King of Hell by Morgan Dante EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Morgan Dante
- Language: English
- Genre: Paranormal Vampire Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Laurențiu
Laurențiu rubs a nger against the gilt rose protruding from the interior palace
wall. It’s the thirty-year anniversary since his ex-lover’s husband drove a silver
stake into his heart, and currently, he stands outside a throne room of one of the
Kings of Hell.
Thirty years.
Since Anthony watched him die.
Even more years since Anthony had ruined Laurențiu, and Laurențiu never
forgave him.
Even when it wasn’t his ex-lover who dealt that fatal blow, Anthony had held
him and wept. He had the audacity to weep when Laurențiu’s tears had long
dried. About the same time his hair had gone silver during his time at the
hospital.
Wet-eyed Anthony with his square jaw and impressive barrel of a chest, who
only pleaded and said that he really didn’t mean to hurt Laurențiu and that it
was better to forgive.
Laurențiu could forgive anything, except betrayal.
So, he died. He was damned. He isn’t sure if all vampires go to Hell, but he
did.
Nothing more than an obstacle. If there’s one thing Laurențiu can do, it’s
survive. Mostly, admittedly, out of spite. If he has nothing else, he’ll always have
his refusal to be insignicant.
The world told him: Everyone you love is dead, and no one will ever love you
again. You’re disposable. A monster. Ruined. You deserve to be alone. We owe
you nothing.
So, he replied: Give me everything.
If he can’t have love, he’ll have everything else. If not on Earth, then in Hell.
Laurențiu would say that once he gets his revenge, he can nally rest; but he
doesn’t know what he’d do without his ambition. He’s never been able to stay
idle long.
It’s like Frankenstein’s monster said:
I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiey
towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable
hatred. Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor nish until I desolate
your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth.
Yes. Something like that.
Laurențiu enters the throne room, dressed in a attering, crimson silk chiton,
which shows his shoulders, arms, and legs, and starkly gives attention to his
curling white-silver locks, once songbird-brown. Gold wreaths his ankles and
upper arms, his eyes ringed with kohl.
Though King Paimon himself doesn’t always indulge in breezy fashion, he
preferred it on those in court. Outside of the preternaturally warm palace, such
easy, light fabrics would be misery out in the wintry dark-bright of the Ninth
Circle.
The space itself is like much of Hell, especially Pandæmonium, the capital.
Deceptively perfect, a wash of colors and jewels and lined with gold. Turquoises,
rubies, garnets, emeralds, and opals stipple the columns in the patterns of owers
and eyes. There are few spaces not occupied by a gem or gold-painted ower
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