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“Besides,” I add, gesturing vaguely to the cold, sharp edges of the room and the neon-green glow of the district pulsing outside the window. “The House-Beast is a creature of soft surfaces and sunlight. And as you’ve probably already observed... this place offers neither.”
I drift deeper into the shadows of the apartment, toward the bedchamber, and sink onto the edge of the charcoal silk sheets, the mattress barely yielding to my weight. Then I reach into the nightstand, hauling out the midnight-blue velvet bags, and emptying the contents out onto the bed.
“Malachi, that is the grossest piggy bank in existence,” she breathes, recoiling so hard she bumps into Chain-Chewer’s stony head. The hound just huffs, resting his chin on the silk.
I pick up a sharp, curved canine, turning the ivory over in my fingers before letting it clatter back into the heap of molars, fangs and pristine whites.
“This should be enough for what we need,” I say, shovelling them back in and pulling the drawstring tight.
“Are we going now?” she asks, her gaze darting to the dark glass of the windows.
“No,” I lean back against the silk pillows. “The dead of night is when the truly desperate come out to play. It’s going to be a risky endeavour as it is; night will make it impossible to keep you in one piece. We shall stay here for the duration of the darkness and go at first light, when it will be much less hostile.”
She stands stock-still, plump lower lip caught between her teeth as she wrings her hands together.
“Go,” I command, waving a hand toward the frosted glass door. “Have a shower. It’s right through there. There’s a stack of towels on the vanity. Take your pick.”
Once the frosted glass swallows her silhouette, I finally allow my shoulders to drop a fraction of an inch and tip back the rest of my drink, relishing the way the amber liquid burns a trail of warmth down my throat.
What a spectacular, unmitigated shit-show.
A few days ago, I was comfortably ensconced in the mortal realm, halfway through a marathon of a dating show that was remarkably high on drama and low on intellect—exactly how I like them. Now, I’m mentally mapping a route to the Slag Heaps with my little summoner in tow, trying to calculate how to navigate the slums of Hell without her being dismantled by the local wildlife.
I look at the velvet sacks on the bed and pat the charcoal silk mattress. Chain-Chewer hauls his craggy bulk up, the bed frame groaning under the weight of a few tons of sentient igneous rock.
“Did you miss me, you dumb fuck?” I mutter as I reach out to scratch the rough, heat-pitted surface behind his ears.
The hound lets out a huff of sulfur and promptly turns his head away, resting his heavy chin on the bag of teeth, not even sparing me a second glance.
“Right. Of course you didn't.”
I sink back against the pillows, staring at the vaulted ceiling. I want the television back. I want the grease of a cheap pepperoni pizza that actually tastes like something. Dare I say it, I’d even take the House-Beast back; at least the cat had the decency to enjoy my presence.
This place—my home—is just a silent reminder of how much effort it takes to exist in Hell.
A yelp rips through the air and I’m moving before I can think, my consciousness snapping from boredom to lethality in a heartbeat. The door ricochets off the marble wall as I lunge into the room, scanning for the throat of whatever has dared to touch what is mine.
Instead, I find Eden huddled in the corner of the stall, stripped of her lace and velvet, her soot-free patches of skin already flushing a violent, angry red under the hissing deluge. She’s dripping, shivering, and entirely exposed, but her eyes are fixed on the water as if it’s a striking viper.
“The water,” she gasps, pointing a shaking finger. “It’s... it’s boiling. It’s too hot.”
Oh.
My shirt soaks through in a heartbeat, the fine material instantly plastered to my chest like a second skin as I stride straight into the suffocating white cloud and reach for the iron valve on the wall. With a grunt of effort, I wrench the metal mechanism back. The violent, scalding hiss dies down immediately, replaced by a gentle, manageable mist.
“It’s set for my biology, not yours,” I mutter, wiping the droplets from my jaw. “I forget how easily your kind blisters. You’re so fucking fragile.”
I look down at her properly. She hasn’t moved. She’s staring at me, her gaze snagged on the translucent linen of my shirt and the muscle beneath.
The city soot swirls down the drain in grey ribbons, stripping away the grime. The water acts like a solvent, uncovering not just the pale, vulnerable curve of her shoulder, but the map of violence etched into it. The line of the scar across her stomach; the fresh, angry cuts from the ritual; the brand of the sigil still seared into her flesh.
She’s littered with cruelty. Her skin flushes a feverish pink under the spray, highlighting the damage, while her nipples peak into hard, dark points that are practically begging for a touch colder than the steam.
“Like what you see, baby girl?” I purr, the deep vibration of my voice almost lost in the quiet hiss of the mist.
My cock’s already a heavy, thickening weight against my thigh, aching with a pressure that demands attention. I can feel her eyes on me—ravenous, wide, and terrified in all the right ways. I keep my gaze locked on hers as I throw my shirt to the side, pull my slacks off and reach down, my hand wrapping around the base of my length.
“Watch me,” I growl softly. “Don't you dare look away. Watch what you do to me.”
