Chapter 122 Debts and Confessions
(Apollo & Adelaide)
She pushed. Her arms trembled, useless. Her body wobbled like it had forgotten how to coordinate itself. A frustrated sound scraped out of her.
Strong hands closed around her biceps and pulled.
She gasped as he hauled her upright with insulting ease. Her legs folded automatically beneath her, and she found herself kneeling on the warm stone, bench at her back, him towering in front of her again.
The floor radiated steady heat into her shins, as if she knelt on a sleeping beast’s tongue. The sweep of his wings darkened her vision, making the chamber feel smaller, lower, more enclosed.
Her gaze stayed on the floor. She didn’t trust what might show in her eyes if she looked up.
Shame. Fury. Confusion. A traitorous thread of satisfaction. The emotions tangled, rising and receding in turns beneath her skin, threatening to spill out in any direction if she met his stare for too long.
“Little Flame,” Apollo murmured. “Look at me.”
She didn’t move.
His hand—still inhumanly hot, still scaled and edged with claws—hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her head up.
Her eyes met his.
They glowed less brightly than they had moments ago, molten gold dimmed to something deeper, thicker, but the intensity hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened. There was too much in that stare: satisfaction, lingering hunger, calculation—and something else she refused to name.
The bond tightened under that gaze, like a rope being drawn one notch shorter. She felt flayed open, every secret thought buzzing too close to the surface.
“Don’t,” she whispered, before she could stop herself. Her voice scraped raw. “Don’t put me back on that cross.”
The plea broke out of her like an accident. She’d meant to negotiate. To bargain. To play stubborn.
Instead, the truth bled out first. She hated that. The word didn’t taste like salt and iron, like begging in a language she swore she’d never speak again. Her chest ached with the humiliation of needing anything from him at all.
Apollo’s thumb pressed lightly against her lower lip, as if testing how steady the line was.
“You don’t want to hang for me again?” he asked, voice silken with threat. “You seemed to enjoy the last part.”
Heat burned over her cheeks. A flash of the bench, the shuddering climax he’d dragged out of her, rippled through her body and betrayed her with a small, treacherous tremor.
“That’s not—” Her throat closed around the words, too raw to hiss them properly. “I’ll do anything,” she forced out instead. “Anything but that. Not again. Not like that.”
His eyes narrowed, catching on the word anything.
The bond pulsed, amused.
He let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating.
“Anything?” he repeated, tasting it. “What a generous offer.”
Fear crawled like icy fingers up her spine. “You said…” She swallowed. “You said this was… kindness.”
His mouth curved, slow and cruel. “I did,” he agreed. “And I can be very kind when it serves me.”
He straightened slightly, shadow shifting over her.
“Talk,” he said simply. “And you won’t see the cross tonight.”
Her stomach dropped. Of course. Of course, it always came back to that.
The phantom bite of rope dug into her skin just from the suggestion, her shoulders remembering the burn and drag of her own weight. Her body recoiled; survival stepped forward.
“I already told you—”
“You lied creatively,” he cut in. “You are improving. But I didn’t ask for your creativity. I asked for the truth.”
His claws traced a line from her chin down the side of her throat, resting over the frantic jump of her pulse.
“Who came into my chamber, Adelaide?” His voice quieted, growing more dangerous with every lowered decibel. “Who touched what’s mine?”
She flinched at the emphasis.
The word mine snagged in her chest, dangerous as a hook. Part of her wanted to rip it out. Part of her wanted to sink into it and rest. Both instincts terrified her.
Her instincts jerked in different directions. Protect him. Protect yourself. Don’t anger the Devil. Don’t give up the only creature who treated you like—
She cut the thought short.
Apollo’s thumb slid lazily back and forth over her pulse, as if feeling every stutter.
“The kindness you keep clinging to,” he said, eyes boring into hers. “The water. The cloth. The easing of the bonds. The demon who touched you while you hung here.” His gaze flared again, heat coiling at the edges. “Tell me what he means to you.”
Her wrists twitched at her sides, fingers curling against her thighs. “He doesn’t—” she started.
His hand closed around her throat. Not choking—just enough to halt the lie.
“Think,” he murmured. “You very nearly broke yourself on my bench tonight. You begged for terms. You offered me anything. You are in no state to waste my patience.”
Her eyes burned. She thought of the cool rim of a cup against her lips. The bitter liquid that eased the jagged edges of her pain. Fingers steadying her head instead of forcing it back. A cloth between her skin and the bite of wood.
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know the demon’s name— she did. But because giving it away felt like betrayal. So she chose the smallest truth she could offer.
“I owe him,” she said quietly.
Apollo’s jaw went rigid.
The words tasted wrong, even to her, but they were true.
“Why?” His fingers tightened. “What debt outweighs mine?”
You don’t own me, she wanted to snap. But the cross’s phantom ache in her shoulders said otherwise. The bond coiled through her ribs said otherwise. The melted bindings at her wrists said otherwise, too.
“He kept me alive,” she said instead. “For you.”
That made him still.
Her voice shook, but she forced herself to keep going. “You walked away when I was…” She swallowed. “When I didn’t know if I could keep breathing without something breaking. He brought water. He eased the ropes. He—he put the cloth under my shoulders so the wood wouldn’t cut into my skin. If he hadn’t, I…” She let out a slow, shaking breath. “You might have come back to a different kind of corpse.”
His nostrils flared.
A darker, colder thing slid through him—ugly with the knowledge that the rat had not just trespassed, but done so in his name. For his benefit. As if that bestowed permission.
“And you protect him for that?” he asked. “For a seat cushion and a cup?”
Her eyes sparked. “Here?” she rasped. “That’s the closest thing to mercy I’ve seen.”
The word dug into him. Mercy. He wanted to sneer at it. Wanted to strip it down and show her the bones—utility, advantage, strategy. That’s all it ever was.
But the bond disagreed. It hummed with the memory of her relief, of her pain easing just enough for her to survive until he returned.
He ignored it.
“Describe him,” Apollo said. “Since you’re so determined not to give me a name you do not know.”
Her pulse stuttered. She did know his name — Cael — but it was the one thing she still had left to give him. Her only coin. Her only shield. So she gathered the smallest truth she could offer and hoped it would be enough.
“He’s…” She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick. “Different. His magic is quieter. It doesn’t… roar. It hums. Like coals instead of open flame.”
Apollo’s eyes narrowed. “His appearance?” he pressed.
Adelaide’s breath hitched.
Grey and black. Marbled smoke. Cool ember-light beneath the surface. The image rose unbidden, uncomfortably clear. Not sharp like Apollo’s fire. Not brutal. Just quietly controlled. Something she found deserving of protection.