I go still. Not because I give up, but because it feels like the only way to survive. My body is too heavy to obey me anyway. I stare at the ceiling through bleary eyes at the blinking red light of some forgotten smoke detector. I count each blurry blink, trying to pretend I’m somewhere else. I feel the sting between my thighs as Ethan mumbles my name against my neck and I grip at the sheets for some form of control, some form of safety. My body feels limp, almost lifeless, as he uses me for his own pleasure. My mind floats away, trying to focus on anything otherthan what’s currently happening to me. I lie entirely still until Ethan climbs off me.
“Now you have no more reason to say no to me. It’s done, nothing to be scared of anymore, baby.” He says before placing one last wet kiss on my mouth. He gets up, buckles his belt back up, and leaves the room without looking back. He doesn’t even bother to fully close the door, leaving me to lie there, vulnerable and used. I still don’t move. I just stare at the ceiling, hot, wet tears tracking down my temples into my hairline as I try to come to terms with what just happened. And even though my mouth is full of cotton, even though my body betrays my need for flight, frozen like I’m still strapped beneath his weight—a single name slips out of me, soft and broken.
“Korithax.”
Then everything goes black.
Chapter 10
Korithax
I’m halfway through my second glass of whiskey—top shelf, smuggled from the mortal realm by one of our more sticky-handed lower demons— and it’s the closest thing I’ve had to peace in weeks.
Mortals are shit at most things; they’re weak, loud, and impressively stupid, but fuck, they make good liquor. But, of course, the peace never lasts in this place. Not when you’re surrounded by idiots who think ‘summon the demon prince’ is a fun Tuesday activity.
A familiar tug pulls at the base of my spine. That irritating little spark that comes whenever some desperate soul decides to invoke my name with candles, blood, or a butchered Latin chant they found on some dark web thread.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Again? Are you all fucking bored up there or what?”
It used to happen maybe once a week, if that. Some back-alley ritual. A wannabe warlock. An idiot selling their soul for a bigger dick. But lately? It’s been constant. My name iscontinuously tossed around carelessly by mortals with no idea what they’re actually calling for.
I know exactly who to blame: Lucifer—Satan. He thought it was hilarious—telling mortals, with that smirking, too-white grin of his, “Oh, if you want real power, try summoning the Prince of Hell. He still takes deals.” Fucking bastard. He knew damn well that until I ascend fully with a crown and queen, I was still bound to the old laws of infernal commerce. Which meant I had to answer summons. Not all of them, mind you, but the ones that slip through the cracks… yeah. The ones spoken in just the right tone of desperation or fate? They crawl under your skin like a tick and fester until you show up.
And Satan? He laughs. Of course, he laughs. Because every time some mortal gets me instead of him, he adds another tally to his imaginary scoreboard titled “Annoy the Hell out of Korithax.”
I enjoyed competition, especially when it put me at the top. But not for summoning. I could happily leave that winning title to Satan any day. Summoning bored me to death, same shit, different day. But clearly, his competition was with himself, and how much he could make me suffer. Asshole.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, contemplating whether it would be considered a war crime if I just started ignoring these calls outright. I crack my neck, about to choose ignorance, when a knock sounds.
“What?” I growl.
Aran steps into the room, all composed elegance and deadpan disappointment. “Before you ignore that summons,” he says mildly, “I’d think again.”
I squint at him. “How the fuck do you do that?”
“Do what?” He responds.
“Know shit.”
He shrugs, perfectly casual. “I just do. It’s part of my charm.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s unnerving. Stop it.”
“Can’t. Anyway... this summons is from Daisy Sandoval, sire.”
Ah. That name. That irritatingly bright, stubborn little sunspot in human form. My brows lift in interest, and a grin unfurls across my mouth before I can stop it.
“So…” I say, rising slowly from my chair, “the sunshine has finally come to beg. My favourite part.”
The stenchof humanity hits me first—cheap beer, sweat, and whatever godawful cologne they pretend smells like masculinity. There’s a pulsing bass that drills straight into my skull, and laughter rising like bile through the floorboards. I appear in what can only be described as the most offensively beige bedroom I’ve ever seen. The door is cracked open, letting a strip of hallway light slice across the bed. I smell her before I see her—tequila and lavender and something sharp that makes my jaw clench. She’s there, unconscious and so very small. Her limbs are slack and twisted, skirt hiked high, her underwear halfway down her thighs. I don’t move for a long moment. I stare and catalogue my surroundings. Red solo cups litter the floor, and there’s one beside her on the bed, sticky and still half-full. Glitter clings to her skin, and mascara has carved black rivers down her temples and cheeks. She’s silent, limp, and exposed. An offering left out for the vultures.
My nostrils flare. Not from pity, I don’t do pity. I do wrath. And this? This is a soul-rot level of fuckery that deserves the worst wrath can offer. I drag a hand down my face, inhaling once, slow and shallow. My eyes track the little outfit she has on. She came dressed like me. Well… a horny mortal’s versionof me. Horns, glitter, and blood-red fabric that’s hugging her curves like she was made to wear sin itself. And someone looked at her and thought, ‘Yes, that’s mine and I’m taking it.’ Without permission, thinking there would be no consequences.
I step forward, my boots crushing something underfoot. Plastic, probably. Doesn’t matter, nothing in this house matters other than this room and the scene in front of me. I kneel by the bed, my movements almost mechanical as I tug her skirt back down. I’m not gentle or affectionate, but I am precise. Because even desecrated altars deserve to be covered.
“You called for me,” I murmur, my voice low. “But why now, sunshine?”
I don’t expect an answer from her; she’s too far under. Her skin is fever-warm, her lips parted on a soft sigh. There’s a little smear of blood along her inner thigh. My fists clench so hard at the sight that my knuckles pop. Rape is one of the few mortal sins that guarantees rot. A slow, eternal kind. It’s an unforgivable offence. I don’t give a single shit about most things—but this? This infuriates me.
