Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Ishouldn’t be listening. But I am. God help me, I am.
My fingers clamp down around the edge of the dresser until the wood beneath them groans.
The sound is sharp in the quiet room—except it’s not quiet, is it?
Not really. Not when the walls hum with her cries.
Not when every brutal moan and breathless gasp from down the hall slips through the cracks and slides against my skin like smoke.
They didn’t shut the door. Or maybe they did and it simply doesn’t matter—because her voice carries. It always carries.
She’s screaming now. For them. From them.
And I—I can’t stop touching myself.
I barely made it back to my room before I came the first time, fist clenched around my cock as if it could purge the need from me.
But it only made it worse. I came hard, and I’m still hard.
Still aching. Still leaking. The fabric of my pants is soaked and sticking and every movement is a kind of agony.
It wasn’t disgust that made me leave.
It was fear. Not of them.
Of what I would’ve done if I stayed.
Because when she looked at me with those wide, shattered eyes and whispered, “You don’t think I’m desirable?”—something ancient and monstrous broke loose inside me. Something I’ve buried so deep it doesn’t even have a name anymore.
I wanted to ruin her. I wanted to pray to her. I wanted to fuck the angel right out of my soul and watch the wings rot.
And that—that—is what scared me.
So I ran. And now I listen.
Deimos’s growl cuts through the wall like a blade. There’s a crack—a slap, a sob—and then Bastion’s voice, thick with pleasure. “You’re our little demon fuck whore now.”
My jaw clenches. My cock jerks. I stroke myself harder, sick with the knowledge of how right it feels. I should have stayed. Should have joined them.
I should be the one inside her right now.
Then—her cry.
Not pain. Not pleasure. Something deeper. More raw.
And I come again, biting back a sound that tears through my throat anyway as my seed spurts against the side of the dresser. My legs shake. My knees buckle. I grip the edge like it’s the only thing holding me to this world.
Footsteps.
I freeze.
Voices. The door creaks.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to. They already know. I can feel Deimos’s amusement before I hear the smug twist of his voice. “Poor Cassiel.”
Bastion’s laugh is a low snort. “Coward.”
I say nothing. Because they’re right.
I shouldn’t be here.
But I come anyway.
The room smells like sex and sweat and shadows. The candles gutter low, barely more than waxy stubs now. And she—she lies curled in the middle of the bed like a toy no one bothered to put away. Limbs slack. Hair tangled. Skin flushed. Every inch of her glistening with what they left behind.
She’s still wet between her thighs. Still marked. Still open.
My chest cracks in half at the sight of her. They didn’t even cover her.
She gave them everything. And they walked away.
My feet move before my mind does. I reach her gently—so gently—and gather her closer to the center of the bed, arranging her limbs with a care no one has ever given me. She murmurs in her sleep but doesn’t wake. Her breathing is steady. Trusting.
Foolish little demon.
I leave only long enough to fetch a warm bowl of water and a clean cloth from Deimos’s bathroom. I sit at the edge of the mattress and begin to wash her. Not quickly. Not clinically.
Reverently.
Her thighs. Her hips. Her stomach. Her breasts. Her throat.
She stirs only once, letting out a low, almost feral purring sound from somewhere deep in her chest.
And it destroys me. Because the demon inside her is satisfied. And the man inside me is not.
I finish slowly, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out. I pull the blanket over her and tuck it around her body like a lover would. She exhales softly. Shifts toward the pillow. Peaceful. Unknowing.
That sound—so fragile, so unguarded—is what ruins me.
She trusts me. She shouldn’t.
I don’t deserve it.
I carry the bowl back into the bathroom and drop to my knees. I try to speak the words I haven’t prayed in centuries. Forgive me. But they burn in my throat and fall dead at my feet.
I don’t look up when I hear the door creak.
Deimos leans against the frame, arms crossed, violet eyes flicking between me and the bed. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
I shoulder past him. Into the hall. Into the dark.
“You’re too soft for a demon,” he murmurs.
I don’t argue.
“I wasn’t born a demon like you,” I say, voice flat. “You should put your toys away when you finish playing with them.”
He chuckles. But he knows. I didn’t do it for her body. I did it for her.
Bastion’s on the couch with a drink in one hand and nothing resembling shame in the other as I enter the living room. Deimos takes the armchair. I stay standing.
He doesn’t even hesitate before saying it. “I’m bonded to the girl now.”
Bastion raises a brow. “Do we know how that happened?”
Deimos shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Orgasm. Knife. Death. Transformation. Take your pick.”
“Romantic,” Bastion mutters, smirking.
I watch Deimos’s face closely. He hates this. The bond. The vulnerability. The unknown.
He doesn’t do fate. Doesn’t do permanence.
“Maybe you were always meant to be mates,” I say softly.
He sneers. “Fuck off.”
“Think about it,” I press. “Succubi are all but gone. Incubi are dying out. Maybe this wasn’t random. Maybe it’s biological. Survival. Nature’s last effort.”
He doesn’t answer. But Bastion leans forward, intrigued.
“Would explain the hunger,” he muses. “The way she took all of us and still wasn’t full. Like she was… made for it.”
“She was,” I say.
And then I remember her words—quiet, guilt-laced. I’m not supposed to feed.
My brow furrows. “She said she’s not supposed to feed. What did that mean?”
Silence.
Even Deimos doesn’t have a snide retort. Because none of us know. But we will. Soon.
Whatever that girl is—it’s not ordinary. And it’s not safe.
But she’s ours now. Bound to us by blood and breath and need.
And me? I’ve already lost.
I was hers the second she opened those eyes and whispered “You don’t think I’m desirable?”
Because I do. More than anything.