The Succubus's Unwanted Keeper

The ache in a succubus' heat is torture—every moment feels like being seared alive.

A fresh tremor wracked me as I recalled Stuart's lost love.

Joe wrapped me in his arms, holding the shivering heap I'd become.

"Don't cry."

He lifted my face; his calloused fingertip brushed away the tracks of my tears, a touch that sent a delicious, helpless tickle through me.

"Louisa, have you considered finding a new master?" he asked.

I stared at him, stunned. He arched an eyebrow and smiled softly, coaxing. "If a master doesn't suit you, shouldn't you replace them? How about me?"

Panic fluttered at the edges of my composure.

'Don't joke,' I thought. 'A succubus lives on love. Joe doesn't love me. How could he ever be my master?'

I tried to pull free, but he caught my wrist, drew me back, and embraced me. He murmured in my ear, "How about now?"

Warmth—so much warmth—flooded into me. It felt like a dam finally breaking, a long-starved affection crashing in, burning and sweet.

My head swam; I clung to his sleeve, barely believing it. How could this be? Joe had never seemed to give off the smallest trace of feeling before. Had it all been an act?

Before I could form the question, my vision blurred. I'd been neglected by Stuart for so long; without love my body had gone parched. Suddenly being fed so lavishly overwhelmed me—I couldn't quite hold it together.

I went limp and fell, and Joe caught me. Just before sleep took me, I thought I heard him sigh. "Foolish girl."

I woke hungry. A yawn escaped me; I found myself in bed, a thin blanket draped over my shoulders.

Joe had left, leaving only a note that said, "The porridge is warm in the pot. Eat it. If you need me, you know where I live."

His handwriting flowed across the paper. I stared at it, frowning, then balled the note up in a knot of indecision.

Steam rose from the white porridge in the pot. I ladled a bowl, then glanced into the mirror and stopped cold.

The woman reflecting back at me was radiant, flushed with life; not at all the ashen, wilted thing I'd been. So this is what I was like when I was loved. The difference was astonishing.

I was still dazed when a voice drifted from the door. "Louisa, I'm home."

It was Stuart. He'd finally returned.

Joy rushed through me and I hurried to meet him, ready to say something—anything. Then I saw who he had with him.

Naomi stood clad in white, shy and delicate, his arm around her waist, smiling.

My body froze. He'd brought another woman into our home. He had never been so brazen before.

The words on the tip of my tongue choked into bitterness.

"Naomi, you can stay here for a few days. Louisa will take care of you," Stuart said with practiced concern, his hand resting against her belly as if to soothe both mother and unborn child.

Naomi leaned into him, then looked into his eyes and said, "Stuart, Louisa will be jealous."

Stuart's expression turned cold, but he quickly smiled in reassurance as he saw me. "Naomi, don't worry. She'll do as I say. She won't make a peep."

Turning to me, he ordered in a clipped tone that I look after Naomi and the baby, and not to bully her.

Bitter humor tugged at my mouth. "So you've finally remembered how to come home, Stuart."

And with another woman—carrying his child—no less.

He scowled and snapped that I should stop acting like a jealous shrew; despite being a succubus, I was behaving like a spurned wife.

His gaze slid over my face, puzzled for a heartbeat, then sneered, "Filthy succubus. I only just got back, and you're already this excited?"

I touched my cheek. Joe's love last night had left me sated, even lingering. A realization pricked at me—Stuart had utterly misread the scene. I felt a headache of indecision at Joe's parting suggestion, a small, nagging sting of doubt.

Seeing me silent, Stuart appeared to relax. He released Naomi and spread his arms toward me with a patronizing smile. "So starved for affection? Fine. I'll be charitable. Go ahead and hug me."

I frowned and did not move.

He waited a beat, then his expression hardened into scorn. "Louisa, don't try playing hard to get with me. My patience has limits."