Chapter 113 Ways of Survival
(Apollo & Adelaide)
Apollo’s new form filled her vision like an eclipse. He did not merely occupy the space—he redefined it. The room bent subtly around him, lines of architecture warping to accommodate a shape that felt more like a force of nature than a body.
Scaled thighs like carved obsidian pillars. Wings half-unfurled behind him, their shadow filling the chamber, the tips stirring eddies of heat in the thick air. Horns arcing out from his skull in lethal, elegant sweeps, catching the braziers’ glow and turning it into molten highlights. His chest—broad, ridged, armoured in plates of black scale and glowing seams—rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths that made the world seem to move to his rhythm.
And lower—
She tried not to look. Her eyes betrayed her. Two.
Her throat worked around a dry swallow. Her wrists tingled in their bindings. The bond throbbed between them, raw and overused, still humming with the residue of her last climax.
They were no human cocks. They were black and scaled like snakes. Standing hard and tall, one above the other. The one below was thick and long, and slightly curved up. The one on top was shorter, not by much, with a thick, round head.
The sight carried a strange weight, not just of exposure but of symbolism—of excess, of power multiplied rather than contained, as though Hell itself refused singularity where domination was concerned.
She’d thought she couldn’t feel more exposed. She had been wrong.
Apollo watched her watch him.
Every tiny movement registered: the tight swallow, the minute flare of her nostrils when she tried to drag in more air, the way her gaze flicked down, snapped back up like she’d burned herself on what she saw, then fought its way down again. Awe and horror and an unwilling fascination warred across her face.
Her reactions threaded through him like a lit fuse. Not because she feared him—but because she felt him. Recognition always mattered more than terror.
The sight threaded through him like a wire pulled taut.
“Breathe, Little Flame,” he said softly. “You’re looking at me like you’re about to faint.”
Her jaw clenched. “Maybe I am.”
Her voice was rough, but it held. Stubborn. He almost smiled.
Almost.
He stepped closer.
The air thickened instantly, heat pressing in from all sides, as if the chamber had sealed itself around them. The braziers dimmed, their flames bowing low, unwilling to compete with what stood at the centre of the room.
The heat coming off him was suffocating at this distance, thick as a physical thing. She had to tip her head back to keep his face in view; his shadow swallowed her whole. The braziers’ firelight slid over the curve of his horns and the hard line of his mouth, over the faint golden glow pulsing in the cracks along his skin.
The King of Hell. Standing inches away. Naked. Weaponized.
And looking at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
The bond shivered.
Her pulse skittered. She hated that part of her responded to that look—some traitorous animal instinct inside her that whispered this is yours as much as you are his.
No. She pushed back against the thought, digging her nails into her palms until the ropes bit deeper. No, he’s not.
Apollo lowered his gaze, letting it drag over her face, her throat, the rise and fall of her chest. The way the cloth someone had left draped over her shoulders had shifted, leaving the centre of her chest bare, the curve of her breasts visible, the faint sheen of sweat glistening in the hollow between them.
The cloth offended him. Not because it hid her—but because it implied care that was not his.
He reached out and hooked one claw under the edge of the cloth, tugging it aside with casual cruelty.
“I told you,” he said. “I would show you what kindness from the Devil looks like.”
The word kindness still echoed between them like a curse.
Adelaide’s skin prickled. “This isn’t kindness,” she said, forcing the words out past a suddenly dry mouth.
He tilted his head. “It depends,” he murmured. “On your definition.”
His hand curled around the back of her head, fingers threading into her tangled hair. He did it slowly, almost gently, the way someone might handle something fragile—and then tightened his grip just enough to remind her he could snap her neck with a flick.
Her heart thudded.
“Worship,” he said, voice low and intimate. “You’re on your knees. You know what comes next.”
The word landed heavy, ritualistic. Not a demand—but an expectation, as old as fire and fear.
Heat flooded her face. Her stomach dropped. “I’m not—” she started, then cut herself off when his fingers tugged, tilting her head just a fraction.
“You are,” he said. “You just don’t like the word.”
The bond quivered with the truth of it. With the memory of the way her body had responded to him again and again despite her snarling protests.
Adelaide felt her throat go tight. The ropes at her wrists pulsed with heat, picking up the speeding drum of her heartbeat. She swallowed, tasting iron and ash.
“If I refuse?” she whispered.
His smile was slow and terrible. “You won’t.”
The certainty in his voice was not arrogance—it was experience. She wanted to argue. To spit in his face. To tell him he could drag her across coals before she’d willingly put her mouth on him like that.
His fingers flexed at the base of her skull, nails scratching lightly against her scalp. A shiver shot down her spine, unwelcome and traitorous. The bond sparked, feeding on sensation, on fear, on the charged air.
“If you refuse,” he said calmly, “I’ll remind you that you are in Hell, that every kindness here is a decision, not a right, and that I am under no obligation to keep making those decisions in your favour.”
Images flashed unbidden in her mind—herself back on the cross, hanging, her shoulders screaming, her throat raw from begging for a death that never came. The feel of his magic holding her at the edge of relief and never letting her fall.
Her stomach twisted.
Apollo watched the war in her eyes, feeling every spike of dread, every flash of pride, every faint lick of desire through their bond. His possessiveness sharpened. There was something intoxicating about knowing she was measuring which torment she could survive and choosing his mouth, his hands, his control as the lesser hell.
“Besides,” he murmured, lowering his voice until it slid over her skin like heat, “you already know how to obey.”
She hated him. She hated that he was right.
Her tongue felt thick. Her knees ached. Her wrists throbbed in the bindings. Her body still trembled from the climax that had torn her awake.
She knew what he wanted her to do. And she knew what would happen if she didn’t.
Her lungs squeezed. The chamber felt too small. Slowly, she nodded. Just once. It was tiny. Barely a movement at all.
The bond lit up like he’d dragged claws over it.
Apollo’s breath deepened. “Good girl,” he said.
The words hit her like a slap and a caress at once. Her cheeks burned hotter. Her stomach knotted. She wanted to snarl that she was not his anything.
Instead, she glared up at him, anger the last shield she had.
“This isn’t worship,” she said, voice hoarse. “It’s survival.”
“Survival is the oldest form of worship,” he replied.