Chapter 5 The Devil on his Knees
_Maureen Laurent
I wake up drowning in him.
The black furs are soaked with us—sex and sweat and blood—and they cling to my skin like a second, heavier shame.
My thighs are sticky.
My breasts ache.
Between my legs feels swollen, tender, used in a way that makes heat crawl up my neck even now.
The bite on my shoulder throbs with every heartbeat, a living brand that whispers his name over and over.
Vuk.
Vuk.
Vuk.
I reach for him before my eyes are even open, fingers searching the ruined bed for seven feet of scorching heat and golden eyes.
Nothing.
The sheets beside me are cold.
My stomach caves in.
I sit up too fast. The room tilts. Every muscle protests; my thighs tremble, and something warm and thick slides out of me and down the inside of my leg.
His seed.
Still inside me.
Still leaking.
Proof.
I yank the fur up to my chin like it can hide me from what I let him do—what I begged him to do.
The mirror across the room is shattered.
The floor is littered with shredded silk and silver dust that used to be a collar.
The headboard has claw marks gouged so deep the obsidian shows pale scars.
My white slip lies in ribbons, soaked crimson at the hem.
It wasn’t a dream.
He really pinned me down and split me open and bit me and called me his while the entire fortress shook with his roar.
And then he left.
My breath hitches. My eyes burn.
I press shaking fingers to the bite. The skin is raised, hot, perfect half-moons of his fangs. When I touch it, pleasure stabs straight between my legs so sharply I gasp and jerk my hand away like I’ve been burned.
A sob tries to crawl up my throat. I swallow it.
I force myself to the edge of the bed. My legs refuse to hold me. I collapse to my knees on the cold floor, fur clutched to my chest, and for one humiliating second I just kneel there—naked and dripping with the Alpha Devil’s come, terrified he’s already bored of me.
The silence is crushing.
I crawl—actually crawl—to the foot of the bed and grab the post to haul myself upright.
My reflection in a cracked shard of mirror shows a stranger:
silver eyes too wide,
lips swollen,
throat ringed with bruises shaped like his fingers,
breasts marked with his mouth,
bite shining wet and fresh.
I look claimed.
I look ruined.
I look like exactly what he called me: his.
And he’s not here.
The sob wins this time. It tears out of me, small and broken and ugly.
That’s when the door opens.
I whirl, clutching the fur tighter, heart slamming against my ribs.
A woman steps inside—petite, maybe mid-thirties, dark hair in a severe knot, wearing a simple black dress with a silver crest over the heart. She closes the door softly behind her and dips into a curtsy so perfect it feels rehearsed for centuries.
“Good morning, Miss,” she says, voice gentle, almost warm. “My name is Livia. From this day forward, I am your personal maid.”
She straightens, meets my eyes without fear or disgust, and smiles like she’s looking at a queen instead of a naked, freshly knotted, tear-stained mess.
“I’ve been instructed to see to your every need.”
She pauses, gaze softening as it drifts over the fresh, glistening bite on my shoulder, the purple fingerprints blooming across my throat, the way my knees knock together like a newborn fawn’s.
“Whenever you’re ready, Miss,” she says again, quieter this time, as if the words themselves are afraid to startle me.
My tongue feels thick, coated in ash and him.
“I… um… can I get water at least?” The question comes out cracked, barely louder than a breath.
Livia’s eyes crinkle—not quite a smile, but close. She dips her head in the smallest nod and slips out the door without a sound. It closes with a whisper-soft click.
I count my heartbeats.
One,
two,
three—
The door opens again. She’s back, holding a crystal bottle beaded with condensation. The water inside looks impossibly clear, almost silver in the torchlight.
She uncaps it for me—my hands are shaking too hard—and presses it gently to my lips.
I drink like I’ve been lost in the desert for weeks. Greedy, sloppy gulps that spill down my chin and onto the black silk still clinging to my breasts. I don’t care. I can’t stop.
When it’s empty I lower it with trembling fingers, water dripping from my bottom lip, and look up at her. My eyes feel too big, too glassy, like a child waiting to be scolded.
Livia takes it gently, sets it aside, then simply opens her arms a little—not quite a hug, just an offer.
I don’t even think. I let the fur drop and stumble into her.
She catches me like she’s done this a hundred times.
She guides me into the bathroom, sits me on the edge of the massive obsidian tub, and starts the water. The moment the steam hits the bite on my shoulder, I whimper. It still feels alive, pulsing with him.
Livia doesn’t flinch at the marks. She just wets a cloth and starts washing his seed from between my thighs with the same care someone might wash blood from a wound: careful, practiced, silent.
I finally find my voice, small and cracked.
“He… he’s going to kill me now, isn’t he?”
I don’t know why I ask her. Maybe because she’s the first person who’s looked at me like I’m still human.
Livia stills for a heartbeat. Then she meets my eyes in the mirror.
“The lord does whatever he wishes, Miss,” she says quietly. No cruelty, no comfort—just truth. “But I have served in this fortress for thirty-two years. I have never seen him carry a female through the halls like she was the only thing keeping the world from burning. I have never seen him shatter his own doors to get her inside faster. And I have never—” her gaze drops to the bite, then back up “—seen that mark on anyone who lived past the next sunrise… who wasn’t his mate.”
My breath catches so hard it hurts.
She resumes washing me, gentler now.
“So no, Miss. I do not think he plans to kill you.” A tiny, sad smile. “I think he is trying very hard not to scare you more than he already has.”
I don’t believe her. I can’t. Hope is too dangerous here.
She dresses me in a soft black silk gown—no underwear again, of course—and braids my hair with steady fingers. A little makeup to hide the worst of the bruising around my mouth. When she’s finished I look almost… regal. Like someone who belongs at a devil’s side.
She walks me back into the bedroom. Someone has already changed the sheets, swept up the glass, erased every trace of last night except the scent of him that still clings to my skin.
Livia stops at the door.
“You are not to leave these rooms unless the lord sends for you himself. Food will be brought. If you need anything—anything at all—pull the bell cord. I will come.”
She hesitates, then adds, softer, “You are safe here, Miss. Safer than any creature in this dominion has ever been.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I stand in the middle of the vast, spotless room, alone again.
My fingers drift to the bite.
Safe.
The bond thrums under my skin like a second heartbeat, warm and alive and terrifying.
He didn’t throw me away.
He didn’t kill me.
He sent someone to take care of me.
The door opens without a sound.
I’m still folded in on myself, arms tight around my ribs, when his presence floods the room like a tide of heat and midnight. The torches bow. My heartbeat stutters.
Vuk.
He is dressed in simple black—no armor, no crown, no blood. Just loose linen trousers and a shirt half-open at the throat. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and the golden glow in his eyes is banked low, almost gentle.
I scramble backward anyway. My spine hits the bedframe and I sink to the floor, knees folding under me, palms pressed to the furs.
“Please,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll—”
The words die.
Because he drops.
Not in violence.
Not in threat.
He lowers himself to his knees right there on the rug, slow and deliberate, until we are eye-level. Seven feet of ruin and flame brought low for me.
He doesn’t reach yet. He simply waits, palms open on his thighs, letting me see the tremor in his fingers.
“Little moon,” he says, so softly it hurts. “Why would I ever kill the only part of me that feels alive?”
I can’t breathe. Tears spill hot and silent.
He crawls forward—one careful movement at a time—until his knees brush mine. Still he doesn’t touch. He just bows his head, presses his forehead to the floor between us, and stays there.
The Alpha Devil on his knees.
Submitting.
“I left,” he murmurs into the rug, voice ragged, “because I was terrified I’d hurt you more if I stayed. You were bleeding. You were shaking. And I—” A broken laugh. “I have never once in three and a half centuries been afraid of anything. Then I looked at you and thought: if I crush her, I will follow her into death myself.”