Chapter 14
Korithax
It’s been two weeks.
Two fucking weeks of riddles, visions, and celestial parasites breathing down my neck. The Six have made it their personal mission to lecture me like I’m a petulant teenager, and not the demon currently holding this realm together with scorched hands and thinning patience.
Every day it’s the same sanctimonious bullshit. Find a bride, restore the balance, do your divine duty. Seraphiel’s voice still echoes in my skull like a hammer to glass.
“Without a queen, your claim weakens.”
“Your authority fractures.”
“Your reign is untenable.”
No one ever asks anything. They demand, dressed in prophecy and veiled threats, smiling through teeth sharpened on the bones of royalty. I’ve heard the whispers of what they did to the first Queen. They tried to erase her. Buried her name, her legacy, her power. But whispers are hard to kill.
I haven’t murdered one of them, yet, but by the fifth time Amarithe alluded to “the ticking clock of succession,” I very nearly snapped her neck, just to hear her finally shut the fuck up.
And if the Six weren’t enough, I’ve handled ten new soul bargains landing on my desk this week, all thanks to Lucifer and his delightful little marketing spree.
Apparently, the bastard has been leaking the rites at every given opportunity.
More mortals than ever are lining up to sell their souls like it’s a fucking Black Friday sale.
I’m tempted to throw him in his own lava pits and watch him laugh all the way down.
Not one of the bargains has been remotely interesting. It’s all the same sob stories, same sins, same desperate attempts to cheat their way out of accountability. I sign them, bind them, and move on.
I’ve spent more time than usual in the training grounds, just to keep myself from throttling anyone important.
I drive my fists into stone columns until either they shatter or my skin splits, my blood spilling across the sandy floor.
I keep going until my muscles scream, and the sweat pours down my spine, coating me like a second skin.
I’ve been keeping an eye on the young recruit Calrix was torturing, and it seemed he had taken my words to heart.
He was now wielding his weapons so much cleaner, each strike aiming true.
I’d gone in the sparring ring with him, and he managed to get a few hits on me, even when I wasn’t holding back.
I don’t give compliments, but the little shit’s going to make a fine soldier.
Yet still, none of it helps. Even torturing Ethan.
I go to Gehenna daily now, and the demons practically throw a parade when I arrive.
They love it because they think it’s an honour to have me with them, helping carve apart a man who destroyed something so soft, something so innocent.
I’ve broken every single one of Ethan’s bones three times over, poured molten iron into his lungs, and even crushed his fingers one by one.
But it still is not enough. It never is.
No amount of torture can make up for the pain he inflicted on her.
It’s not guilt for her, obviously. It’s not personal, it’s not attachment.
It’s about the violation, the offence. He defiled a soul I own, one marked by me.
That’s why I’m furious. That’s why her fucking face haunts me every time I close my eyes.
Ocean eyes filled with tears, lips trembling, voice cracking.
That’s why I can’t seem to claw her image out of my skull.
Not because I care. Gods, no. She’s insufferable, loud, mortal.
Fragile in the way all humans are—emotional wreckage wrapped in skin and poor decision-making.
This isn’t about her. It’s about what was mine, and what he dared do to it.
I step into my chambers, shirtless, sweat still glistening along my chest. My arms are wrapped in torn bandages from sparring with the northern devourers—the feral bastards tasked with guarding the upper edge of Hell, the last border before Zeriavoss.
They don’t fight clean; they fight to kill. Just how I like it.
Steam curls from beneath the stone door to the shower, hissing like it’s eager to peel the blood and sweat from my skin. My knuckles are raw, a feeling I welcome.
She’s waiting for me. Naked, sprawled across the silken sheets of my bed like an offering I never asked for, but always take. She’s one of the regulars. No name necessary, no conversation. Just teeth and skin and the promise of release.
“You’re late,” she purrs, eyes alight with hunger.
I say nothing as I cross the room. She knows better than to ask questions. Her hands are on me without saying another word, nails dragging across my skin like she’s carving me apart.
“Use the blade,” I murmur against her throat.
She doesn’t hesitate. The dagger on the nightstand gleams as she picks it up, and when the point kisses my chest, I close my eyes and let it bite.
The pain is sharp and immediate. Blood slides over my ribs in slow, lazy rivulets.
She moans like it’s for her, but this isn’t about her.
I grab her throat as I push her beneath me, hard enough to bruise.
She gasps, but I don’t ease up as the bed groans beneath us.
The heat of her body blends with the sting of the blade, and just for a moment, I don’t think about anything except this.
A knock sounds, sharp and urgent.
“Your Highness?”
I grit my teeth. “Aran,” I snap, without looking. “What the fuck have I told you about calling me that?”
His voice cuts through the air from the doorway. “Apologies, sir, but it’s urgent.”
I sigh, rolling off the woman beneath me without so much as a glance. “You know, I’m starting to think your use of ‘urgent’ is just an excuse to pester me when I’m busy.”
Aran steps in, the door clicking closed behind him. He tries not to look at the woman sprawled on the bed, and tries even harder not to react to the blood still sliding down my chest.
“I know you did not request this of me, but I’ve been watching Miss Sandoval in the viewing chamber. In my spare time.”
My entire body stiffens. The woman in my bed sits up like she might speak. I raise a hand without looking and growl, “Out.”
She scrambles without a word. Smart move on her behalf.
I turn back to Aran, jaw tight. “Why?”
He swallows. “I had a feeling that it would be important to do so.”
“She is of no concern to you. Or to me,” I mutter, heading toward the shower, “Not until her soul is freed from its mortal shell.”
I pause, glancing back over my shoulder, “So, what’s so godsdamned urgent?”
He shifts, and I see the stiffness in his spine, the hesitation he rarely allows. “She’s taken an overdose.”
Everything stops. Sound dies, thought dies, and rage is all that’s left. It floods my skull in an instant, hot and acidic. My teeth threaten to crack from how hard I grind my jaw.
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly. When I checked the scrying mirror, she was unconscious in her shower. Fully clothed, surrounded by pill bottles. I don’t know if she’s—”
“She’s alive,” I snarl. “She has to be.”
I slam my fist into the obsidian wall hard enough to split the stone. Cracks splinter outward like lightning, a blade clattering from its mouth onto the floor.
“FUCK!” I bellow.
I’m gone before Aran can say another word.
The apartment is dark when I arrive. Quiet.
I move through it like a storm toward the bathroom door.
I twist the handle, but the door doesn’t budge.
Of course it’s fucking locked. I grit my teeth, anger coursing through my veins.
She locked the fucking door to stop anyone from helping her.
How poetic. I don’t waste time. One brutal kick and the door explodes inwards, splintering into shards.
I stand in the doorway, looking down at her tiny body in a heap on the floor.
She’s in the corner of the shower, dressed in a hoodie that swallows her small form and pants that are also way too large for her.
I approach, the cold water hitting me as I drop to my knees and grab her.
Her lips are a pale blue, and her skin is clammy to the touch.
I look her over, noticing her chest is barely moving.
“Fuck.” I whisper. I shake her gently, but she doesn’t stir. “Daisy,” I snarl. “What the fuck is wrong with you—”
I shove two fingers down her throat, forcing her to gag.
She lurches forward, vomiting violently onto the shower floor.
Half-dissolved pills and bile spill out, mixing with the water, swirling down the drain like poison.
But she still isn’t waking up, and her breathing seems to only be getting worse.
I scoop her into my arms, flicking off the water before pressing her head to my chest to stop it from lolling about.
“You stupid, stubborn, self-destructive girl.”
I teleport us back to Zeriavoss, the walls of her old guest room forming around me in a flash.
Teleporting is usually rough on mortals, but considering she’s basically comatose, it shouldn’t make much difference to her.
The bed is already made, and I lay her down, brushing back soaked hair from her face.
I step into the hall and roar, “GET ME THE HEALERS. NOW!”
The castle shudders beneath my voice, Aran scrambling to get the healers. I step back into the room and don’t move from her side. I sit in a chair by the bed and stare at her almost lifeless body, jittering with restrained violence as I let my heat wash over her to dry out her sodden clothes.
Whilst the healers arrived fast, it wasn’t fast enough.
Three of them enter in a rush, their hoods drawn, arms filled with salves, vials, and spell books.
The oldest begins muttering the diagnostic spell, her fingers twitching above Daisy’s forehead whilst one of the books flies open, pages fluttering by in a blur before landing on a page.
Another one hovers near her chest, checking her pulse with a trembling hand.