“Who is Zepharion?” The name sits in my throat. It tastes old and dangerous and sideways.
Deimos moves toward me with that slow, predatory calm of his, and I find myself being pushed back into a chair. His violet eyes settle on me like a verdict.
“Better question,” he says, low, “who are you?” The heat in his gaze is sharp enough to burn.
Panic flutters in my chest. I answer honestly because I have nothing else to offer. “I… I don’t know.” The truth is bitter and raw. “I don’t know who I am. What I am. Whatyouare.” Saying it makes the floor drop a fraction. It sounds smaller than it feels in my ears.
Deimos drags a hand through his dark hair like I’ve just named an unforgivable thing. For a moment I watch him: the frustration etched in the set of his jaw, and then something softer—understanding, or the closest thing he has to it. He nods as if I have given him the worst, truest answer.
“All I know is that my entire life I felt wrong,” I continue as my hands tremble. “There was always an ache, like something missing. Until that night in the woods—with you.” The memory feels like an exposed nerve.
Deimos’s expression changes. The anger is still there, but under it a new light comes on, as if a piece of a map has slid into place. “And you had no idea you were a succubus?” he asks.
“No. I didn’t even know what that was.” My voice climbs with shock and shame. “I was raised human. My parents—” The rest of the words die because my throat closes. “I don’t know who Zepharion is.”
Bastion chuckles, low and unreadable. “Well, he knows whoyouare,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Now we have to figure out why a Warden of Hell wants you.”
“A Warden of Hell?” I echo, the words sounding absurd even as they sit cold in my gut. “Like… Lucifer?” The name alone twists something savage inside me.
Cassiel answers quietly, voice smoother than usual. “Lucifer rules Hell as the King, but it is vast. There are five wardens beneath him. Zepharion is one of them.” He says it as if reciting history, but his face is thin. Deimos falls onto the couch as if the conversation is exhausting him. Bastion sits beside him with a half-smirk, amused and dangerous.
“He’s an ancient incubus,” Deimos says, propping an elbow on the armrest. “Some call him the original incubus.” He glances at me.
“That’s what you are?”
He nods like a confirmation I had not known I needed.
I blink, and the weight in the room hiccups for a beat. The thought slips out before I can swallow it. “So I guess you’re not really a priest then?” I say, half joking.
Bastion laughs, full and ridiculous. Deimos turns to me, one eyebrow arching. He studies me the way you study an interesting bruise. “Do I really need to answer that?” he asks, voice dry as a blade.
I chew my lip, heat crawling up my neck, and murmur, quieter than I mean to, “You looked… hot as one.”
Deimos’ smirk flickers into amusement and approval. Bastion wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins, teeth too bright in the dim. “I’m a behemoth demon,” he says, slipping back into swagger. “War demon. I used to be a general under a Warden like Zepharion.” The words hang between us like thunder.
When I turn to Cassiel, he won’t meet my eyes. He stands and stares out of the broken window, as if the night beyond can answer questions for him. Then he tells me simply, “I am a Seraphim. A high ranking angel, closest to God. Until I was cast out.” The words hang between us, ancient and raw.
My breath catches. “You were an angel?” It sounds ridiculous even as the hope in it blooms a second.
Cassiel’s pause is long. Then, without ceremony, six blackened broken wings unfurl from his back and drape the room in shadow. They are ruined and terrible—shattered, but still beautiful in a way that makes my throat ache. I reach out, but I don’t touch.
“What happened?” I ask gently, because asking is the only way I can keep from crying. “Why were you cast out?”
Cassiel’s air tightens. The wings fold back into him like a closing secret. “That’s enough questions,” he says, voice colder now. “What are we going to do with her?” His words slice.
“Do with me?” The sting of his phrasing is a fresh brand. “As if I’m something to be tossed aside. If it were up to you, I’d already be in Zepharion’s hands.” My whisper is thin and bright with betrayal.
Cassiel’s jaw clenches. At least he looks ashamed. It doesn’t fix anything.
Deimos rises and the room shifts with him. “For now, she stays with us,” he says. “We’re bonded. I can’t let her go. If we separate, we both weaken.” The math is ugly, protective, absolute.
“Bonded?” The word has floated past me before, heavy and unexplained. “What does that mean?”
Deimos steps closer. “Close your eyes, Lustling.”
My hesitation is a small, human protest, then I obey. Somewhere between breath and being, something pulls. Low and deep, a tide hooks into my solar plexus and drags. A tether, a cord, a line with a hook that sinks and never leaves. The feeling is foreign and sweet. I gasp.
“That’s our bond,” Deimos murmurs. He is nearer now. His hand comes up to my cheek, warm and dangerous. “It snapped into place when I took you in the woods. I don’t know if it was the way our bodies met at the moment of your death—or if we were always meant to be tied. Either way, it is here.”
