Chapter 10
Korithax
I’m halfway through my second glass of whiskey—top shelf, smuggled from the mortal realm by one of our more sticky-handed lower demons— and it’s the closest thing I’ve had to peace in weeks.
Mortals are shit at most things; they’re weak, loud, and impressively stupid, but fuck, they make good liquor. But, of course, the peace never lasts in this place. Not when you’re surrounded by idiots who think ‘summon the demon prince’ is a fun Tuesday activity.
A familiar tug pulls at the base of my spine. That irritating little spark that comes whenever some desperate soul decides to invoke my name with candles, blood, or a butchered Latin chant they found on some dark web thread.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Again? Are you all fucking bored up there or what?”
It used to happen maybe once a week, if that. Some back-alley ritual. A wannabe warlock. An idiot selling their soul for a bigger dick. But lately? It’s been constant. My name is continuously tossed around carelessly by mortals with no idea what they’re actually calling for.
I know exactly who to blame: Lucifer—Satan.
He thought it was hilarious—telling mortals, with that smirking, too-white grin of his, “Oh, if you want real power, try summoning the Prince of Hell. He still takes deals.” Fucking bastard.
He knew damn well that until I ascend fully with a crown and queen, I was still bound to the old laws of infernal commerce.
Which meant I had to answer summons. Not all of them, mind you, but the ones that slip through the cracks…
yeah. The ones spoken in just the right tone of desperation or fate?
They crawl under your skin like a tick and fester until you show up.
And Satan? He laughs. Of course, he laughs. Because every time some mortal gets me instead of him, he adds another tally to his imaginary scoreboard titled “Annoy the Hell out of Korithax.”
I enjoyed competition, especially when it put me at the top. But not for summoning. I could happily leave that winning title to Satan any day. Summoning bored me to death, same shit, different day. But clearly, his competition was with himself, and how much he could make me suffer. Asshole.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, contemplating whether it would be considered a war crime if I just started ignoring these calls outright. I crack my neck, about to choose ignorance, when a knock sounds.
“What?” I growl.
Aran steps into the room, all composed elegance and deadpan disappointment. “Before you ignore that summons,” he says mildly, “I’d think again.”
I squint at him. “How the fuck do you do that?”
“Do what?” He responds.
“Know shit.”
He shrugs, perfectly casual. “I just do. It’s part of my charm.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s unnerving. Stop it.”
“Can’t. Anyway... this summons is from Daisy Sandoval, sire.”
Ah. That name. That irritatingly bright, stubborn little sunspot in human form. My brows lift in interest, and a grin unfurls across my mouth before I can stop it.
“So…” I say, rising slowly from my chair, “the sunshine has finally come to beg. My favourite part.”
The stench of humanity hits me first—cheap beer, sweat, and whatever godawful cologne they pretend smells like masculinity.
There’s a pulsing bass that drills straight into my skull, and laughter rising like bile through the floorboards.
I appear in what can only be described as the most offensively beige bedroom I’ve ever seen.
The door is cracked open, letting a strip of hallway light slice across the bed.
I smell her before I see her—tequila and lavender and something sharp that makes my jaw clench.
She’s there, unconscious and so very small.
Her limbs are slack and twisted, skirt hiked high, her underwear halfway down her thighs.
I don’t move for a long moment. I stare and catalogue my surroundings.
Red solo cups litter the floor, and there’s one beside her on the bed, sticky and still half-full.
Glitter clings to her skin, and mascara has carved black rivers down her temples and cheeks.
She’s silent, limp, and exposed. An offering left out for the vultures.
My nostrils flare. Not from pity, I don’t do pity.
I do wrath. And this? This is a soul-rot level of fuckery that deserves the worst wrath can offer.
I drag a hand down my face, inhaling once, slow and shallow.
My eyes track the little outfit she has on.
She came dressed like me. Well… a horny mortal’s version of me.
Horns, glitter, and blood-red fabric that’s hugging her curves like she was made to wear sin itself.
And someone looked at her and thought, ‘Yes, that’s mine and I’m taking it.
’ Without permission, thinking there would be no consequences.
I step forward, my boots crushing something underfoot.
Plastic, probably. Doesn’t matter, nothing in this house matters other than this room and the scene in front of me.
I kneel by the bed, my movements almost mechanical as I tug her skirt back down.
I’m not gentle or affectionate, but I am precise.
Because even desecrated altars deserve to be covered.
“You called for me,” I murmur, my voice low. “But why now, sunshine?”
I don’t expect an answer from her; she’s too far under.
Her skin is fever-warm, her lips parted on a soft sigh.
There’s a little smear of blood along her inner thigh.
My fists clench so hard at the sight that my knuckles pop.
Rape is one of the few mortal sins that guarantees rot.
A slow, eternal kind. It’s an unforgivable offence.
I don’t give a single shit about most things—but this? This infuriates me.
I gather her into my arms, her head falling against my chest. She’s soft, way too soft.
Fragile in a way I hate, because fragility invites monsters.
And the monsters came. I glance down, and her ridiculous glittery horns are still perched crookedly on her head.
One side of her lipstick is smeared, her hair tangled like a fallen angel who crash-landed straight into the worst corner of the world.
“She’s mocking me,” I mutter, lips twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Even now.”
I turn toward the dark slit in the wall, the tear in the veils I opened to return home. Without another word, I carry her through it. Hell may not be gentle, but it is mine. And unlike this place, it knows what to do with broken things.
We return to Zeriavoss.
The instant my boots strike obsidian, the fortress responds, flames flickering higher in the sconces.
This is my realm, carved from shadow, sins, and soulfire, and every inch of this palace knows my presence.
I take her to one of the lesser guest chambers.
It’s still grand by mortal standards, but modest by mine.
The walls are a smooth blackstone veined with molten soulthread that pulses gently like a heartbeat.
The bed is wide, framed in polished darkwood, layered in deep crimson and onyx silks.
A single fire crackles in the hearth. The air smells faintly of smoked cedar and ashberries.
It’s silent here, peaceful. Deceptively so.
I place her on the bed gently, because her body still trembles with the aftershocks of being desecrated in a realm that never deserved her.
“Bring a cleansing tonic,” I bark to the nearest attendant. One of the servants bolts instantly, robes fluttering behind him. “HURRY.”
They return quickly, elixir in hand. I prop her up just enough, sliding the vial past her parted lips. She swallows on instinct, the warmth of the brew chasing away the poison left in her blood stream. That’s a good girl.
I pull up a chair and sit, waiting for the elixir to do its work.
She stirs minutes later, her eyes fluttering open, ocean blue and swimming in confusion.
Fear hits a moment later, her gaze flicking to mine as she jolts, clutching the blanket to her chest like it’ll protect her from me. I raise a brow at her in confusion.
“You summoned me,” I mutter, my tone sharp. “Now you act afraid?”
She blinks, the world clearly still tilting under her.
Her gaze drops, catching sight of her torn stockings that are poking out from beneath the bedding.
Her eyes fill, a tear slipping down her cheek as she curls further into herself, her small body shaking.
I exhale through my nose, irritation simmering through me.
I’m not irritated at her, not entirely. I just hate this shit.
The vulnerability, the mess, the weight of human fragility pressing in on my realm.
“What happened, Daisy?” I ask, a little softer, so I can get answers.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers. “Thank you for helping me.”
She looks around, brows knitting together. “Where am I?”
“Zeriavoss.” Her blink is slow, like I’d just spoken fucking Latin. “Don’t make me ask again.”
She shakes her head, pressing her face into her knees, burying herself in silence. I clench my jaw, count to five, then let it all go in a single snarl.
“Daisy. Who fucking hurt you?”
She flinches at the sudden tone change. Then she finally breaks.
“My boyfriend,” she chokes. “He… He…”
I take a slow inhale, my hands gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to make the wood groan. The fire behind me flares higher in response to my rising anger, a single spark leaping into the air.
“Did he rape you?” I ask, my voice demanding, ensuring there’s no room for lies.
She pauses for what feels like a century, then raises her head to look at me.
Her eyes—fuck, her eyes—are drowning. Glassy and raw, shining with something worse than sorrow.
I tilt my head, studying her. So innocent, so fucking breakable.
And yet fate keeps throwing her to the wolves. She nods once.
I rise. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Where are you going?” She sniffles.