His last hope of finding his brother is a disrespectful demon, If he can control it ...

Witch Margaret Chrysler needs a provocative charming demon, which she must watch out for how much she needs a hole in the head.

However, he finds himself tied to a demon with a dark past as hot as his annoying, all so he can find his trapped brother.

He had better track down the kidnapper quickly, before he goes crazy. Or worse ...

Stealing his heart.

Atticus Vhampson loses care of the others in the magical prison of the Shadows. So when Margaret lets him go to help her, her plan is simple: Seduce the Sexy Witch, Steal her powers so she won't be bound again, and be happy.

Much to his frustration, though, there is a fatal flaw in his plan, the Witch makes him want to keep him.

And that would be a disaster.

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BOOK ONE: THE FORBIDDEN DESIRE

With a loud bang, the door of Marga’s family mausoleum slammed shut behind her. A sudden silence enveloped him, the sounds of the sleepy Kinland were broken. Marga is just now, standing amidst the lingering energy of her ancestors, during the night’s witchcraft, armed with nothing but her craft and a healthy dose of despair. Enough to unleash a bluofighter demon from the Shadows.

The beam of his flashlight haunted the walls and stopped, inadvertently, at one of the stored stone coffins. Melinda Chrysler, 1935-2007. The letters seemed to frown at him — full of disapproval of the transgression he would commit. His power resounded in reaction to the remaining magic reading in the air, still very strong even a few years later after the sorcerer’s demise. She bit her teeth and avoided looking at her grandmother's name on the marble plaque.

"I don't have a choice." Her whisper echoed in the dark of the tomb, thrown back at her along with silent reproach. "Am I supposed to just let her die?"

 Of course, there is no answer. The remnants of her grandmother's energy were strong enough to blush at her, but, naturally, did not offer any help.

 The thought of releasing a blood-eating demon squeezed his chest, sucking all the heat out of him. With doubt resting on his shoulders, he stopped. The power of his ancestors hissed into his skin, falling on him. What if they’re right, what if it’s too dangerous? Maybe he should just-

 Unbidden, a flash of memory tore through her. Lips curved at the dirty joke Marga had just told, Marissa stole a Skittle out of the bag lying between them and threw it at Margarita. “You’re so bad,” she said around a giggle, her eyes the color of fire and smoke bright in a face dotted with freckles, framed by ginger hair so like Marga’s.

Heart laughing at the unusual display of boldness from her baby sister, Marga hugged her tight. “Made you smile, though, didn’t it?”

A smile he would never see again if he gave up now. Either he was in danger of losing his bond with this demon — or he would soon be able to watch another stone coffin being added to this tomb.

Still vivid in his mind is the memory of lying on the lips of his mother, his eldest sister, and eventually, his grandmother, the loss of a painful wound in his heart. The loss of Marissa, was more than tearing that wound wider — it tearing a chasm in her soul, the size of which is immeasurable.

 Throat raw at this thought, he crushed all doubt and began to work. He placed the flashlight vertically in a corner, the cone of its light touching the vaulted ceiling. He next opened the duffel bag he was carrying and took out the sage. Lighting it up, he cleared the space, making sure no trace of negativity would damage the spell, even though the prolonged power in the wind had already repelled most of the evil spirits.

Some spaces don’t require as much cleaning as others; the grave of a line of powerful sorcerers is one of them.

 Since the heavy and smoky smell of sage was still filling the air, he threw the salt around himself. Just a precaution, a ward against invading spirits that can attack him as he spells.

After drawing out five candles, placing them at protective points in the circle and lighting them, he sat cross-legged on the stone floor, placing his family’s grimier on his lap. The binding of the thick leather tome was soft under his fingers as he opened it to the section that would guide him through the process. It’s not much, just a page of information to bind or untie a demon from the Shadows, but it has to be done.

 Closing her eyes, she reached out to the source of all that was magic and life. "I humbly beseech the Powers That Be to grant me protection," she whispered into the silence.

There is no guarantee that they will follow, because they are fickle, ignored, like magic done in the world. It is the greatest hubris and worst mistake of a sorcerer to think of completely controlling it.

 A mistake he didn’t want to make. She was always guarded by the powers she tapped, her grandmother’s words of warning forever etched in her mind. For every spell you cast, there is a hole to undo it, which is hidden in your knowledge.

 He let out a sigh, opened his eyes and began the ritual.

His words will summon the bluofighter demon in front of the Shadows, close enough to hear, listen, and speak, but still bound and powerless. Talk to the spirit first, measure if it is reasonable. Will the creature be willing to cooperate?

Not for the first time, he wondered about his grandmother’s reasons for tying the demon to the magical equivalent of Hell, with a very powerful spell that only one of his direct bloodline could undo. Undoubtedly, this is not for a quick ticket. No, it is supposed to make the devil to atone for taking an innocent life, perhaps more than one.

 Trembling with the sore feeling in his stomach, he focused again. Whatever the creature did, it didn’t matter now, nor would it matter in the future as long as he kept the demon in control and made sure to tie it up again when Marissa was free.

 "By the magic of my line," she intoned, "with the power passed unto me, I call upon the Shadows to obey my commands."

 The air became thicker, more humid and intense as if foreshadowing a storm. Shadows twisted, whispers of darkness, coiled and unraveling in streaks of black and gray, like the smoke of a sage made only momentarily. Only this smoke, survived. The active power in the wind inspired the remaining magic of his ancestors, which resounded in response.

 "Bring forth the bluofighter demon bound by Melinda, daughter of Michelle, of the Chrysler family."

 The energy of his ancestors combined and filled his head with their clinking, until his temples throbbed. The air became even thicker. The whisper of the Shadows echoed in the dark corner of the tomb.

 Then, silence.

 "Speak."

Chasing his breath. Her heartbeat quickens. The voice was in his mind, masculine, deep, and echoing in areas of his body that it had no access to.

 Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he examined and strengthened his mental shields, and tapped the depths of his power. There was no way he would let a demon bother him like an untrained novice sorcerer. Her magic may not be as strong as her grandmother's, but she can handle it. Even though this was the first time he had encountered a demon.

 "Who are you?" That voice again, deep and resonant, danger wrapped in velvet. It stroked along her senses, testing her shields. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt his touch against her mental defenses, a hot brush of darkness.

 With great force, he hid the anxiety in his aura, showing only the calm confidence that he had a way to control her. He will not show any weakness. Not now, not toward him. “I am Margarita,” she said, her voice steady. “Daughter of Mariana, head of the Chrysler line. It was my grandmother Melinda who bound you. ”

 His senses sharpened, focused, as he felt the presence behind the voice moving. He approached the veil between the worlds, circling the brink of the Shadows.

 "Marga."

 The way he pronounced his name — a growl that caressed his core.

 "I remember you."

 Her skin prickled.

"Your hair was braided." He paused. The air crackled. “Blue. Your dress was blue, like your eyes. ”

 Her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her ribs.

 "You were a pretty girl, little witch."

 His words opened up a memory, a string of images, feelings, buried so long, he had forgotten. It's back now with twitter.

 The lawn outside his house. The old cherry tree was still standing, its branches shaking in the warm evening breeze. Bright eyes focused on him as the demon bent down, aligning his face with hers. Sizzling energy, brushing his skin, raising the feathers on his arms.

"Hello, little witch." A smile on his lips.

 "Margarita!" Her grandmother’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

 Her heartbeat quickened. Those eyes held her captive.

 “Margarita, get back inside. Now. ” Marga had never heard such sharpness in her grandmother’s voice.

“Listen to your grandma, little witch. You’re too young to play outside after dark. ” The wind tousled his chestnut-colored hair then rustled through the leaves as he winked at her and stood.

 Her grandmother stepped towards the man when Marga was pulled back, dragged by her mother into the house with silent words of sarcasm and a fierce caution to the mother. But Marga didn't lose sight of his face.

 A face of enticing beauty, with a subtle hint of danger that even a five -year -old would understand.

He sighed at the force of the memory, the maelstrom of emotion it caused. Restraining himself back to the present, he tried to calm his nerves. However, the girl inside him was trembling.

"I have summoned you to make you an offer." She sounded so much stronger than she felt.

 A strict silence followed.

 "You need my help." His voice dripped with smugness.

 She bit back a caustic response. Antagonizing him at this point would not be clever. "Yes," she said instead. "I need you to find my sister, Marissa."

 "Marissa… the little chatty one?"

He was about to correct it when it hit him — he was tied to the Shadows when Marga was about six years old. He had only met his sister Marga before the incident which cut through a gaping hole in the family and suppressed Marga’s spirit, who had only been the shadow of the energetic woman back then.

 She swallowed, heart pounding as she pushed the memory away before it could truly surface. “Yes. She’s been taken by one of your kind, and I need your help to locate him. ”

 He tried to hunt himself down, but his species were rare and impossible to find by magic. His power was still battered by the rituals he had performed, his mind exhausted from the feverish pursuit of a way to find Marissa. Locator spell failed. His Elders turned their backs on him. This is his last chance. Only another bluofighter demon senses the abductor's presence, track him down.

 "How long has he had her?"

"Almost two days."

 "Then she's most likely dead already." Spoken with calm indifference.

 “No. I can still feel her. ” When his mother and his sister Maica died, and later his grandmother passed away, his connection with them was severed. The link to Marissa remained intact. It was throbbing inside him, a constant reminder of what was about to disappear from him.

If the link is strong enough to be traced, he doesn't have to do it ...

 “I will unbind you from the Shadows so you can search for the one holding her captive,” she said, steel in her voice, “but you will be bound to me, and I can find you, no matter where you run. You will cooperate with me, and you will not step out of line. If you spill innocent blood, I will make you suffer for it. ”

 His presence is darkened, intimidating, and glued to the veil that keeps him on the other side. Then — in the twinkling of an eye of his strength — he softened and wiped his mind.

 “What do I get in return, little witch?”

 He bristled and pushed back the sensuous caress of his words, ignoring the influx of heat between his thighs. Treacherous body. She would not purr back. “You can taste life again,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “You can breathe, drink, move, see the world… You’ve been in the Shadows for what? Twenty years? I’m sure you’d like a break from darkness, inertia and hunger, wouldn’t you? ”

 A touch of his presence on her mind, a gentle teasing. "I'll help you if you vow to release me completely afterwards."

"You know I can't grant you that without my Elders' consent," he said while gritting his teeth. No matter what happened, she couldn't completely get rid of the bondage — if she fell in blood and raged, Marga would have to take responsibility for every innocent life she took. And the Powers That Be kept without mercy. “This is your chance for a taste of freedom, and it will be all I can give you. Take it or leave it. ”

 Extreme silence filled the tomb. The pause was long enough to constrict his stomach, to make his breathing strained and shallow. What if he said no? Gods — part of her wished for that. Then he could go home, safe, his conscience free.

 And Marissa will die.

The thought punched him right in his gut, painful enough to erase any concern about removing a demon from the Shadows. Chest tightening, he straightened his spine. He can do it.

 “Will you feed me?” His voice was vibrant with sensuality, and her heartbeat kicked up a notch.

 “Yes,” she ground out, unbidden and very inappropriate tingles of excitement running over her skin.

He could feel the pleasure it filled with the silence that followed.

 "Then we have a deal, little witch of mine."

 Her love envelops her soul, caresses, entices, takes root. He took a deep breath and strengthened his mental shields to combat the effect of its voice on him. Gods dammit, it's just a voice.

“All right,” she said quietly, steeling herself. "Ready?"

"I am if you are."

 A pain of doubt terrified him. The danger he will take ... He clenched his jaw and buried that thought. Not like he has other options left.

With one inhalation, he combined his power, and focused on putting in his next words of magic that changed routine.

 “From hunger, pain and darkness, bring unto the light, the spirit bound by Melinda, in never-ending night. Relinquished from the Shadows, as per my decree, its form released, its power leashed, it will be chained to me. ”

His magic struck, merged with the natural power of words, and clashed with the felt force of the Shadows. For a moment they bristled, stubborn and always as hungry as they were, but then they yielded. Coiled, they became a mass of stygian, impenetrable darkness before his eyes, merging into a form on the floor.

 She sighed as the trembling black fell silent and formed into the motionless shape of a man, lying on its back. The last of

The shadows whispered across her body, reluctantly letting go of her, and slowly all the colors returned to her form.

And_the gods are merciful — what a form.

 The heat rose to his face. She was completely, utterly naked.

 He wasn’t ready for that. The grimier didn't say he was going to be like this, so naked and_wonderful. Damn, it's not fair. This is not fair.

There should have been a warning.

 Wonderful muscles were bunched under his ivory skin, skin he was touching, his fingers twitching. Instead he wraps them in his palms. His eyes, however, engulfed him. His shoulders and chest are well defined, made of strength steel, though far from overwhelming. He was lean muscle, athletically toned, not even an ounce of fat in his delectable body. His gaze inadvertently followed the faint trace of dark hair from his chest over his torn stomach to his groin.

He took a deep breath and averted his gaze. The room temperature rose to rival a sauna.

He will not look back. He did not turn to his—

 “Like what you see?”

 The whispered question pulled her undisciplined look — dammit, she'd looked back — from the captivating look of her package to her face. Its eyes were already open, focused on him, glowing with the man's arrogance. Dark brown hair enveloped the clear beauty of the face that she had long seen as seemingly another life. She was very young then, a child, and though she was attracted to him with an equal measure of fear and attraction, it was the eyes of a child staring at her.

 No longer. The redness rolling down her skin, the desire to touch, taste, feel, the whisper of desire to be warm in low, feminine areas — it was too old. Here, by now, he is more removed from childish innocence than ever before.

 “You grew up beautiful, little witch,” he said, his voice raspy from decades of disuse. Eyes of pale, bright green met her own, searing, intense, daring in the overt appreciation they displayed.

A slight motion re -examined his waist before he restrained himself. Alas, he appreciated her presence, go ahead. His mouth was dry. Closing his eyes emphatically, he resisted the waves of embarrassment flowing over him. He doesn’t look at men as if they are delicious pieces of cake.

No, he didn't. No matter how delicious.

 "You know," he said, a whisper of dark need behind his words, "I don't mind posing nude for females."

 He opened his eyes again and stared at her. Damn if his self-satisfied smirk didn't make him even hotter.

 "But as much as I'm enjoying your attention, I am kind of starving right now."

 Of course he is. His demonic aura, still weakened by his debilitating condition, glows with the kind of hunger born of years of deprivation. He has been hungry for the past twenty years, refusing any food in the Shadows. Even his body was not damaged — clearly he had suffered from extreme starvation. Well, that he was prepared.

He moved and turned to the duffel bag, releasing a unit of blood. From the little information he found in the grimier, he knew his demons ate human blood, which gave rise to vampire legends in various cultures. The memory of people and superstitions distorted the truth over time, creating the legend of the undead. Bluotezer demons, however, are very much alive, and they have never been human in the beginning.

 Because he wanted to avoid giving her blood — it took less of him, preferably, whether it was blood or whatever — he took a long time to snatch a unit from the hospital on his way here.

 Breaking the circle, the salt crushing under his shoe, he came up beside her and carefully placed the bag in his mouth.

 The wicked glint in his eyes barely concealed the desperate hunger lurking underneath, as he shook his head slightly. "Marga." His voice was low, rasping, humming over her skin. "You know it has to be fresh."

 Ah, crap. He didn't know that. But it might be toying with her — she might have just made it up, for all she knew. Plus, giving him his blood to drink was probably exactly what he shouldn’t do. The way her skin was pierced — as if eagerly awaiting her feeding — was a clear warning.

He could not risk losing control.

 Narrowing her eyes, she shoved the unit back in his face. “You can’t have my blood. This will have to do. ”

 He snorted, refusing to bite. "Your loss, then."

 They stared at each other for a long time. His hand was holding the bag in his mouth. His lips remained sealed. It was a game of power, of give and take, he knew a lot. And in this round, he has to give. He needs its help to find Marissa, and for that, he needs to feed and move and work.

With a muttered curse, he chucked the blood back into the duffel. “Just so you don’t get any ideas,” she said with a glare at the demon, “know that if you kill me, you’ll automatically be kicked back into the Shadows. Failsafe measure. ” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, the truth a rock in her throat.

 He closed his eyes, and his jaw hardened. In a second, his aura darkened, like ink poured into water. Then, the muscles in his face relax, the lines around his mouth come out as his lips curve. “Don’t worry, little witch. I’ll be on my best behavior. ”

 "You better be, or I swear I'll kick your ass so hard you'll wish the Shadows would have never released you." This one is not an idle threat. The section on bluofighter demons in his grimier said his species is susceptible to the blows of raw power. His abilities may still be developing, but bursts of indigestible magic he can handle. Now, if only she could convince her heart to calm down and believe in him.

 Mental shields steeled against any attack, he pushed up his left sleeve and touched his wrist to his mouth. His tongue came out and slowly, weakly, licked the sensitive bottom. She sighed and grew cold from the pains rising in her arm — and in other more intimate parts of her body.

 His pale blue-green eyes glowed as he spoke against her pulse. "Your neck." His fangs grazed her skin. "I want your neck."

 Her heartbeat quickened. No, no, no, he shouldn't rejoice at that idea. But running a close second of panic within him was a twisted sense of arousal, and he could quite tell, if the hypocritical flickering in his aura was any indication.

“C’mere,” he murmured, his voice dark velvet over her skin.

 He frowned as he slowly stepped aside, set his hair aside and exposed the curve of his neck. His lips touched her skin. A shiver ran down his spine and his heart ached. She took a deep breath, inhaling her scent in conjunction with a sigh, a sound that was so erotic that it caused her to shiver, approaching her. His pulse moved to her lips as he kissed her neck, caressed her skin — and then he bit.

 A flash of pain, a choked cry, silenced in his throat by the eroding sensations enveloping him. Her skin was on fire, waves of heat rolled through her body to the rhythm of her strong pulls. Tingles of excitement spread like fire, unpredictable, uncontrollable, lowering his defenses, one by one. He heard himself moaning, a sound in the distance that startled him. He really enjoys it this way.

 In one effort he retreated. He had to stop it before he could get away.

 His hand shot up to her neck, took hold of her nape and pulled her back down. "More."

 Hell, no. Reaching within himself, he tapped the glowing core of his power, and released a fiber of raw magic. He struck out — and he blocked it with ease as if striking a fly. Her heart was pounding. Panic chilled his spine. He shouldn’t have done it. The grimier said he was prone to—

 He bit again. She sighed, not in pain but in ... pleasure. Spinning heat, his senses moan with the blows of lust, silky darkness caressing his mind, his body. It doesn’t have to feel good.

The demon's muscles stiffened, vigorous with the strength he had stolen from him. Just so, it carried him on his back, not breaking the grip on his neck. Her moan — an erotic sound despite the situation — sent an impossible surge of longing to her. His weight pinning her down, he clutched her with predatory possessiveness. The hot little licks of his tongue touched her skin as he sucked harder, igniting more sparks of liquid fire. It passes through his veins, which coincide with the throbbing of his tugs. He felt everything down to the lowest level of his soul. I don’t want this to end.

 This thought calmed him down.

 She blinked, the thin cloud removed from her brain.

She reached for him, surreptitiously entering his mind. Once again the shields fell mentally, he struck a flash of white-hot magic. It hit the demon square in the chest. He grunted, cleared his throat, and reared back. Yes! Traces of aggressive raw magic glowed inside him. He had to pay for it later, but it was better than losing his life.

 He struck the demon again with a measurable blast of indigestible power, at once he thrust into its chest. That was enough to bring him down. Not enough, however, to knock him out. Sniffing, he grabbed her neck and pulled her back over him. Her skin was hot, silky, and oh-so-strokable under her hands as it lay on her, and_by the gods, what was wrong with me? He should concentrate on fighting her. He pressed his lips together, he punched it in the throat and rolled over.

 The demon coughed and cursed, his aura shrouded in darkness. Her eyes narrowed, she sat up — and rushed forward. His back hit the stone floor before he could even get a magic thread. All the air left his lungs in a whoosh. The demon pushed him away, his wrists locked in his grasp. Heat and dark power charged the air between them. His magic flashed, weakened. Dammit, not now. He wiggled, he tried to get out of its grip, but all he managed to do was caress his body against hers.