He watched as the last remnants of the foul scene crumbled into nothing, and then he stood in silence again.
Erevos was a smart demon. He was observant and curious. He knew he was not like most of his kind, and he had known it for a long time.
Where others did not care, he did.
Where others lived in endless cycles of dull hunger and forgotten centuries, he watched and learned. And it displeased him, deeply, that this grotesque, corrupted demon reminded him . . . of himself.
But he could not lie to himself; he enjoyedfeeling.
He enjoyed seeing Lyssena eat honey with soft sounds of satisfaction; he enjoyed the way her laughter spilled from her throat like a melody only he was meant to hear.
He had known for some time that he couldenjoythings as he had studied pleasure, understood satisfaction, but he hadn’t realized until recently that he could actuallyfeel.
Not just contentment.
Joy.
He had felt it the moment Lyssena laughed at the joke he made, the moment she tasted the honey he offered with her eyes shining bright. It was a strange, fluttering warmth in his chest that refused to leave.
He wanted to feel it again.
And again.
He wanted to learn how to make her happy, how to create moments like that not only for her, but with her.
He wanted to feel together with his songbird.
Chapter Nineteen
The Painter’s Muse
Lyssena
Lyssena woke up warmer than usual, cocooned in her new, impossibly soft bed, wrapped in layers of luxurious blankets and surrounded by an indulgent abundance of pillows that cradled her on all sides like a nest built for royalty.
It was everything she could have asked for, waking up like a true princess, swaddled in comfort, her body sinking slightly into the plush mattress.
The fact that everything around her was black—the sheets, the curtains, the soft shimmer of shadow curling at the corners of the room—didn’t bother her in the slightest.
If anything, it made her feel . . . special.
She was a splash of color, a living contrast in a place carved entirely from shadow, and somehow that made her feel more seen, more alive.
She let her thoughts drift, wondering what her family might think if they saw her now, saw her lying in luxury, protected andcared for, watched over by a being who had given her more than they ever had.
But they didn’t deserve Erevos’s kindness.
A god—whether he claimed to be one or not—so merciful and strange and gentle, would never waste his grace on those who had betrayed her, who had judged and discarded her in the name of appearances and greed.
Perhaps she was greedy, too. And yet . . . that didn’t bother her.
There was something strange blooming inside her, a sense of freedom that wasn’t about distance or location, but about the ability to act, to think, to speak, to look Erevos in the eyes and not feel shame.
It was a freedom that made her feel like she could breathe for the first time.
No one was telling her to rise early, to scrub the floors or polish the furniture until her fingers ached.
Though she admitted to herself that there were times she enjoyed cleaning, especially when she was angry.
