Coralie responded to my request for content to share with Smexy readers this week. Coralie’s book- Once Blessed, Thrice Cursed is available now.

Book Blurb: 

Clementine Brodeur must untangle her dead mother’s legacy before the clock runs out… My name is Clementine and my magic is making me lose sleep.I see memories the dead leave behind. Which is painful when those memories belong to my mother.

Caught in story threads only I can see, those memories will force me to experience the moment Mom was attacked by the Fae. 
My two sisters and I have forty-eight hours to find someone our talented mother could not. The reality is, if we don’t succeed, someone will die. And the story threads refuse to reveal if that someone is one of us.

I have to follow my instincts.But my sisters don’t like my history of “leap now, look later” escapades. They’ve had my back for over twenty years. Why wouldn’t they have it now?

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In all the years I’d known Kostya, the demon had occasionally spoken of his brothers but had never brought them around for introductions. Ivan, the youngest, was always off adventuring, and Laszlo, the oldest, was being groomed for a leadership position within their mother’s royal court. As a general rule, I ignored the ins and outs of demon politics and paid much more attention to what happened with their horns when they were aroused.

Heavy footsteps headed toward the back of the shop and stopped. I protested when the bathroom door’s handle turned and one of the demons tried to push their way in.

“Hey, Kostya, I’m naked in here.”

Silence. “Sorry about that,” he whispered against the doorjamb. The brothers jogged up the stairs, their steps falling in rhythmic cadence.

I remembered Kostya saying he and his brothers were close. Curiosity about his mysterious kin prompted me to scrub faster. I zipped through washing and rinsing my hair and wrapped it in a towel turban.

The next set of feet, descending this time, landed lightly on each step. I smiled, picturing my aunt pausing to tie off a stitch or rethread a needle. Her spaciness was endearing, and the tap at the bathroom door much more delicate than Kostya’s.

“Clementine, have you finished?”

“Just drying my feet.” I ran a corner of the towel between each toe. “You can hand me the clothes.”

She opened the door a crack. A jumpsuit cut from brown canvas dangled from her fingers. “I went for functionality, even with the undergarments.” My aunt sounded almost apologetic. “Which might not have been the best decision, given the newest addition to our rescue mission.”

I unfolded the underpants and stretchy bra and put them on. They were soft and serviceable. I shook out the jumpsuit, turned the garment so the front faced away from me, and stepped one leg in. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Lucky for me, the garments my aunt created were spelled to accommodate themselves to their wearer. Gazing down the front of my body, I watched as the waistband cinched in and the bottom of the legs shortened until the hems grazed the tops of each foot. 

Swishing water through my mouth, I spat it out and opened the door. Bare feet on cold wood reminded me my boots were somewhere in the deep, cold waters of the cavern.

I replayed the day’s events as I jogged up the stairs. I was in the middle of bitching to myself about Magicals and cryptic messages when I arrived at the third-floor landing and stepped into the workroom. It was no surprise to see my sisters, and Maritza and Alabastair. I recognized Kostya’s broad-shouldered back. 

What stopped my forward momentum was the man bent over one of the big tables, his attention on whatever was pinned down by his palms. His attire—tailored black pants tucked into heavy black boots, a white tuxedo shirt with the sleeves rolled to expose massive forearms laced with platinum-colored tattoos, and an extremely tight, extremely erotic black vest—was a confusing blend of formal wear, combat gear, and sex.

Oh. My Goddess.

The only direction I could take was toward him, toward the long white braid shot through with silver streaming down his back. My joints weakened first, starting with my knees and followed quickly by my toes and hips. I grabbed hold of the table but collapsed anyway, onto my knees, then onto my back.

The demon turned toward me in slow motion, unfurling his body over mine. The metallic blue of his eyes pinned my shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips to the floor. His full, lush lips were moving. He was speaking English. But I couldn’t parse what he was saying. The only thing I understood was that this man was mine. I felt entirely at home with that knowledge even as I recognized the threads connecting him to me were not of my making. Or my aunt’s. Or my mother’s.

These threads—brown, black, red—were old, older than any living family member. These threads were comprised of metal, dirt, roses, blood, magic, memories past and present.

“Clementine?”

“Laszlo?”

The demon was on all fours, crouched over me. He smelled glorious. The top two fasteners on his tux shirt had come unbuttoned. The ends of the bow tie swept forward. Silk caressed my cheeks. He lowered his head and rubbed his ornately decorated horns across my upper chest before burrowing his nose into the as-yet-unclaimed side of my neck. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, his lips skimming my earlobe. “Now, would you kindly explain what the hell kind of magic you’re using and stop it at once?”

I grabbed his biceps, intending to squeeze the muscles and push him off me. My fingers met solid marble. Or a marble-like substance. I tried to move him, but between how he’d positioned himself and whatever spell was binding us, I couldn’t.

“She’s not using her own magic, Laszlo,” Maritza said. “The Demesne is unstoppable, once it has made its decision.”

Laszlo turned his head at a glacial pace. His braid slipped over his shoulder and settled between my breasts as he addressed my aunt. “The what?”

Instead of answering him, she stepped closer until she was crouched by my head. “Clementine, can you move?”

“I—I’m not sure,” I whispered. My hands would not release their grip on Laszlo’s cool, hard arms. Over his shoulders—his broad, capable shoulders—I caught zigzags of lightning beyond the domed skylights.

“Let go of the demon, mija. He’s not going anywhere. It’s time for you and your sisters to hear a little story.”