One of them notices. Her lips part in a bright, mocking laugh. “Careful,” she says sweetly. “Wouldn’t want the bride to burn her pretty gown.”
Something inside me cracks—not all the way, but enough to let the first breath of shadow seep through. I can feel it rising, hot and sharp, my instinct screaming to lash out, to scorch the smirks from their mouths.
I whisper his name before I even realize I’ve spoken. “Deimos.”
The choker answers instantly. A band of fire tightens around my throat, searing, choking, yanking me back from the brink. My knees buckle as air deserts me. Still, I rasp his name again. And again. Until I am gasping it like a prayer laced with blood.
They only laugh harder, their mirth filling the chamber like a choir of crows.
“Poor thing,” one croons, mock-sympathetic, tilting her head as if studying a broken toy. “Still clinging to fantasy. How romantic.”
“He’s not coming for you,” another says, her tone cutting and final. “Zepharion made sure of that. You’re his now. A vessel. A womb. A war prize.”
“You’re the main event,” the last one declares, brushing an invisible speck from my shoulder as if I’m nothing more than a garment. “And we’ll be there to watch.”
They gather their silks and oils, their baskets of thorns and gold thread, vanishing in eerie unison. At the threshold, one of them pauses, her smile cruel. “We’ll be back for you soon.”
“To walk you down the aisle,” another finishes, her voice gleeful. “Wouldn’t want the bride to trip.”
Their laughter trails behind them as they leave me alone.
Alone—but not silent. My pulse pounds in my ears. My lungs ache from holding back tears. The choker throbs like a second, merciless heartbeat.
I gasp. My vision burns with unshed tears. And still, I whisper it again. “Deimos.”
The magic coils tighter, strangling, trying to crush the sound from me. My knees slam to the floor, the world shuddering white at the edges. But I do not stop.
“Deimos.”
The pain comes sharp, punishing. But beneath it—something else. Not just fear. Not just helplessness. Power. Mine. Buried deep, but stirring. Rising.
I press my trembling palms to the mirror, staring at the girl reflected back. She is still a stranger, painted in red and gold. But her eyes—they are no longer empty.
There is something alive there now. Not rage. Not sorrow. Something sharper. A dangerous sliver of resolve.
My voice is hoarse, but I force the words anyway, lips brushing the glass. “You don’t belong to him,” I whisper. “You never did.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
The scent of brimstone still lingers, sharp as iron and impossible to ignore. Like blood in water. Like the aftermath of a battlefield where the dead haven’t yet realized they’ve fallen.
Lucifer’s presence may be gone, but the room is colder in his absence, not warmer. The silence left behind is not relief—it’s the hollow of a bell after it’s struck. Still, expectant. The kind of silence that only ever follows revelation… or the first beat of a war drum.
“I might have an idea,” I offer, breaking the tense silence.
Both of them pause. Even the air halts in its slow crawl.
Deimos’s gaze sharpens, wary. “An idea?”
I glance up at him. “Yes. If we can’t count on Lucifer’s interference, we turn to the next best thing.”
Deimos’s face hardens instantly, jaw tightening like stone. “No.”
Bastion raises a brow, his massive shoulders rolling like shifting earth. “What do you mean, no?”
Deimos’s eyes flash. “He won’t go for it. It’s not his fight.”
“Maybe not,” I say carefully, keeping my tone measured, though my pulse thrums. “But he’s not exactly fond of Zepharion, is he? Or your father.”
