Page 147 of She Who Holds My Wrath

“Gehenna,” I continue before she can interrupt. “Lucifer offered it.”

She stares at me in disbelief. “The pits? Aran, no⁠—”

I shake my head at her. “Not the pits. Lucifer has old vaults. Deep beneath Hell, under layers of stone and wards. He’s already started working on clearing them out to make them safe, alongside help from Vailith, and his lowers. He’s making them a home away from home.”

Daisy barks a laugh and it makes me smile. “Lucifer. Ruler of Gehenna. Master of torture. Is offering protection in his home. And making it homely?”

I nod, laughing with her now. “Maelkar truly is making him soft.”

She lets out a long sigh of relief. “That’s a weight off, that’s for sure.”

“He asked me to come speak to you. To ask you to start evacuations immediately. Don’t draw attention in case we’re somehow being watched.”

She glances to Korithax for a moment. “Korithax can teleport some. You can open portals for them, right?”

I nod. It’s been a while since I’ve portalled myself, never mind anyone else. And I’m utterly exhausted. But maybe I’ll finally be able to rest once I know the civilians are safe in the depths of Hell.

Chapter 47

EZRA

Ten. Days.

It’s been ten days since I arrived in Hell, and somehow my body has accepted that six a.m. is a real, offensive hour that exists on purpose.

I don’t scream in annoyance anymore when Cassyr bangs on my door at the ungodly hour. In fact, for some annoying reason, my body wakes itself up before he does. I don’t even gag at the smell of blood now. I only dry heave occasionally; I call that progress. Progress which I think deserves a medal.

Today, unfortunately, progress is not the vibe.

I’m standing over a stone workbench in the alchemical wing, staring at a vial of pale blue liquid like I can somehow fix it if I look long enough. My fingers are cramped, my shoulders ache, and my eye burn from hours of careful measuring, stirring, re-measuring, swearing, and starting over. And over. And over.

Sedation tonic. In theory? Simple. In practice? Apparently, I have two settings: barely works or congratulations, you’ve induced a lifelong coma.

“There is no in-between,” one of the alchemists mutters, peering at my latest attempt. “It either soothes the nervous system or shuts it down entirely.”

“Well, that feels like a design flaw,” I say weakly.

She gives me a look that says, ‘human opinions are not required here,’ and moves on.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale slowly. I’ve followed the recipe exactly. Adjusted the ratios. Reduced the nightshade. Increased the calming root extract. Still wrong. Always fucking wrong.

Cassyr would’ve fixed it by now. An image of his stupidly beautiful face comes uninvited. It’s sharp and quite frankly, annoying. He’s not here today. He was pulled to the outdoor training ring hours ago to help with injuries. Minor wounds, apparently. I try very hard not to think about what minor means in Hell.

As I’m working on fixing this stupid tonic for the millionth time, I overhear a conversation I very much wish I hadn’t.

“Did you hear?” one of the healers nearby whispers. “Cassyr’s been spending a lot of time with one of the head healers from Solara.”

My hand stills mid-stir, straining to listen since my stupid human hearing is not a match for theirs.

“No?” another replies. “The one with the gold eyes? Tall? Very pretty?”

Something tightens uncomfortably in my chest. A sharp twist that I choose to not identify.

“They’d make sense,” the first continues. “Same temperament. Both brutal. But both so very brilliant.”

I drop the stirring rod, and it clatters against the stone far louder than necessary.

Why do I care? I don’t. Obviously. This is stupid. I barely know him. He’s rude, grumpy, chronically unimpressed by my existence—which is frankly insane. And he’s very clearly allergic to joy. And yet… the idea of him laughing with someone else, makes my stomach do a weird flutter feeling.