I gather her into my arms, her head falling against my chest. She’s soft, way too soft. Fragile in a way I hate, because fragility invites monsters. And the monsters came. I glance down, and her ridiculous glittery horns are still perched crookedly on her head. One side of her lipstick is smeared, her hair tangled like a fallen angel who crash-landed straight into the worst corner of the world.
“She’s mocking me,” I mutter, lips twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Even now.”
I turn toward the dark slit in the wall, the tear in the veils I opened to return home. Without another word, I carry her through it. Hell may not be gentle, but it is mine. And unlike this place, it knows what to do with broken things.
We return to Zeriavoss.
The instant my boots strike obsidian, the fortress responds, flames flickering higher in the sconces. This is my realm, carved from shadow, sins, and soulfire, and every inch of this palace knows my presence. I take her to one of the lesser guest chambers. It’s still grand by mortal standards, but modest by mine. The walls are a smooth blackstone veined with molten soulthread that pulses gently like a heartbeat. The bed is wide, framed in polished darkwood, layered in deep crimson and onyx silks. A single fire crackles in the hearth. The air smells faintly of smoked cedar and ashberries. It’s silent here, peaceful. Deceptively so.
I place her on the bed gently, because her body still trembles with the aftershocks of being desecrated in a realm that never deserved her.
“Bring a cleansing tonic,” I bark to the nearest attendant. One of the servants bolts instantly, robes fluttering behind him. “HURRY.”
They return quickly, elixir in hand. I prop her up just enough, sliding the vial past her parted lips. She swallows on instinct, the warmth of the brew chasing away the poison left in her blood stream. That’s a good girl.
I pull up a chair and sit, waiting for the elixir to do its work. She stirs minutes later, her eyes fluttering open, ocean blue and swimming in confusion. Fear hits a moment later, her gaze flicking to mine as she jolts, clutching the blanket to her chest like it’ll protect her from me. I raise a brow at her in confusion.
“You summoned me,” I mutter, my tone sharp. “Now you act afraid?”
She blinks, the world clearly still tilting under her. Her gaze drops, catching sight of her torn stockings that are poking out from beneath the bedding. Her eyes fill, a tear slipping down her cheek as she curls further into herself, her small body shaking.I exhale through my nose, irritation simmering through me. I’m not irritated at her, not entirely. I just hate this shit. The vulnerability, the mess, the weight of human fragility pressing in on my realm.
“What happened, Daisy?” I ask, a little softer, so I can get answers.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers. “Thank you for helping me.”
She looks around, brows knitting together. “Where am I?”
“Zeriavoss.” Her blink is slow, like I’d just spoken fucking Latin. “Don’t make me ask again.”
She shakes her head, pressing her face into her knees, burying herself in silence. I clench my jaw, count to five, then let it all go in a single snarl.
“Daisy. Who fucking hurt you?”
She flinches at the sudden tone change. Then she finally breaks.
“My boyfriend,” she chokes. “He… He…”
I take a slow inhale, my hands gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to make the wood groan. The fire behind me flares higher in response to my rising anger, a single spark leaping into the air.
“Did he rape you?” I ask, my voice demanding, ensuring there’s no room for lies.
She pauses for what feels like a century, then raises her head to look at me. Her eyes—fuck, her eyes—are drowning. Glassy and raw, shining with something worse than sorrow. I tilt my head, studying her. So innocent, so fucking breakable. And yet fate keeps throwing her to the wolves. She nods once.
I rise. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Where are you going?” She sniffles.
I glance back, my voice ice cold. “To see if your boyfriend can take advantage of an actual Devil.”
The party is still going.I disguise myself in mortal form using a glamour potion created by one of the mages in the palace. Tall, clean-cut, and entirely forgettable. I glance back at the bed where she was lying. There’s blood on the sheets. Her blood. The rage nearly blinds me. I don’t remember the walk downstairs, just the absolute fury racing through my being. I feel the way it floods in my chest, slow at first, like lava crawling beneath my ribs. No one here knows what he did, no one here heard her call for help. They laughed, danced, and drank, all while she lay upstairs and bled.
I walk over to a girl in bunny ears and an outfit that leaves very little to the imagination, asking her where Ethan is. I know his name, what he looks like, everything about him. That’s the thing about being the Prince of Hell; I know fucking everything about everybody. She points her finger at him, and I follow. He stands with a red cup in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a mediocre body at best, fucking laughing with his friends. I take him in, looking him up and down as I approach. He was her first. He took it from her while she couldn’t fight back. My fingers twitch, and I don’t disguise the fury on my face as I walk toward him.
“Ethan,” I mutter.
He turns, a half-drunk smirk on his face. “Yeah?”
I grab him by the throat before he can speak again, his cup hitting the floor, causing people to scatter. His friends shout—but I don’t focus on them. I drag him back up the stairs, past gawking eyes, into the room. The room where the sheets are still stained, the air still sour. I slam him against the wall so hard the drywall cracks.
