Chapter 32 Damn You
(The Devil)
He reached for the torn strap of her dress. His fingers brushed the fabric. It fell apart beneath his touch. The thin strip disintegrated like ash, drifting down her shoulder. His breath hitched. The scent of her skin—warm, metallic from dried blood, undercut with something faintly sweet and maddeningly human—hit him like a blow. The dress was ruined—three long rips straight down the bodice from where branches had torn it. The skirt was shredded up to her thigh. The back clung only by a few threads. It wasn’t a dress anymore. Just scraps over bare skin.
He swallowed hard. He told himself he was stripping it because it was filthy. Because the wounds needed tending. Because she would get sick if he didn’t.
Not because he wanted to see her. But the room seemed to know better. The flames in the sconces flared higher, casting brighter light over the bed, as though inviting him—urging him—to take in every inch of what lay before him. His breath stuttered. His pulse hammered. His mark itched violently beneath his skin.
He hooked one finger under a torn hem. And ripped. The sound was soft, almost insignificant—fabric giving way against his strength. But to him, it roared through the chamber. It echoed like a verdict cast. Like a promise sealed. Like the snap of a chain locking around his throat. The torn fabric fluttered to the floor, glowing orange in the firelight before settling against cold stone.
He peeled the remnants of the dress away from her body. And froze. Her skin—every inch of it—caught the firelight in a way that felt obscene. The soft curves of her waist. The tight line of her stomach. The tuft of dark hair over her pubic bone. The delicate rise of her breasts, and the perfect shade of pink that was her nipples. The marks from the chase decorated her skin like war paint.
She looked like a creature carved from dusk and flame—fragile but fierce, soft but sharpened by survival. Even unconscious, her brows pulled faintly together as if she were still fighting, still resisting, still refusing to break for him. It infuriated him. It exalted him. It made his heart pound too hard, too human. The bond between their marks thrummed louder, reacting to the sight of her bared and vulnerable in his space, as if acknowledging a step in a ritual older than language.
His pupils dilated. Heat crashed through him so violently, he staggered back a step. This was wrong. This was dangerous. This was... His.
No. Not yet.
But the thought rang hollow even inside his own skull. His. The word vibrated through his bones with the force of an oath. The air thickened, swirling with a possessive aura so strong the flames bent inward, bowing toward her body. His chamber—his fortress of solitude—reacted to her as though accepting a new sovereign. Fine veins of gold light spidered briefly through the obsidian floor beneath the bed, tracing a circle under her before fading, like a coronation sigil trying—and failing—to fully manifest.
He dragged a shaking hand over his jaw, trying to steady his breath. His heart slammed against his ribs, a heartbeat too human, too fast.
He had not reacted to a woman in a century. Not even close. Not even faintly. Not until this girl crashed into his world—into his hunt, into his teeth, into his veins—with the force of a prophecy.
But this girl— this mortal, furious, impossible girl—she was undoing him by simply lying there.
He was the King of Hell. He was a beast that humans feared. He would not allow himself to be undone by a mere human.
He reached for a cloth on the nearby table. But his hand drifted. His fingers never touched it. Instead, the black of his nails skimmed along the exposed skin of her upper thigh, down her calf and the tip of her toe. He felt her warmth beneath his fingertips—soft, fragile warmth that had no place in Hell. Yet it soothed him. Branded him. Unmade him. His claws itched to take more. His fangs pulsed with a phantom memory of her blood. His mark flared as if reaching for her pulse. He needed to step away. He needed distance. Immediately. Even that brief touch sent a faint shiver through her muscles, her body recognising him on some wordless level the rest of her mind had not yet caught up to.
He ripped his hand back as if burned, spinning on his heel so fast the air stirred behind him. He couldn’t stay in this room another second. Not with her like that. Not with the scent of her blood still coating his tongue. Not with the bite-magic binding them thrumming like molten metal beneath his skin. Not with the Beast pacing beneath his ribs, snarling mine with every breath.
Not with his chambers reacting to her presence. Sigils along the walls glowing faintly gold, the colour of prophecy, the colour of her flame. Not with the ancient wards trembling in a way they hadn’t since the last Queen lived. The memory of that other woman—a crown of ash, eyes full of starlight—flickered through his thoughts and vanished, leaving only the sickening realisation that the realm recognised the same pattern rising again.
“Damn you,” he breathed, voice cracking with something he refused to name. “Little Flame… you are going to destroy me.”
He strode to the door. Pulled it shut. Locked it with a twist of ancient magic. Then leaned his forehead against the cold iron, breaths ragged, fists clenched so tight his claws nearly broke through human skin.
She was naked. Bleeding. Vulnerable. In his bed. And he was the danger. The knowledge coiled around his spine like a serpent, hissing reminders of every oath he’d broken, every life he’d shattered, every time he’d chosen power over mercy.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The scent of her clung to him like smoke—sweet, defiant, alive. His mark throbbed. His chest ached with something dark, fierce, and terrifyingly close to longing. He should leave. Should distance himself. Should drown this feeling before it grew teeth. But the thought of any other creature seeing her like this—touching her—made a sound rise up his throat that was not human.
He had to get away from her before he did something unforgivable. Before the Beast ripped through his skin. Before the mark she awakened consumed them both.
He pushed off the door and walked away—each step heavier, harder, more unbearable than the last. The corridor outside seemed narrower than before, the walls pressing in with the weight of all the choices he hadn’t made, all the paths he hadn’t taken—until tonight.
Behind the iron door, the torches dimmed and flared—like a heart trying to steady itself after a blow.
Like the realm itself was holding its breath for whatever came next.