No warning. No cry. Just a sudden, jarring collapse to his knees.
“Cass!” I lunge, but Bastion’s already reaching for him, gripping his shoulder like he might hold him together through force of will.
Cassiel shakes his head, teeth clenched, a shudder ripping down his spine. “It’s fine. I’m fine. She’s just…”
His breath catches. His whole body tenses. And then… he moans. Not in pain. Not entirely. It’s strained, guttural, and far too close to pleasure.
Bastion reels back slightly, blinking like he just got slapped with a lust spell. “What the fuck was that?”
Cassiel gasps, voice hoarse. “She’s… feeding off me.”
Silence.
“She can do that?” Bastion blurts, looking at me like I might have an answer.
I shrug. “Apparently so.” Then I grin. I can’t not grin. “Terrible timing, though. Remind me to scold her about that later.”
Cassiel groans again, softer now. Steadier. He’s grounding himself, breathing through it.
“I can feel her pulling through the bond,” he mutters. “She’s starving. I—fuck—I’ll need to strengthen the link. Mask it better next time. Or she’s going to give me a damn aneurysm.”
“You think she meant to?” Bastion asks.
Cassiel lets out a breathy laugh as he pushes to his feet. “No. She’s just… desperate. Hungry. But connected.”
There’s something in his eyes now. Relief. Hope. Fire.
“She’s still with us.”
I nod. The grin fades, replaced by steel. “Good. Then let’s get through this meeting with the fucking King of Hell so we can make a plan.”
I glance toward the towering door carved in cracked celestial script—scars from an old war no one dares speak of anymore.
“And next time she feeds off one of us?” I add, deadpan. “Let’s aim for not doing it outside my father’s goddamn throne room.”
Cassiel exhales and brushes the dust from his knees.
The door looms ahead, tall and waiting.
“You ready for this?” I ask.
He nods once. “Are you?”
I don’t answer. I left this place to become something else. Something more.
But now I’ve come back—not as an heir. Not as a soldier.
As a mate. And I’ll burn down every throne in Hell if that’s what it takes.
I press my palm to the door. It opens.
SIXTY-FIVE
The door shuts behind me with a sound too soft to match the weight in my limbs.
Dismissed. Not escorted. Not dragged. Just… dismissed. Like a showgirl told to wipe off the glitter and get some sleep before tomorrow’s curtain call.
My room is dark when I enter, save for the low flicker of hellfire in the hearth. No windows. Just velvet shadows and the ghost of my own skin against silk sheets. I strip on instinct. Every inch of fabric feels like sandpaper across nerves already burning raw. I don’t know if it’s the hunger or the humiliation—or both—but I can’t bear the feeling of anything touching me.
