CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAZIEL
The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and I freeze in the hallway. The warmth of her room lingers in my skin longer than it should. A scent I cannot name clings to the edges of my cloak. I tell myself it’s the cat. It is not the cat.
I should go.
There are other things that require my attention—preparations, meetings, patrols. My father expects a report on the contenders by sundown. Solonar will want a private word before then. And yet I remain, standing in the hallway outside her chamber like an uninvited sentinel.
Inside, I can hear muffled movement. The occasional thud of small paws. A soft laugh that shatters something inside my ribs. She is fed. She is grounded. She is safe for now. This is what I wanted. What she needed. So why does it feel like I’ve placed a blade at my own throat?
I draw a slow breath and let it sit in my chest. Stillness has always been my shield. Detachment, my inheritance. But she—Kay—disrupts that. Without trying. Without knowing. She asked for nothing, and I crossed realms to deliver it anyway. I didn’t even know if it could be done, if the magic would recognize the beast, but I tried. That is not who I am. That is not who I am allowed to be. The crossing was not gentle. For the beast, sure, but not for me. My head still feels heavy, clogged with fragments of want and tendrils of the realm that tried to halt my journey. She doesn’t know that part. She doesn’t need to.
Let her believe it was a simple errand. A conjured portal. A quick snatch-and-return. Let her think the satchel was a convenience and not the result of bargaining with a veiled entity who asked for more than I wanted to give. More than I probably should have given.
The flame felt the cost. Not the blaze in the chamber—that one watches me always—but the deeper current that stirs in my blood. The one that has been quiet for years. It moved when I reached across worlds. It moved because I reached for her and now I don’t know how to shut the lid again.
Small mercies are never small in Crimson. I shift my stance and push off the wall, finally forcing my limbs into motion. Three steps down the corridor, and I pause again. Not because I’ve changed my mind. Not because I doubt what I’ve done. But because a part of me—sharp and treacherous—wants to go back inside her room. Not to explain. Not even to speak. Just to sit in the quiet with her. That is unacceptable. I resume walking. There’s no place for indulgence in a world like this. And even if there were they would not be mine.
The summons arrives wrapped in black wax and veined with crimson thread. The thread disintegrates as I touch it. A warning. The Asmodeus does not summon when he wishes to talk. He summons when he wants a show.
I find them in the inner council chamber, just as expected. My father sits slouched across the seat that was carved for his weight and his weight alone. Solonar stands beside him, hands behind his back, as still and unreadable as the great iron statues lining the walls. They look like men who have already been speaking about me.
I step forward and bow my head—just enough to satisfy formality.
“My lord.”
“Caziel,” my father drawls. “My son. My thorn.”
His voice is warm. It never means warmth.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
Solonar does not look at me. That is my first warning.
“I’ve been fulfilling your command,” I answer evenly.
“Have you?” my father muses. “It’s interesting, then, that your ‘command’ has taken you to the human’s door so often.”
A long pause. Too long.
“She’s quite the thing, isn’t she?” he adds. “All that soft skin. How many times have you tried to find out if it burns?”
My jaw tightens. I do not react. That is what he wants.
“I’m sure you’ve inspected her thoroughly,” he continues, grinning now. “I mean, we’ve all seen the way she looks at you. Even Solonar agrees—can’t miss it, not with how much she leaves exposed.” A calculated glance toward his companion. Solonar does not smile. But he also does not object. “You could bend her to your will with but crumbs of your attention.”
My stomach twists. Solonar had always been careful. Distant, yes—but measured. Strategic. Now, for the first time, I cannot tell if his silence is loyalty or complicity. What did I say in his presence? What did I give away? My father leans forward.
“You are certain,” he says, “that she bears no mark?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve searched every inch?” Another lewd chuckle. “Tell me, does she beg prettily on her knees?”
My hands clench at my sides and he sees it. He likes it.
“You used to be harder to provoke,” he says. “What happened to all that ice?”
