16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Ophelia
W e were up all night—and I’m not tired. Not even a little.
Which… is unsettling.
I stretch, blink at the ceiling, and glance at Julian, who’s just lying there next to me like a damn statue. Watching me.
“You’re staring,” I say.
He doesn’t blink. “I’m appreciating.”
“You’re being creepy.”
He smirks. “And yet, you still let me inside you. Twice.”
I groan and hurl a pillow at his face. “Why do I even talk to you?”
He catches it midair. “Because you like when I ruin you and the conversation.”
I sit up, still not even a little sore or foggy. “Okay, but seriously—I should be tired. We didn’t sleep.”
Julian props himself on one elbow, eyes raking over me like he hasn’t decided whether to answer or drag me back under. “You’re immortal now, love. You won’t tire like before. And here in Hell? You’re powerful. Your body knows it. It’s adjusting.”
I blink at him. “But you slept when you stayed at my apartment.”
His mouth quirks. “Because I’d been on Earth too long. The longer we’re away from our realm, the more the body bends. It dulls the edges.”
“And exhaustion’s the first thing to hit?”
He shrugs. “That, or irrational emotional outbursts.”
I snort. “So basically, you get... human.”
He grins. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Wait… we didn’t use protection.”
“Nope,” Julian says, maddeningly calm.
My stomach flips. “But… you’re a demon. I can’t—right?”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink. “Lia. How do you think I exist?”
My blood runs cold. “Shit. I can get pregnant.”
He leans on his elbow, still watching me like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
“But… how?” I shake my head, hoping it’ll clear the fog. “I mean, I know how, but also—how?”
Julian smirks. “Do you need a repeat of last night? I’m happy to provide a demonstration.”
I throw the blanket at him. “Not helping, demon.”
“You started it, little mortal.”
“Immortal,” I snap. “And you’re a demon. A thousands-of-years-old, slept-with-legions kind of demon.”
“Hey! That’s an exaggeration.” He opens his mouth. Shuts it. “Okay. Maybe not legions. But like… a battalion.”
“A whole cursed infantry,” I mutter.
“That’s because,” he says, brushing hair from my face, “children only happen with a fated mate.”
I still. “So I could be pregnant.”
He nods. “It’s possible.”
My breath catches.
“Would that be so bad?” he asks softly.
I don’t answer right away. Because it wouldn’t be bad. Not exactly. Not with him. But it’s not about bad. It’s about everything I don’t know. “I don’t know if I’d be good at it,” I say finally, barely more than a whisper. “Being a mother.”
Julian doesn’t rush to answer. He just watches me, quiet.
“I had no role model. No one to show me how. My mom died. My father is a fuck. I can’t even share this with Bella. The ache hits fast and sharp—like a shadow I didn’t realize was still clinging to me.
Julian doesn’t rush to answer. He just watches me, quiet.
Finally, he asks softly, “Why can’t you share this with Bella? Or Rosalind?”
The words catch me off balance. He’s not pushing—just opening a door I didn’t expect.
“You don’t have to cut them out completely,” he adds. “And… you think love and softness are the only traits that make a good parent?”
I rest my head against his shoulder, eyes burning. His voice lowers to that quiet, careful place he only uses when he’s trying to steady me. “That’s not the only kind of strength a child needs.”
I exhale slowly, the words catching at the edges of my breath. And even though I don’t have an answer yet, I understand what he’s trying to say. What he’s giving me permission to feel.
Maybe this is just something I’ll have to face—if I’m pregnant. When I’m ready.
His face changes—subtle, but I catch it. That faraway, hyper-focused look he gets right before something stupid happens.
“What’s up with your face?” I ask, squinting at him.
He sighs like this is the greatest burden ever bestowed on a demon. “Someone’s calling me.”
“Calling you? Like mentally?”
“Yes, Lia. With their brain.”
“Who?”
He gives me a flat look. “My dad.”
Julian tilts his head, clearly trying to soften the blow. “He wants to… talk to us.”
“Us?” My voice spikes. “Like together? Like some sort of post-claim check-in?”
Julian shrugs, but there’s amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Apparently word got around.”
“Word got around? What the hell does that mean?” I fling my arms out. “Who told? Who was watching? Are there demon paparazzi? Is there some Hell-wide newsletter?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy laughing.
“This isn’t funny, Julian!” I start pacing, grabbing a throw pillow just to squeeze the life out of it.“I haven’t even figured out if I’m pregnant and now I’m supposed to meet the head of the Duvain line like we’re doing some demonic dinner party? What do I wear? Do I bow? Do I address him as Your Infernal Majesty? What if I mess it up and he incinerates me?”
Julian’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter, which just fuels my spiral.
“I’m serious! What if he hates me? What if I say something offensive and he banishes me to a subrealm filled with lava and guilt? What if I—”
Julian grabs my wrist and pulls me back to him with an infuriatingly calm smile. “Ophelia. Breathe.”
I glare at him. “Don’t you dare demon-meditate me right now.”
Julian just grins. The kind of grin that should come with a warning label. “You know what I think?”
“No,” I reply, voice flat enough to iron linen. “But you’ve got that ‘speech incoming’ look, so go ahead.”
He pulls me into his lap in one smooth motion, hands landing on my hips like they belong there—and, annoyingly, they do. “I think you’re looking for reasons to stress because you’re too afraid to admit you might actually be handling all of this just fine.”
I shoot him a look. “That is… not entirely wrong. But also, rude.”
“You're panicking because you're brilliant,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “But you forget one thing.”
“What?”
“I know exactly how to shut your brain up.”
My breath catches. “Julian.”
“Mm?” His hand slides lower, fingers tracing along my inner thigh. “You were saying?”
“I was saying you are absolutely not seducing me out of a stress spiral right now. That’s not how mental health works.”
He nips at my neck, just enough to make me gasp. “Maybe not for humans. But for demons?”
I swallow. “This is emotional manipulation.”
“Correction,” he says, dragging his mouth back to mine. “This is effective multi-tasking.”
I shove him off with both palms to his bare chest—he lets me, but he’s smirking like he won anyway.
“No,” I say, standing up and realizing—shit. “I have no clothes. I’m naked.”
Julian reclines against the headboard like a smug demon prince. “Just will something on.”
My brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”
“You’re immortal now. Your energy responds to intent. Just focus on what you want to wear.”
I stare at him. “So you’re telling me I can just… manifest outfits?”
He shrugs. “It’s Hell, love. We have standards.”
“Oh my god,” I say, eyes wide. “I’m about to have a power-induced identity crisis. This is dangerous.”
“I’m begging you,” Julian says, already grinning. “Please make it dangerous.”
I close my eyes and focus, envisioning something simple, classy, timeless.
There’s a flash of heat—and I look down to find myself in a black silk slip dress with thigh slits that make it feel like a threat.
Julian whistles. “Not subtle.”
“This is me trying to be respectable,” I snap.
“Try again,” he says, clearly having the time of his afterlife.
I throw a hand up. “Fine.”
Flash—now I’m in red leather pants, a sheer corset, and platform boots that could double as weapons.
Julian sits up straighter. “Okay, that one’s disrespectful—in the best way.”
“Ugh!” Another wave—now it’s a blazer with nothing underneath, tailored to filth.
Julian groans. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“You said I had to meet your dad,” I hiss. “I’m trying to look dignified.”
“Pretty sure he’ll just be impressed you didn’t show up in a dress made of flame.”
“I mean… that does sound kinda iconic,” I murmur.
“Stop,” Julian says, laughing now. “No. Don’t put that idea in your own head.”
But it’s too late. There’s a flicker of heat, and now I’m standing in a molten flame gown that crackles when I move.
Julian’s jaw drops. “Okay, I take it back. You’re going to own Hell.”
I look down at myself. The flame gown is iconic—but it’s too much. I don’t want to look like a threat. I want to look like I belong.
I take a breath and close my eyes again, focusing this time—not on drama, or distraction, but on clarity. On me.
When I open my eyes, I’m wearing a deep charcoal tailored suit—fitted, sleek, and sharp at the edges. The blazer cinches at the waist like armor. Underneath, just a sheer black lace bralette that hints without giving anything away. The pants fall clean to the floor, flared slightly over pointed boots. My Mark glows faintly at my collarbone, framed perfectly by the low V.
I lift my chin. “This.”
Julian stares, slower this time. Like he’s cataloging every inch.
“That’s it,” he says. No teasing now. Just quiet awe. “You look like sin dressed in order.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s worship,” he says. “And also a warning to everyone else in that room.”
I smirk. “Good. Let them be warned.”
“Ready, little artist?”
I nod, spine straight.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Let’s go show Hell who you are.”
He wraps his arms around me, and off we go.
Honestly, I’m used to it now. I don’t get sick anymore.
We land back in the living room I accidentally dropped myself into last night. This time, only Liora and Evander are here.
Which somehow feels worse.
Julian’s hand rests at the small of my back, steadying me—but I swear they can see straight through me. Not just reading my body language. Reading me. Like they already know what I’m afraid of before I do.
“I see she figured out how to conjure a wardrobe,” Liora says, eyes flicking over me like I’m a painting she’s already critiqued. “One of the best perks of immortality. That, and manipulating wine temperature with a thought.”
“Oh, you know what the best perk is,” Evander adds without missing a beat.
Liora smirks. “You’re inappropriate.”
Evander shrugs. “You married me.”
I give Julian a wide-eyed look. “Are they always like this?”
Julian leans in slightly. “As long as I’ve known them,” he says, tone so dry it could ignite.
Liora gestures toward the velvet sofas. “Sit. Unless the Claim completely obliterated your spine.”
“Almost,” I say, dropping onto the couch. “But Julian has fast hands.”
Evander chuckles, clearly approving. Liora sips her wine like she didn’t hear that—though the glint in her eye says otherwise.
“So,” she says, studying me. “You’re still glowing.”
“Is that normal?”
“For someone who just died and came back in fire? Yes. You’re stabilizing. It’ll pass.”
“You say that like it’s casual,” I mutter.
“It becomes casual,” Evander says. “Eventually.”
I hesitate. “Can I ask something?”
Evander lifts a brow. “You can try.”
“You’re... bonded, right?”
Liora brushes her hair off her shoulder and unclasps her blazer and pulls it aside—just enough to reveal what lies beneath.
The Mark. Just above her heart, carved into the same place mine lives.
Same shape. Same golden curl spiraled around the black. Only hers looks older—etched deeper, like it’s lived through war.
My breath catches. “It’s just like mine.”
Liora nods, calm and certain. “It should be,” she says softly. There’s something in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Or memory.
“You weren’t born with it?”
“No. I was mortal,” she says, folding her blazer closed with easy grace. “But the moment Evander saw me, it burned across my skin. Just like yours did.”
Evander’s expression hardens. “The bond always works that way. It sears itself into the soul. No questions. No mercy. Just truth.”
Julian brushes his fingers against mine, grounding me. “It’s how you know it’s real,” he murmurs, glancing down at my collar where my Mark glows faintly beneath the fabric. “There’s no going back.”
I stare at them, throat tight. “I thought it was because I’m the Weaver. Or the Claim. Something special.”
Liora tilts her head, voice gentler now. “It is special. But not unprecedented. This bond is ancient. The Mark chooses—but it’s only the beginning.”
“The bond doesn’t seal just because it appears,” Evander adds, leaning forward. “It takes time. Pain. Will.”
Julian nods. “Ours burned long before the Claim. It doesn’t all happen at once.”
“You need the space between,” Liora says. “Between the Mark and the Claim. That’s where the soul shifts. Where you decide what you’ll become.”
I’m still trying to process all of it when Evander leans back with a wicked grin. “She screamed, by the way. When the Mark hit.”
Liora lifts a brow, unbothered. “I broke a window. Punched a priest.”
“What?” I say, my eyes fluttering like the words didn’t land right.
“It was a dramatic time,” she says, swirling her wine. “Bloodletting. Corsets. Powdered wigs. My soul combusted in the middle of a wedding.”
Julian laughs. “You were getting married?”
“To a man my father selected,” she says, lips twitching. “He thought quoting Virgil made him interesting.”
Evander chuckles. “He wept when she vanished mid-ceremony.”
“I didn’t vanish. I was claimed. There’s a difference.”
“You tackled a priest and set the carpet on fire.”
I stare at them. “Wait. How old are you?”
Liora lifts her glass. “I was born in 1701.”
“You fell in love before electricity,” I manage, my lashes fluttering like they’re buffering for comprehension.
Julian leans in. “You okay?”
“I’m talking to a woman who predates plumbing and could still headline Paris Fashion Week.”
Liora smiles, warm and wicked. “Immortality doesn’t erase time. It just teaches you how to wear it.”
A knock sounds at the door. Julian and Evander move instantly, stepping in front of me and Liora with predator-smooth reflexes.
“Enter,” Evander calls.
The door creaks open. Theron steps in, calm and composed. Selene follows, her posture effortlessly royal.
“Did you just... knock?” Evander asks, visibly offended.
“Yeah,” Theron says. “Selene told me to.”
“I believe in manners,” Selene replies, flicking lint off her sleeve like she’s preparing for battle. Her gaze lands on me—sharp, curious, amused.
“So,” she says, crossing her arms. “What are we talking about?”
“Our markings,” Liora answers. “Tell them about the night you were marked.”
“That night wasn’t dramatic,” she says. “No altar. No moon. Just a holding cell. Under a church. Salem.”
“Wait—Salem, like the witch trials?”
“1692,” Selene says, her voice all silk and barbed wire. “I was mortal. Educated. Unapologetic. A little too outspoken for men who preferred their women docile and afraid.”
She meets my gaze, eyes cold and daring.
“I stood up for girls they called liars. For women they called witches. I questioned their authority. Challenged their narratives. Corrected their sermons.”
She lets her lip curl, voice dripping with disdain. “They called me dangerous.”
Her smile sharpens—a threat and a promise. “They weren’t wrong.”
“You were one of the accused?”
“I was a woman with opinions and no husband,” she says dryly. “So yes. That was enough.”
“I thought they burned witches.”
“No,” Selene says flatly. “That was Europe. In Massachusetts, they hanged them.”
“Oh.” I wince. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she says—but it isn’t. “Most people think fire. But I remember the rope. The cold. The silence. I’d stopped screaming by then.”
“You weren’t dying,” Liora says, glass clicking against the table. “You were surrendering.”
Selene doesn’t look at her. “Same thing when no one’s coming.”
“But someone did,” I say, glancing at Theron.
“I felt it the second I entered the town,” Theron says. “The bond was already awake.”
“I didn’t even see him,” Selene says. “The Mark burned into me before the door opened. I thought I was hallucinating.”
“She clawed her chest open,” Theron adds, voice low. “Tried to rip it off her skin.”
“He tore through the courthouse,” Selene finishes, voice suddenly bright with bite. “Lit up the sky. Dragged me through the fire like a myth no one was ready for.”
“They thought the Devil had come for her,” Liora says.
“They weren’t entirely wrong,” Selene says, her smile thin. “Especially now that I’m the one who gets to hang the souls of the men who did the hanging.”
The room stills.
“How old were you?” I ask quietly.
“Twenty.”
“So you were born in...”
“Sixteen seventy-two,” she says, grinning like she’s been waiting for me to ask.
“You’re older than Liora?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” she says, throwing a look at Liora.
“She’s older,” Liora concedes. “Just less refined.”
“I survived a Puritan noose,” Selene says. “You survived corsets and powdered wigs. We all have our struggles.”
“I wore the wigs beautifully.”
Julian leans in again. “Feeling normal yet?”
“She dodged the noose and wound up immortal,” I mutter. “I trip on a cobblestones and spiral.”
Theron chuckles. Liora sips her wine. Selene smirks.
“Welcome to the family,” Theron says.
“Now we must discuss the Infernal Union,” Selene says, as casually as if she were suggesting afternoon tea.
“The first of my boys to have one. How exciting!” Liora claps her hands, already radiating the energy of someone planning florals that breathe fire.
Julian groans and drags a hand down his face. “Gods, here we go.”
“You didn’t tell me about this,” I say, rounding on him. “You gave me the soul-claim breakdown, the burning, the cravings—but you left out the part where we have a wedding?”
“It’s not really a wedding,” he mutters.
“Oh, it’s basically a wedding, dear,” Liora cuts in, waving a perfectly manicured hand like the matter is settled. “Men never understand the ceremonial gravity of these things. That’s why we don’t let them plan them.”
Evander raises a brow, entirely unbothered. “She’s not wrong.”
“You’re lucky,” Theron adds, smirking. “Mine started a fire. Literally.”
Selene rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches. “It was symbolic.”
“Of what? Chaos?” he mutters, with the kind of tone that says he already knows the answer and isn’t impressed.
She shrugs. “Love.”
“Okay,” I say, tipping my head. “But what is this ceremony, exactly?”
Evander’s voice drops low, the humor fading from his face. “It begins with fire. You each walk the Procession—through columns of living flame. Alone.”
“If the fire burns you,” Julian adds, quieter now, “you’re not ready. The flame doesn’t lie.”
“No veils. No softness,” Liora says, her smile all teeth and memory. “You wear black, crimson, obsidian—colors of legacy. Power walks beside you.”
I can’t help it. “Do I get a script for all this, or am I just supposed to vibe with the infernal energy?”
Selene answers, dry as dust. “You’ll feel it. Trust me.”
“And after the fire?”
“The Circle of Witnesses,” she says. “Chosen souls—family, friends, rivals. Anyone with something to lose or protect. They don’t just stand there. They come armed.”
I frown. “Why the weapons?”
“Tradition,” Theron says. “A reminder that nothing sacred stays unchallenged.”
“Lovely,” I mutter. “Please continue.”
“At the center of the circle,” Liora picks up, “you meet at the Binding Flame. A brazier filled with black-gold oil. You offer something of yourself—blood, a weapon, a name you’re willing to lose forever.”
I stare. “A name?”
Selene nods. “Some truths are more binding than blood.”
“After that?” I ask, voice softer now.
“The Vows,” Julian says, his thumb brushing along my hand. “Not vows of love. Of bond. Of choice. Of will.”
“You are not my weakness,” Liora begins, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. “You are my edge.”
“If the world falls, I fall beside you,” Selene says without looking away.
“You are my shield,” Evander murmurs. “I am your blade.”
“I chose this,” Theron finishes. “I choose you still.”
A hush settles—those ancient words humming in the air like magic already begun.
“And when it’s done?” I whisper.
“Your Marks flare again,” Selene says. “They change. A sigil appears—crown, flame, serpent devouring its tail. Whatever the bond has become.”
“Lastly,” Evander says, gaze locking with mine, “you take the Throne of Ash. Side by side. Not as rulers. But as dominions—souls who survived the fire and earned each other in it.”
Julian squeezes my hand under the table, his eyes never leaving my face.
But something shifts. Not in the air— beneath it.
The fireplace roars to life behind us, the flames climbing high and sharp, burning black-gold. Heat pulses like a heartbeat, and from the fire’s core, something emerges—not thrown, not placed.
Born.
A blackened scroll, etched in molten gold, floats down onto the hearth like a verdict.
I stand before Julian can stop me.
It’s hot in my hand. Heavy, humming. No seal. No ink. Just the carved symbols—his Mark and mine, intertwined.
Beneath them, a message that doesn’t read so much as declare itself into my mind.
Julian reads over my shoulder, but I’m already there.
The bond has been witnessed. The flame has answered. You are summoned. The Council awaits.
The words don’t threaten. They don’t ask.
They expect.
I stare at them, pulse steady, blood thick with something no longer fear.
The Council has spoken. But so have the flames.
And whatever comes next will have to burn through me first.