cheap idea of comfort. I cut up fresh strawberries and blueberries from the garden and stirred the oatmeal made with oats grown by the farmer across the road. Once it is hot and ready, I dish it up, sprinkle flecks of brown sugar on top, drop in the berries, and slide a spoon into each bowl. I walked toward the room we now refer to as the spare. It was once my father’s, the one he would sleep in when he had to rise early the next day to not disturb my mother. I knocked lightly and opened the door. I feel an ache in my heart that I have managed to ignore. “Good morning,” I whisper. The person using my father’s room is my good friend Carmen. She opens her eyes to the sight of me holding her oatmeal, and a sweet smile blooms across her pretty face. “Mmm, this bed and breakfast has great service,” she quips, her voice husky from sleep. I chuckle quietly, placing both bowls on the side table. I open the curtains softly, then sit next to her. She stretched while laying on her back, and once she finished, I placed a hand on her thigh. “What time did you get in last night?” I ask. Her face turns sour as she sits up,