Chapter 20
Korithax
The mortal whisky burns like acid as the amber liquid slides down my throat.
Good. Maybe it’ll cauterise whatever rot seems to be festering inside of me.
I lean back in the worn leather chair of the viewing chamber, the scrying mirror suspended above the blackened stone table like a frozen moon.
It hums with magic, flickering with the image I can’t stop watching.
Her apartment is quiet and dim, messy in the way I’ve grown to know how she likes her space.
And there she is, sitting by the window in that absurdly oversized hoodie.
The one with the words Sunshine Incarnate scrawled across the front like some kind of bad joke.
The orb sits on her coffee table, casting hues of soft light across the room.
The same orb I know she threw in the trash.
Yet, there it is, illuminating her space.
Her knees are pulled up, an empty wine bottle swinging in her fingers as she stares out at the fireworks illuminating the sky.
I swirl the whisky in my glass, letting the silence stretch between us, despite her not knowing I’m there with her.
“If you hate me so much, little flower,” I murmur, voice rough from the burning spirit that laces my throat. “Why do you sit with my gift?”
She taps the orb, the colours shifting from sunset to sunrise. Even now, she’s always choosing the light. Always pretending her life, her world, isn’t made of shadow.
I down the rest of my drink in one go, the glass thunking against the stone with a hollow sound that makes my jaw twitch.
It’s been well over a month since she left my realm.
Well over a month since I told her to get on with her fucking life, since I let the venom spill from my tongue just to stop myself from falling at her feet.
And I’ve watched her every night since. Pathetic.
But I have bigger problems. The Divine Six have made their threat.
A noose tightening. A deadline. One more moon cycle to find a bride, or they’ll provide one for me.
Tick fucking tock. They gave me three options, all of them insufferable, each one worse than the last. Zerithia of the Eastern Flame Tribe that reside in the pits.
Strong lineage, a decent warrior, but has tried to assassinate two of her previous fiancés—one of them successfully.
It turns out, she also does not want marriage, and is being forced into it by her parents.
So if she can’t have her own way, she’ll just keep trying to kill those who get in her way.
Then there’s Iralen of the Wretched Vale, part of a realm Hell cut trade with a long, long time ago.
Poison in a gown. She kissed me with daggers behind her back, already asking me what I’d leave her in my will.
I’d give her credit for being so upfront if it wasn’t for the fact that I knew damn well she wouldn’t waste time on stabbing those daggers straight into my jugular the second the ceremony was over.
I’m pretty sure she was only putting herself in the running so she had a chance to kill me as revenge for Hell cutting the trade deal.
It wasn’t even my decision; it was my father’s and the Divine Six who decided they weren’t worthy.
But now all of a sudden, one of theirs was potential bride material. Make it make sense.
And finally, Alorith. Some highborn royal from the Crystalline Peaks, a realm too far away from here for me to ever even consider visiting.
She had come here, though, to make herself a contender.
She was absolutely beautiful, well-polished, yet so painfully dull that I’d forgotten her name twice during our meeting.
I’m pretty sure I’d fall asleep fucking her, she was that boring.
None of them inspired anything in me apart from dread.
But the Six weren’t bluffing this time. Something in their voices—especially Seraphiel’s—felt different.
It felt final. The kind of warning that doesn’t repeat itself.
This isn’t just politics anymore; it’s war prevention.
Legacy protection. In their eyes, I’m not just a ruler—I’m a loaded gun with no safety, and they want me tied to something.
Anything. Something they can predict and control.
So naturally, I went to the only person who ever made me feel utterly out of control.
And she laughed in my face. And then she screamed.
The memory of her fury is still ringing in my ears.
The venom in her voice, the way she hurled my gift into the bin like it was nothing more than trash.
It should’ve angered me. Instead, it wrecked me.
I rub at my jaw, staring at her silhouette through the mirror as the fireworks outside her window erupt in colour.
She just watches, hollow and still, a wine bottle swinging from her fingertips like a pendulum, counting down the seconds until she finally breaks again.
She is so small, so mortal. So utterly fucking mine in a way I can’t explain.
And yet I sent her away, told her she was nothing.
The irony is, I’ve never wanted anything the way I want to break her heart and then beg her to let me hold the pieces. But I don’t get to do that. I get to sit in the dark, drinking myself blind, and watching a girl who still sits beside my gift like it’s a lighthouse keeping her from the edge.
“I am the monster under her bed,” I murmur to no one, “and she will always leave the light on to banish me.”
I hate her for it. I ache for her because of it. Because of this fucking tether that I have no explanation.
My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. I’m the Prince of Hell. And this girl—this mortal girl—has reduced me to a shadow that lurks in her corner, begging for scraps of her warmth.
I swear to myself that I’ll stop, but my soul tugs me here every night to watch the mortal who flipped my entire life upside down.
Book made for shanv@