Chapter 3
RAPHAEL
A searing pain within my chest jolts me awake.
Sweat drips from my brow as I lurch upright. I claw at the left side of my chest, the agony spearing me like jagged lightning bolts, obliterating all my other senses until I feel nothing but a piercing ache with every beat of my heart.
It dawns on me then: my heart hurts.
Panic creeps up my spine, slithering its way to the back of my neck like a cold tendril of ice. My breathing quickens, my quickfire brain assessing anything and everything that could be wrong with me, which I finally conclude is nothing.
Because I am immortal. A god.
Well, the Devil, to be precise.
Nothing and no one can harm me.
I throw the silk comforter from my waist and swing my legs to the edge of the bed.
Perspiration glistens on my bare chest, and I’m thankful I decided to forgo a shirt before I went to sleep earlier this evening.
Whorls of dark ink adorn the left side of my chest and bicep, the portrait of one of the most fearsome Greek monsters etched into my skin.
I cannot recall why I chose this particular monster, but my rationale is that she is both terrifying and powerful.
Beautiful too, a soft part of my brain offers.
I scoff, my gaze finding my reflection in the elaborate mirror resting against the wall across from my bed.
It’s encrusted with gilded human skulls along its edges, the rare gems in place of eye sockets glistening in the gentle wash of firelight.
I admire the inked drawing of Scylla on my skin.
Six, serpent-like creatures with snake-like heads protrude from her body, tipping their razor mouths toward the sky.
Her own sharp mouth is twisted in a ferocious snarl, her clawed hands clutching my very own heart.
Beautiful? Perhaps to the eyes of a blind man.
Yet, my attention follows the curve of the monster’s mouth, the way her hair whips in chaotic tendrils about her face. Though the ink is black, I can’t help but picture strands of deep brown painted by the sun, with eyes that would make the very ocean outside my bedroom cry in envy—
A startled gasp escapes my lips as my heart beats. And again, it hurts.
There’s a soft rap at my door, one I am familiar with and one that is unwelcome. I am about to tell her to leave me be, but then I remember her father may be watching.
“Come in,” I say gruffly.
The door creaks open, and a stunning woman steps over the threshold.
Pale gold hair lies unbound to her waist, framing a flawless, porcelain face with full rosebud lips and pitch black eyes.
Her silk black robe parts to reveal a matching nightgown that barely falls to the top of her thighs, the hem trimmed in lace.
The material itself is so thin, her nipples and full breasts are completely exposed.
Now, she is beautiful. Stunning. The epitome of every man’s fantasy.
But I am no ordinary man.
“What do you want, Isadora?”
She pads over on silent footsteps, stopping just short of coming between my legs. Her brow furrows at the harshness of my tone. She raises a long, clawed fingernail toward my forehead.
I catch her wrist before she can touch me.
Those black eyes narrow. “You’re feverish, Raphael.”
“I am nothing of the sort.” I fling her dainty wrist away from my face.
She scowls, but then her face softens, and she bats long dark eyelashes. “Perhaps you are flustered for an entirely different reason?”
I shoot her a scathing glare, which the demoness meets with vigor. For the past month, her advances have been incessant, despite my constant rejections. One might argue her determination and persistence are admirable. However, being on the receiving end, it’s nothing but a headache.
Still, against my better judgement, I give her a lazy perusal, my gaze almost obscene in its indolence.
I allow myself to drink her luscious curves, her moonlight skin, her full, undoubtedly soft, parted lips ready to welcome my cock.
I wait for a spark of heat, a torrent of blood to rush to all the wrong places, an insatiable urge for my fingers to scour her flesh and mark her as my own. Something.
And yet, I feel…nothing.
Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
“Goodnight, Isadora.” Still shirtless, I leave her pouting behind me and exit my bedroom. I breathe easier now that the stabbing pain in my chest has diminished to a dull ache, but I still can’t seem to shake the feeling of being off-kilter.
I round the corner at the end of the hallway and step into a large corridor. Crashing waves create their own symphony in my ears, and the distinct scent of brine brings a rare smile to my face. The ache in my heart pulses slightly, flipping that smile.
Seclusion is what I need, a space where no one can find me so I can sit with this new development. But before I head to the one place that can give me what I need, I decide to seek some answers instead.
I continue down the corridor, sconces casting a somber glow across the stone floors and walls, until I reach a small opening to my right with a winding staircase.
I make my way to the second floor, where another expansive hallway greets me.
Here, the windows are ornate stained glass, each depicting Lucifer—my father’s—fall from heaven in magnificent, colorful detail, beginning with Eve’s doomed bite of the apple.
I mull over the curious choices of legends and myths in their damnation of women through something as simple as a savory bite.
If not Eve, then Snow White. If not Snow White, then Persephone.
Though the fruit differs in the Goddess of Spring’s story, the idea is the same.
It has me wondering if another woman should suffer the same fate.
Muffled sounds permeate the door I pause in front of. I have a pretty good idea of what is occurring in that room, given what I know of its occupant, but if he doesn’t want to be bothered, he would turn me away.
My quick knock is accepted by a grunt of “come in,” and sure enough, I walk into debauchery.
A raven-haired demoness is bent over at the waist, her hands secured behind her back.
The muffled sounds I heard earlier are her strangled moans as the Demon Baal ruthlessly plows into her from behind.
His eight spider legs do their job in immobilizing the demoness, one holding her wrists hostage, another wrapped around her waist, two more shoved into her mouth on either side.
The remaining four legs give him leverage and graceful movement, even as he continues to thrust into her mercilessly.
“Is now not a good time?” I question.
“Nonsense.” He doesn’t look at me. Instead, he uses one of his human hands to grab a fistful of black tendrils and yanks the demoness' face upright. “You love having an audience, don’t you?”
Nothing but another garbled moan escapes her mouth, and the demon uses his free hand to slap her ass while pulling her mouth apart even further.
I make out an incoherent “yes!” before I drift over to the far side of the room and take a seat in one of the plush, velvety chairs adoring the outskirts of the bed, crossing my ankle over my knee.
“I was going to come to you once I finished,” Baal says, his eyes trained on the demoness’ bare back.
“From where I’m sitting, no one seems to be coming.” I smirk, knowing I bruised the Demon of Debauchery’s bravado.
Sure enough, he pounds into her harder, faster, sweat glistening off his tanned chest with his exertion.
The demoness’ moans bleed into her cries as drool pours from her open mouth.
Baal uses another spider leg to reach around and dip between her thighs, and that does it.
The whites of her eyes become visible, and she releases a slew of incoherent expletives.
Baal himself grunts a long and hard “fuck” before he gives her hair a final tug and stills.
The demon slides out of her, releasing her mouth and wrists as he does.
Simultaneously, the spider legs retract, leaving him with two very sculpted human legs.
His last pitch black spider leg remains around her waist until she finally stands upright, panting, and then Baal releases her with a small shove.
She stumbles toward the bedpost, throwing a scowl over her shoulder at him, but he pays her no attention.
His black eyes fixate on me, one equally dark brow quirked, as if to say, well?
I arch a brow in response. “Do you want a round of applause? A pat on the back, perhaps?”
The demon huffs out a laugh, running his fingers through dark brown locks. “With all due respect, fuck off, Your Highness.”
That draws my own laugh. Baal, the Demon of the Debauchery, is one of the thirteen demons of the Umbra Court, the ruling body of Hell.
As the Devil and their King, they answer to me, but each and every one of the thirteen, my own uncles included, have their own nefarious agendas.
It is for that reason I need eyes of my own inside the castle and court, and why I propositioned Isadora in the first place as my spy.
Baal is my other set of eyes and ears, and, dare I say it, my only friend.
The Demon throws a pair of dark breeches on while the demoness dresses on wobbly legs in a floor length robe. She goes to leave when Baal touches her elbow.
“Not so fast, Helene. It would be rude to leave without offering our King a turn.”
Whatever little color she has left leeches from her face. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t.
“You wore the poor girl out, Baal,” I say. “Have her return to her room and rest. I have business to discuss with you anyway.”
Helene’s bruised mouth parts, her shoulders sagging with relief.
“Ah, that’s right. You have your betrothed,” he mocks.