Chapter 167 Show and Turn
(Apollo & Adelaide)
For a heartbeat, the words hung between them like a pulled thread—thin, trembling, ready to snap.
Then Apollo surged forward.
His mouth crashed against hers in a kiss that felt like a door being kicked open. Hot, molten, claiming—nothing gentle, nothing restrained. The sound she made was a gasp caught on a moan, and he swallowed it like he needed it to breathe.
Adelaide’s hands shot up to brace against his chest. The moment her palms touched him, she melted—every thought unravelling in the scorching pull of him. Under her fingers, his chest was solid heat, muscles flexing as he dragged her closer, erasing even the ghost of distance.
She felt herself surrender completely, her body yielding first, spirit reluctantly following. Confusion flickered—was she giving in, or being taken? The uncertainty deepened her surrender, sending her spiralling further.
His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair with possessive urgency. The other slid down—over her ribs, her waist—before gripping a fistful of her ass, dragging her hard against him. The shock of contact ripped a desperate, helpless sound from her throat.
Apollo growled into her mouth. Actually growled. A deep, feral vibration that shuddered through her bones and made her knees go weak. It sounded like a demon’s prayer, something ancient answering a summons.
His teeth caught her lower lip and bit down—not enough to break skin, just enough to make her gasp again, just enough to make her flame flare bright and needy. Her nails scraped down his chest, dragging sparks from his skin. His answering inhale came sharp and hungry.
The world around them reacted—wards, faintly shimmering, tightened in their iron frames, their protective magic pulsing in response. Shadows, more sentient than before, curled inward around the couple like an eager audience. The floor itself warmed, stone radiating otherworldly heat that eagerly drank in their passion. Adelaide felt every sensation magnified as Hell's attention focused on them: the smoke-sweet taste of his tongue, the electric pulse of magic sparking under her skin, the sharp ache of supernatural longing.
Inside him, something clicked. What he had been clawing for in the torture pits—satisfaction, thrill, purpose—rose up in a flood. This was what had been missing. Not pain or screams. Her. The taste of her mouth. The way she trembled, but didn’t retreat. Her want hit him like a sunrise bursting through stone. It sounded like a demon’s prayer, something ancient answering a summons.
Adelaide broke the kiss for half a breath—barely an inch—her lips red and wet, her breath coming uneven. Her thoughts flickered loud enough for him to taste in the air: How had she ever doubted him? How had she ever thought she was wrong about this—about them? Cael might be safety and shadow and calm… but Apollo was fire and hunger and life, and now that she had tasted this, she could not imagine giving it up.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him back down. She kissed him with something like desperation—her tongue meeting his, her body arching into the heat of him with instinctive surrender. His fingers slid up, palming her breast before she could even breathe in warning, thumb brushing the peak in a way that made her moan into his mouth. Her entire body tightened at the touch, flame surging bright enough he felt it spark across his tongue.
He bit her lip again, slower this time, savouring the way she shuddered. Her breath broke on a soft cry. His hand squeezed her breast, his hips pressing her back a step until her spine brushed the stone wall, heat radiating everywhere they touched.
He kissed her like he was starving. She kissed him back like she’d finally found oxygen.
Her flame writhed beneath her skin, golden, ethereal tendrils of magic pressing outward and reaching for Apollo like vines hungry for sunlight. Each thread of her magic moved autonomously, drawn to his heat as if compelled by a supernatural force. Apollo sensed the magic—her essence—and a dangerous, electric thrill coiled through him with satanic intensity. Above them, three ancient wards carved in the ceiling flickered faintly with hidden symbols, emanating old power and prophecy, aware and stirring.
Then—very slowly, with visible effort—Apollo tore his mouth from hers. He pressed his forehead to hers. Both of them breathed as if they’d run through the palace halls.
“Good,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Remember that.”
Only then— Apollo stepped back.
It wasn’t far. Barely a shift of weight. But the air changed with the movement, rippling outward with a supernatural force that expanded around him, like a living creature stretching limbs after centuries of enchantment. Heat emanated from his skin in magical waves, washing over her and raising goosebumps.
“Turn around,” he said. His voice was low. Controlled. Deeper than moments ago, as though something ancient in him had been roused.
Adelaide went still. Not out of defiance—that wasn't what held her back tonight. This wasn’t courage or fear, but a hesitation drawn from her own tangled longing and vulnerability. Disquiet and desire wrestled for dominance within her.
Slowly, she turned.
Her breath trembled as she rotated, bare feet whispering against warm stone, the silk of her makeshift dress swaying against her thighs. She paused again when her back faced him, hands curling loosely at her sides. She felt the weight of his gaze like a hand sliding down her spine, every vertebra lighting up under it.
He let the silence stretch.
The silence forced her awareness inward. She counted her own breathing, her pulse thudding loud in her ears. Her exposed spine tingled, aware of him standing behind her.
She swallowed. “Like this?”
“No,” he said. His tone slid over her like a gloved hand—soft, controlled, unmistakably dangerous.
“Keep turning.”
She hesitated. A small, involuntary inhale shook her ribs. Her flame fluttered in confusion, a soft golden pulse beneath her sternum.
“Why?” she whispered.
He took a single step closer. The heat of his body kissed her skin before anything else did. It felt like standing too near a sacred pyre.
“Because,” Apollo murmured, “I want to see what you made for yourself.”
Her breath caught. For a moment, she didn’t understand—didn’t grasp what he meant—until the memory hit: the way she had gathered the silk earlier, tying it in a hasty knot at her hip, dragging her fingers along the fabric in an attempt to give herself something resembling modesty. It wasn’t even a dress—just a length of cloth knotted into obedience.
And he wanted to see it.
The air thickened with tangible magic—a strange mixture of curiosity and desire infused with hellish energy, both his and hers. Even the stones on the floor beneath her feet warmed of their own accord, as if the room itself, alive with spirit, urged her onward.
Her throat dried. But she kept turning, slower now, the circle she made for him offering her to his gaze piece by piece—first her profile, then her front, then the knot tied at her hip, then the slight gap in the silk that revealed more leg than she’d intended.
His eyes followed every inch. Judging. Wanting. Measuring her like a crown weighed in a devil’s palm.
When she completed the turn and stood facing him again, his expression had changed.
Not softer. Never softer. But sharpened—like he was seeing something new carved inside her.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze dipped to the knot. Lingered. Then climbed.
“…clever girl,” he said.