Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
Deimos is unraveling.
I see it in the sharp, restless movements as he paces across the room, in the twitch of his fingers, the way his jaw grinds until I half expect the bone to splinter.
His energy burns through the air, thick and volatile, a storm of static that makes the walls feel too close, too alive.
It’s the kind of tension that makes lesser demons drop their eyes, makes them retreat to the shadows rather than risk catching the full brunt of his fury.
But I am not lesser.
So I watch. Sprawled out on the couch, a predator at rest, my body loose, my mind honed to a blade’s edge. Letting him wear himself thin, knowing exactly where this will lead. He doesn’t see it yet. He never does. But I do.
Deimos needs grounding. A tether. A hand to drag him out of the chaos in his skull and force him back into flesh, into sensation, into obedience.
And I’m more than willing to provide.
“You’re fucking twitchy,” I say, stretching my arms behind my head, every word deliberate.
His glare snaps to me, golden eyes sparking. “She’s unprotected.”
I snort, unbothered. “She has Cassiel.”
His jaw ticks. “That’s what worries me.”
Ah. There it is—the fracture line beneath his rage.
It isn’t just that Lillien is gone. It’s that she’s gone with him. With Cassiel. And no matter how carefully Deimos pretends otherwise, he hasn’t forgiven that betrayal—the offer to give her up, to hand her over like some pawn on a board. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I roll my neck, exhaling through my nose. “You know she can take care of herself.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps pacing, restless, twitching, gnawing on his own fury. A wild animal in a too-small cage. And I know what he needs before he can put a name to it. So I give it to him.
“Deimos.”
My voice cuts through the air, low and firm. A command wrapped in quiet amusement, sharp enough to snag.
He stills for a moment before he turns. Golden eyes locking on violet.
“Come here.”
I catch the hesitation in him—the half-beat of resistance—but it’s weak. A dying flame.
I smirk. “Don’t make me come to you, little incubus.”
And that does it. The shift happens all at once—the weight of dominance falling where it belongs. He exhales sharply and stalks toward me, shoulders squared, already knowing what this is, what I am doing.
Taking over. Taking the reins. Taking him.
I sit forward slowly, rolling my shoulders, savoring the moment. “Undress.”
This time he obeys without question. His shirt drops to the floor, followed by the soft thud of his sweats. His skin gleams with a faint sheen, his scars catching the low light. I strip with less urgency, my movements steady, calculated. I want him to feel every second of this surrender.
Because Deimos can’t admit he needs it—needs someone else to bear the weight, even if only for a moment. But I know. And he knows I know.
I rise from the couch, looming over him. “Kneel.”
The word falls, and he obeys—bracing himself against the back of the couch, back arched, exposed. His cock already hard, straining, desperate.
I waste no time. My hands clamp to his hips, fingers digging hard enough to leave marks, and I press my cock against him. He’s slick already, his incubus nature betraying his need, letting me push forward and sink into him inch by inch. A groan tears from my throat as the tight heat drags me under.
Deimos hisses, sharp and guttural. “Fuck.”
I rake my nails down his sides and slam into him, pulling a ragged sound from his throat that is half-snarl, half-plea.
Then I take him. Ruthless. Demanding.
I don’t allow him thought, don’t allow him space to spiral. I rip every ounce of control from him and replace it with nothing but sensation. My thrusts are punishing, merciless, and when I fist his hair, yanking his head back, he arches and gasps—a sound caught between agony and ecstasy.
“You needed this,” I breathe against his ear, lips ghosting his skin. “Didn’t you?”
His growl is refusal, denial, but his body tells the truth.
I chuckle darkly, fucking him harder. “Come on, Deimos. Use your words.”
He curses instead, voice breaking, and I feel the tremor that runs through him, the tightening around me that betrays his unraveling.
“Stroke yourself,” I order, voice dropping into shadow.
His hand moves, desperate, wrapping around his cock, stroking in time with every thrust I drive into him.
“Good boy.”
The words drag a sound from him—low, unsteady, helpless. He bows his head against the couch, body trembling, caught between shame and need, between fury and release.
I don’t relent. I push him further, deeper, until the inevitable hits. His entire body goes taut, shuddering as he comes with a strangled cry, spilling hot cum into his hand.
The sight alone is enough to break me. I thrust once more, burying myself deep, and come hard inside him, my grip bruising as pleasure rips through me.
For a long, heavy moment, the only sound is our breathing.
He’s loose beneath me now, his body boneless, his edges softened. Exactly as I intended. I drag my hand up his spine, savoring the way he shudders beneath my touch, and lean in close, my breath against his ear.
“Feel better?”
He rolls his head enough to glare at me over his shoulder. “Shut up.”
But there’s no venom in it. No fire. Just exhaustion, steadiness returning where chaos had been.
I chuckle, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied stretch. “You’re welcome.”
He scoffs, shoving a hand through his messy hair. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, lingering, breathing uneven, body still lax from release. The silence between us stretches, but it isn’t sharp anymore. It’s softer. Calmer.
I close my eyes, letting my head tip back, content with the heat still coiling between us. And then, so quiet I almost miss it—
“…Thanks.”
Begrudging. Raw. But real. And that’s enough.