Chapter 8He Waits in the Hell I Dream
He Waits in the Hell I Dream
Isabella
The darkness folds around me like velvet, thick and choking.
The air itself feels alive, dense with heat and ash, clinging to my skin like smoke from a fire that never went out.
The silence is wrong. Too complete. Too deliberate.
My body feels heavy, limbs sluggish, but I move anyway, compelled by something ancient, something raw humming in the marrow of my bones.
Stone grates beneath my feet. Wet. Cold.
Slick with something that smells of rot and iron.
I’m barefoot, wearing only a thin white nightgown that clings to my skin like a second layer of nerves.
It’s already damp, clinging to the curve of my hips, translucent with sweat, or is it blood? I can’t tell.
The corridor stretches out ahead, impossibly long, its walls made of something that pulses faintly under the firelight, like flesh.
Veins throb beneath a thin membrane of stone and muscle, as if the place itself is breathing, watching.
At the far end, flames flicker against obsidian columns, throwing shadows that stretch into the shape of beasts.
Wolves, dragons, men. They snarl in silence. They move when I blink.
He’s here.
Or whatever is here resembles him.
He stands between two jagged black pillars, shirtless, barefoot, as if this place bends for him.
The fire behind him casts him in shades of scarlet and gold, illuminating every scar carved into his body like scripture.
His tattoos slither over his skin, ink that looks like it was etched in blood rather than ink.
He is more than a man here. He is sovereign. Made of ruin and beauty. The devil in his kingdom.
His eyes find me as though he already knew I’d come. As though I was summoned, not dreaming. His gaze drags across me, unhurried, consuming, and I feel my breath hitch without a single touch.
“This isn’t real,” I whisper, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds distant, cracked, scorched by the heat of this place.
“No,” he replies, his voice low and dangerous, smoke and honey wrapped in steel.
He begins to walk toward me, each step slow and deliberate, his bare feet leaving no mark on the scorched stone. The shadows recoil from him. Or maybe they follow.
“I told you before,” he murmurs, each word a knife. “Your grief found me. You opened the door, solnyshko. And now I’m here.”
I take a step back, but the corridor shifts behind me. The walls close in. Breathing. Grinning. Alive. There is no escape, only descent.
“Do you want to wake up?” he asks, cocking his head like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
“I... I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
He’s in front of me now. Tall, massive, intoxicating. His scent is everywhere—smoke, ash, leather, blood. Like war. Like sex. Like memory. His hands slide into my hair, gripping just enough to make me tilt my head back. My knees threaten to collapse.
“You want to wake up,” he says, his lips grazing mine.
His hand wraps around my throat, not tight, but sure. Anchoring me. Silencing me.
“You ache to be unmade.”
He pushes me backward, and the floor falls away. I land on a bed I hadn’t seen before, vast, covered in velvet the color of dried blood. Chains dangle from the corners, swaying like they’ve just been used. I don’t fight. I’m not scared. I’m… relieved.
The air grows hotter, thick with sin. The walls drip with melted wax and memory. This place, this dream, isn’t just a dream. It’s a reflection. Of desire. Of shame. Of truth.
He kneels between my legs, dragging the hem of my nightgown up with two fingers, his eyes locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away. I don’t.
“This,” he whispers, sliding his hand up my thigh, “is where you keep me now. Not in your memories. In your hunger and grief.”
My mouth opens to protest, but he presses two fingers against my lips, silencing me.
“No more lies,” he breathes. “You like this. You dream of the devil because you were never afraid of Hell, you were afraid no one would find you in it.”
And then he tears the nightgown open.
The cool air bites at my exposed skin, but it’s his mouth that makes me gasp, possessive kisses that scorch their way across my stomach, my ribs, my throat. Every touch is a claim. Every movement is deliberate. Like he’s not fucking me. He’s branding me.
My wrists are bound with red silk, pinned above my head, tight but not cruel. Not forced. A choice I made the moment I followed him here.
“You always wanted to be broken,” he growls into my skin. “But not by pain. Not by fear. You wanted it done by someone who sees your darkness and doesn’t flinch. Who devours it.”
His hand slips between my thighs. Two fingers. Deep. Slow. Perfect.
My hips buck. My body betrays me. I want to scream. I want to cry. But I do neither.
He watches my every reaction, eyes hungry, reverent.
“This is your mind, Isabella,” he whispers against my throat. “I’m not real. Which means everything I do to you… is what you want done.”
Tears rise in my eyes, not from pain, but from how good it feels to feel again. To be claimed. To be seen and still wanted.
“Why do I want this?” I choke.
He leans in close, lips brushing my ear, voice like a psalm carved in sin.
“Because I’m the only place your chaos makes sense.”
And when I shatter, he holds me through it, breath warm on my skin, hands steady, voice the last thing I hear before the dream dissolves into ash—
“You dream of Hell to find me. But Hell hasn’t claimed me yet.”