“I’m not the sun,” I whisper. It becomes a chant, loud and laced with fury and pain. “I’m not the sun. I’m not the sun. I’m not the fucking sun.”
I open the cabinet under the sink, staring at the bottles that line the shelves, untouched until now. “I’m weak. I’m weak. I’m weak.”
I pull out the bottles of pills and take them into the shower, switching on the water. Not because I plan to wash, but because it’s easier to fall apart under noise. I sink to the floor, curling my knees to my chest as the cold tile bites through my skin. A scream rips from me, loud and desperate. I slam the back of my head into the wall repeatedly, like I’m trying to knock the shame out of my skull. With shaking hands, I open up the bottles, and I start swallowing.
One.
Two.
Three.
The pills go down like stones, each one heavier than the last.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper, throat tight. “I really tried. I tried to be the sun. I really did.”
Chapter 14
Korithax
It’s been two weeks.
Two fucking weeks of riddles, visions, and celestial parasites breathing down my neck. The Six have made it their personal mission to lecture me like I’m a petulant teenager, and not the demon currently holding this realm together with scorched hands and thinning patience.
Every day it’s the same sanctimonious bullshit. Find a bride, restore the balance, do your divine duty. Seraphiel’s voice still echoes in my skull like a hammer to glass.
“Without a queen, your claim weakens.”
“Your authority fractures.”
“Your reign is untenable.”
No one ever asks anything. They demand, dressed in prophecy and veiled threats, smiling through teeth sharpened on the bones of royalty. I’ve heard the whispers of what they did to the first Queen. They tried to erase her. Buried her name, her legacy, her power. But whispers are hard to kill.
I haven’t murdered one of them, yet, but by the fifth time Amarithe alluded to “the ticking clock of succession,” I very nearly snapped her neck, just to hear her finally shut the fuck up.
And if the Six weren’t enough, I’ve handled ten new soul bargains landing on my desk this week, all thanks to Lucifer and his delightful little marketing spree. Apparently, the bastard has been leaking the rites at every given opportunity. More mortals than ever are lining up to sell their souls like it’s a fucking Black Friday sale. I’m tempted to throw him in his own lava pits and watch him laugh all the way down.
Not one of the bargains has been remotely interesting. It’s all the same sob stories, same sins, same desperate attempts to cheat their way out of accountability. I sign them, bind them, and move on.
I’ve spent more time than usual in the training grounds, just to keep myself from throttling anyone important. I drive my fists into stone columns until either they shatter or my skin splits, my blood spilling across the sandy floor. I keep going until my muscles scream, and the sweat pours down my spine, coating me like a second skin. I’ve been keeping an eye on the young recruit Calrix was torturing, and it seemed he had taken my words to heart. He was now wielding his weapons so much cleaner, each strike aiming true. I’d gone in the sparring ring with him, and he managed to get a few hits on me, even when I wasn’t holding back. I don’t give compliments, but the little shit’s going to make a fine soldier.
Yet still, none of it helps. Even torturing Ethan. I go to Gehenna daily now, and the demons practically throw a parade when I arrive. They love it because they think it’s an honour to have me with them, helping carve apart a man who destroyed something so soft, something so innocent. I’ve broken every single one of Ethan’s bones three times over, poured molten iron into his lungs, and even crushed his fingers one by one. But itstill is not enough. It never is. No amount of torture can make up for the pain he inflicted on her. It’s not guilt for her, obviously. It’s not personal, it’s not attachment. It’s about the violation, the offence. He defiled a soul I own, one marked by me. That’s why I’m furious. That’s why her fucking face haunts me every time I close my eyes. Ocean eyes filled with tears, lips trembling, voice cracking. That’s why I can’t seem to claw her image out of my skull. Not because I care. Gods, no. She’s insufferable, loud, mortal. Fragile in the way all humans are—emotional wreckage wrapped in skin and poor decision-making. This isn’t about her. It’s about what was mine, and what he dared do to it.
I step into my chambers,shirtless, sweat still glistening along my chest. My arms are wrapped in torn bandages from sparring with the northern devourers—the feral bastards tasked with guarding the upper edge of Hell, the last border before Zeriavoss. They don’t fight clean; they fight to kill. Just how I like it.
Steam curls from beneath the stone door to the shower, hissing like it’s eager to peel the blood and sweat from my skin. My knuckles are raw, a feeling I welcome.
She’s waiting for me. Naked, sprawled across the silken sheets of my bed like an offering I never asked for, but always take. She’s one of the regulars. No name necessary, no conversation. Just teeth and skin and the promise of release.
“You’re late,” she purrs, eyes alight with hunger.
I say nothing as I cross the room. She knows better than to ask questions. Her hands are on me without saying another word, nails dragging across my skin like she’s carving me apart.
“Use the blade,” I murmur against her throat.
She doesn’t hesitate. The dagger on the nightstand gleams as she picks it up, and when the point kisses my chest, I close my eyes and let it bite. The pain is sharp and immediate. Blood slides over my ribs in slow, lazy rivulets. She moans like it’s for her, but this isn’t about her. I grab her throat as I push her beneath me, hard enough to bruise. She gasps, but I don’t ease up as the bed groans beneath us. The heat of her body blends with the sting of the blade, and just for a moment, I don’t think about anything except this.
A knock sounds, sharp and urgent.
