Chapter 104 From My Hands
(Apollo)
Apollo leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed her cheek. “Did you heal yourself, Little Flame? Did your Emberflame finally remember what it can do?”
She stared back at him, eyes bloodshot but burning. “I told you. I don’t know. I don’t know what Emberflame even is.”
The bond agreed—frustratingly. There was no deception in her. She truly didn’t remember the details, only fragments.
That meant the intruder had been careful. Had come when she was half-gone. Had given just enough to keep her alive and then slipped back into the cracks. Had stolen a moment in his absence, leaving behind proof.
His jaw flexed. Someone was playing in his house.
Her stomach growled.
The sound broke the tension like a stone dropped into water.
Her cheeks flamed. She swallowed, looking away, as if mortified that her traitorous body dared to need something as simple as food.
“How long…” Her voice thinned. “How long has it been?”
“Since I left you?” he asked.
She nodded, too tired to waste breath on the word.
He tilted his head, considering. Time slipped in Hell, elastic and unreasonable. But he knew the pacing of his own fury, the resetting of his wards, the cooling of his war-form. “Long enough,” he said. “Hours.”
Her throat worked. “I’m hungry.”
The words came out small. Human, in a way most things down here never were. A quiet surrender that wasn’t to him, but to the limits of flesh.
His lip curled faintly. “Good. Hunger sharpens the mind.”
“Not mine,” she whispered. “Not like this.”
She lifted her head enough to look at him properly, eyes hollowed with exhaustion. “You want answers. I can’t… think when I feel like this. No food. No sleep. Everything…” She bit down on whatever word came next, shaking her head once in frustration. “It’s all noise.”
He watched her struggle. Watched her reach for something like a strategy through a swamp of pain and humiliation. Watched the stubborn part of her refuse to collapse neatly into the shape he preferred.
“Feed me,” she said finally, jaw trembling with the effort of keeping her voice steady. “Please. Then ask.”
The ‘please’ tasted bitter on her tongue. He appreciated it. He also catalogued it, the way he catalogued everything that could be used later.
He considered refusing on principle. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion—all were tools. Lots had confessed with far less than she’d already endured.
But tools were only useful if they produced results.
He’d wrung plenty out of her body. Her mind, though, was stubborn. And stubborn minds sometimes thought better when not quite at the edge of collapse.
Also…
He didn’t say it aloud, even to himself. But seeing her like this—skin slack over bones, lips split, eyes ringed in bruised shadows—gnawed at something close to annoyance in him.
He wanted her sharp when he broke her. Not dull. A blade, not ash.
“Very well,” he said.
He did not untie her. He didn’t even pretend to consider it. Mercy was a privilege. Freedom was a myth.
He snapped his fingers.
A low table appeared at his side, carved from the same black stone as the floor, its surface inlaid with dull gold. Upon it: a plate of food, simple by Hell’s standards but overwhelming by hers. The scent rose immediately, warm and real enough to make the chamber feel briefly less like a tomb.
Fresh bread, still warm, steam curling from the torn crust. Slices of some pale fruit that dripped clear juice when pressed. A sliver of seared meat, edges charred, centre glistening. A small bowl of something thicker, like porridge slicked with honey.
And water. Always water. Her eyes locked on it instantly. Her throat bobbed once, betraying her before her pride could.
He picked up the cup first, stepped close until his chest brushed hers. He tipped her chin with one claw, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Open,” he commanded.
She glared at him for half a heartbeat. Then her jaw loosened. Her lips parted. Survival over pride, for the moment. He felt the exact second she chose endurance, and it sent a satisfied chill through him.
He brought the lip of the cup to her mouth, deliberately slow. Water cool as mountain runoff slid against her lower lip before he tilted it properly.
She drank greedily, throat moving in desperate swallows. A trickle escaped, sliding down her chin, across the line of her throat. His eyes followed it. The bond gave him a faint echo of relief, sharp as a needle.
He let her have three long pulls before he drew the cup back.
She gasped, head spinning slightly from the sudden return of something other than fire to her body. Her lashes fluttered, as if the simple act of swallowing had reminded her she was still alive.
“More,” she rasped.
Apollo bent, dragging a slow line of heat through the air as he moved, licking the spilled water from her chest, up her throat to the corner of her mouth. She tried to turn away, but his clawed hand held her chin firm. Her breath stuttered, then came faster.
“Later,” he said. “Eat first.”
He took a piece of bread and tore it into smaller chunks, ignoring the way her jaw tensed in anticipation.
“No hands,” he murmured. “Yours are… occupied.” His eyes flicked to the bonds, then back to her, as if he were admiring his own craftsmanship.
He lifted one small piece to her lips. He didn’t push. Just hovered there, making her come to it.
She hesitated, just long enough to matter. Then leaned forward, capturing the bread between her teeth.
His fingers brushed her mouth.
Her lips were chapped, hot, unsteady. She chewed, eyes closing briefly at the taste of salt and grain and something not-Hellish filling her mouth. For a moment, the room didn’t feel endless. Just immediate. Just breathe, bite, and swallow.
He let her swallow before offering the next piece. This time, he didn’t move his hand away as quickly.
Her lips slid, accidentally, along the pad of his finger.
The bond flickered. Something small and involuntary sparked low in both of them. A pulse that felt uncomfortably like agreement.
He held the next piece just a fraction closer, so she had to take more of his finger into her mouth to get at it.
She noticed. He saw the moment the humiliation hit—a flicker of heat in her cheeks, a tightening around her eyes. But hunger was louder.
She leaned in. Took the bread. His fingertip grazed her tongue, then the dampness of her inner lip as he withdrew.
“Messy,” he said softly. His voice carried a quiet satisfaction, like a lock turning.
She inhaled sharply, a strand of pride rearing up through the exhaustion. “You could untie me,” she managed, voice rough. “I might manage a napkin then.”
“I like this better,” he replied. “It reminds you what you are in my hands.”