Merle was once again in the old Victorian library when the doorbell rang. With a sigh, she pushed her chair back from the desk piled with dusty books—none of which held any clue as to how to stave off paying back to the Powers That Be—and trudged over to the front door.

The dark power seeping through the cracks in the wood and stone clued her in as to who was standing on the other side even before she opened the door. Her stomach dropped, nausea swamped her—a different kind than the one caused by the tiny spark in her belly. This one went down to her soul.

When she unlocked the door and Arawn strolled in as if he owned the place, unperturbed by the wards set around the property, Merle’s knees almost gave out. No. He couldn’t be here. Not now. She wasn’t ready yet, hadn’t found a way to minimize the consequences of her magic use.

Hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, he scanned the foyer with eyes the color of shadowed moss. A finely tailored dress shirt of dark ruby red stretched over his broad shoulders, hugged his strong frame. He was built to put berserkers to shame. His skin glowed a dark bronze, his face all harsh angles and hard planes, the black of his hair swallowing the light. Standing there in her family’s foyer, he not only dwarfed her, he claimed the very air that touched him, his sinister power creeping into all the nooks and crannies of her home.

Her home.

He dared come here, into her refuge, her house, sauntering in as if he had a right. That rotten, evil, impertinent son of a—

“Where is your demon, fire witch?” The deep bass of his voice boomed in the foyer, even though he had spoken in what were his quieter tones.

“Gone to run an errand,” she gritted out.

She had a sudden craving for pistachio ice cream, and her darling of a demon jumped to get it for her as soon as she mentioned it.

“Good,” the Demon Lord said, facing her. “I find his yapping presence rather annoying when you and I do business. Now”—he produced a rolled-up bundle from the gods-knew-where—“for today’s order, I require you to put a spell on this.” With a flick of his hand, the bundle unrolled.

“A rug? You want me to bespell a rug?”

He tilted his head, gave her a look that clearly said he wouldn’t deign to answer such a redundant question.

She inwardly rolled her eyes. “What kind of charm would you like?”

“A truth spell, forcing whoever stands—or kneels—on the rug to be incapable of lying.”

Merle sealed her mouth shut and breathed through her nose to keep her temper. It was going to be a damn powerful charm, difficult to weave, and requiring a huge amount of magic. Magic she couldn’t afford to draw upon.

“And make it undetectable,” Arawn added.

She barely held back her sound of frustration. Like a fucking cherry on top. Concealing a spell was often even harder than the charm itself, which was why it mostly wasn’t done. She might as well slit her skin now and bleed out for the Powers That Be.

She snatched the rug from the Demon Lord’s hand. “Anything else?”

The hint of a terrifying smile ghosted over his face. “Where has the Murray witch gone?”

She froze. He’d noticed. Her heart raced. Cold sweat broke out on her skin.

Well, of course he’d learn that little tidbit, wouldn’t he? Considering he had the mansion staked out to watch Maeve. And then there was Alek, Lily’s mate…Arawn’s enforcer.

Merle narrowed her eyes. “I thought you already knew? Or don’t you wring every last drop of information about what’s going on with us out of Alek?”

Arawn tsked. “Aleksandr only reveals what he wants to reveal, and I do not pressure him for more.”

She raised her brows. “I find that hard to believe.”

That ghostly smile again. “I do not bend a knife until it breaks. A fractured blade is of no use to me.”

She frowned, blinked. Devious, perplexing bastard.

“Where has Hazel Murray gone?” Arawn asked again, the shadows in his eyes deepening. “And why would she leave when Juneau Laroche watches you and yours like a hawk, waiting for the opportune moment to strike?”

Damn it, but he honestly shouldn’t be able to rattle her any more with anything he said. She should already be used to him having his fingers in every pie and his spies in every corner. And yet, here she stood, trying not to breathe noticeably faster so she could hide just how much his knowledge shook her.

She swallowed past her anxiety. “Didn’t you once say you don’t involve yourself in the affairs of witches?”

His smile this time dripped with condescension. “Obviously, my interests have changed.”

A shiver ran down her back. And not the good kind of shiver.

“Tell me where she went.”

“I am so not—”

“Tell me.”

“Seriously, if you think—”

“Tell. Me.”

“SHE’S GONE INTO FAERIE TO FIND BASIL, OKAY?” Uncharacteristic rage lashed out of her in a wave of sparks—visible, real sparks that settled on the rug and glowed bright before she extinguished them with a flick of her hand, her heart pounding. She hadn’t lost it like this around Arawn since he’d come to claim Maeve right after her rescue.

The Demon Lord’s attention pinpointed on her with laser-like focus. With narrowed eyes, he stalked forward, prowled around her, leaned in and sniffed at her. Growling, he drew back.

“How long?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, a couple days?” She gestured with her free hand. “A week? I have no idea how long it’ll take her to find him.”

“Not that,” Arawn snarled. “How long have you been with child?”

If lightning had struck her right then and there, it would have been less of a shock. She virtually felt all blood leaving her face, her head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.

“You should know better than to think you can lie to me.”

Her mind scrambled back into order. “This is none of your business.”

Arawn paced a few feet away, turned back and advanced on her until they were almost nose to nose. Or nose to chest, considering their height difference. “Why have you not informed me of this?”

She jerked back her head. “Excuse you?”

“You should have told me, fire witch.”

“Why? What’s it to you?”

“It changes things,” he said gruffly and turned away.

“Wait—what?”

He strode toward the door, was already outside on the porch when her brain caught up and she ran after him.

“What about the rug? Do you still want me to bespell it?”

He halted, glanced at her over his shoulder. “No. I have no need of your services for a while.”

“Do you want the rug back?” she asked stupidly.

“Keep it.”

Again, her thoughts took a few seconds to come up to speed. “Wait…wait. You’re not canceling our deal, are you?” Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Dread curdled her stomach.

Arawn tilted his head. “Consider it…paused. I will not call on you to use your magic until after your babe is born. Then we will resume our cooperation.”

And with that, he left as he so often did—he changed into the shape of a huge black eagle and surged skyward.

Merle stood on the porch, clutching the damned rug, her mind a huge blank. It continued to be a bottomless void for several heartbeats, while her body was numb.

Then it hit her. Slammed into her like a tidal wave into a small vessel, flooded her until she drowned, drowned, drowned in joy so pure, so overwhelming, it spilled forth as tears.

Rhun found her on her knees on the porch, weeping into the rug.