Chapter 8
Phoebe
Wandering the Halls of Castletide
Okay, so to recap, I’m trapped in a strange world.
Taken by a strange man—a Demon Lord with magic fingers who made me come faster than my favorite toy locked away in my nightstand back home.
But trying to understand what I’m doing here? Forget it.
I’ve got nothing.
Amber—milady’s maid (snort)—is the one assigned to help me adjust, and she’s something.
A thing of beauty, her skin smooth and gray with bronze highlights that catch the light like molten metal.
Her hair is seafoam blue with white streaks, and it’s pulled back in a severe bun? It’s her eyes though, sharp as a hawk’s, that make me nervous.
I want to ask, but before I can, she answers like she’s been listening to my thoughts.
“I’m a Demon, Lady Phoebe. Much of Nightfall’s population are Demons. Did the Lord not explain it to you?”
“Lady? Demons? Lord? No, he hasn’t explained a freaking thing,” I reply, the words sour in my mouth.
I mean, technically he walked away while I was still trying to catch my breath.
If I looked in a mirror right now, I’d probably see my lips still swollen.
Lord knows, my thighs ache, and every nerve in my body feels like it’s been rewired to answer only to him.
Kael.
The impossible, arrogant, infuriating Lord of Water who literally ravaged me not an hour ago.
Those kisses—drugging, relentless—stole every protest off my tongue.
And his fingers? Gods, I don’t even want to think about the wicked talent in those long, rune-etched hands.
I came so hard I saw stars, clinging to him like the tide clings to shore.
And then—then—he stroked himself to completion, groaning like a man unmade, spilling his release across my skin like he was signing me with something ancient and possessive. Marking me.
No one has ever done that before.
No one has even thought to.
And I have no idea why it was so hot—why the sight of him undone, trembling, claiming me in that primal, messy way made me want to arch into him and beg for more.
And now that it’s over?
I don’t want to think about it.
I don’t want to admit how my body is still humming, restless, greedy for his touch.
How my thighs press together now, seeking friction, desperate to chase that edge again.
Because it wasn’t just foreplay or sex.
It wasn’t just a release.
It felt like possession.
Like worship. Like a vow without words.
And I hate myself for liking it.
Because if I liked that, what else might I let him take?
Amber makes a noise in her throat, snapping me from my reverie.
“Yes, well, Lords will do as they will, won’t they, Lady Phoebe?”
“What? Why are you calling me Lady Phoebe?”
“You are the Lord’s intended viyella. It is your station now.”
She says it very sternly, though polite, the way a strict teacher might scold while handing you a gold star.
I swallow.
She reminds me of Mrs. Torino, my fifth-grade teacher who never once smiled at me, not even when I brought in homemade cupcakes.
Great. I’ve been kidnapped into a world where my new maid is basically Mrs. Torino with horns hidden under her bun.
I smooth the dress I woke up in—it’s soft, clings in ways I’m not used to, but at least it’s comfortable.
I’d kill for jeans, but I’m grateful because the air is warm and the breeze swirls the fabric around my ankles like something alive.
The whole castle—or keep, or whatever you call this place—has huge windows and doors, some stretching all the way to the floor.
There aren’t any screens or shutters on the tall, arched windows, but nothing unwanted seems to come in.
Not a single gull, not a fleck of salt spray, not even a stray draft.
Magic, maybe.
Because why not add that to the ever-growing list of things that don’t make sense?
The air itself is different here—so fresh it almost stings my lungs, like breathing in crushed mint and seafoam.
A constant breeze slides along my skin, carrying the taste of brine and something sweeter, like kelp and crushed shells.
Every surface glimmers faintly with a pearlescent sheen, as though the walls and floors were dusted with the inside of oyster shells.
It’s beautiful in a way that feels a little unreal, like walking through the inside of a seashell palace from a fairy tale.
“So, what is Nightfall? Like, are we on another planet? Or is this, um, Hell, or something?” I ask, the words sounding stupid even as they leave my mouth.
Amber laughs softly, not unkind.
“Oh, no, milady, no! Demons here aren’t what humans think. We’re simply the general population. Humanoid, but with magic.”
She winks, as if she’s in on some cosmic joke I’m too mortal to get.
“As for Nightfall, think of it as another realm. A parallel universe, if you will.”
“I see,” I mutter, though I really, really don’t.
Still, I follow her down a long corridor, my sandals whispering against the floor.
The walls are the color of pink sand, warm and soft-looking even though they’re stone.
Crown moldings ripple overhead, crafted from thousands of tiny multicolored shells and pearls, as if someone took the sea’s entire treasure chest and sculpted it into trim.
Every curve and pattern catches the light, shifting as I move, turning the hallway into a living kaleidoscope.
Castletide is enormous.
Not just in size, but in presence, the way every wall seems to hum faintly with the sea’s heartbeat, steady and eternal.
“This is the kitchen, Lady Phoebe,” Amber announces, ushering me through a wide arch.
And for the first time since I arrived here, I forget to be scared.
The scene is alive—at least a dozen workers bustling in rhythm.
Chefs stirring steaming pots, the air thick with the smell of bread baking, something creamy and clammy (chowder, maybe?), and a fish stew fragrant with herbs I don’t recognize.
Someone is dipping enormous squid rings into flour and sliding them into oil where they hiss and spit until golden.
My stomach growls like I haven’t eaten in weeks.
“Are you hungry, milady?” Amber asks, and it’s the first time I see her smile.
It’s small, quick, but it transforms her face.
“Yes, actually,” I admit, pressing a hand to my stomach.
“Right you are, let’s get you seated.” She begins to lead me through a doorway toward a long polished table at the center of another room, but I stop her with a shake of my head.
My eyes catch on a side table tucked in the corner where a boy no older than eight sits with a wooden bowl in one hand and a block of wood in the other.
He’s eating—and coloring, maybe? With some sort of charcoal stick, doodling messy lines across the pale grain.
“Can I sit here?” I point.
Amber blinks. “My lady?”
“Hi,” I say, moving before she can argue. I plop down across from the boy and smile. “I’m Phoebe.”
He grins, stew dripping from his chin. “I’m Corin!”
“Nice to meet you, Corin,” I reply, warmth uncoiling in my chest.
Kids are kids, no matter the world.
Amber is blushing now, the gray of her skin deepening to bronze.
“Corin, be a good lad and speak properly in front of our Lady Phoebe.”
“Yes, Mama!” he chirps, far too loudly, before diving back into his stew.
I laugh, the sound surprising even me.
Maybe for the first time since I was dragged into this insane place, I don’t feel quite so alone.
Corin’s spoon clatters against his bowl, and I laugh again, because it’s either that or cry, and I’m not about to cry in front of my Demon-maid-slash-Mrs.-Torino lookalike.
The laugh feels good, though. Normal.
Like I could almost forget I was dragged through a whirlpool by a horned man who kissed oxygen into my lungs.
Almost.
“Would you like stew as well, Lady Phoebe?” Amber asks, fussing now, trying to redirect me back to proper dining protocols, but I just nod at the nearest pot.
“Yes, please. Whatever that one is—it smells amazing.”
“White fish stew,” Corin supplies around a mouthful, grinning like he’s proud to share.
“White fish stew it is,” I say, matching his grin.
Amber sighs and mutters something under her breath about manners and Lord help me, but she heads off toward the hearth to fetch a bowl.
I lean on the rough wood table, watching Corin color his block with little black streaks.
“What are you making?”
“A boat,” he says proudly. “It’s gonna have sails and everything.”
My heart twists. A normal kid in a not-so-normal world. Maybe this isn’t all teeth and darkness.
Maybe—but then the air changes.
It thickens, charged like before a thunderstorm.
My skin prickles with tiny shards of awareness before I even hear the shift in the room.
The bustle of the kitchen slows, then stops entirely.
Voices die, pots are set down, spoons clatter.
Everyone moves in unison like waves drawing back from the shore.
Because now he’s here.
Kael.
Demon Lord of Water. And somehow, maybe mine?