Chapter 136 Cherish
(Apollo)
Apollo came awake slowly. That was new.
He did not wake slowly. For centuries, consciousness returned to him like a blade—clean, sharp, immediate.
Not today. Today, he woke slow and warm. The air in his lungs felt different—thicker, quieter. It was as if the palace had taken a careful breath, choosing not to disturb him. Them. He was warm…and holding something. Someone.
His fingers flexed instinctively, brushing over a curve of soft skin beneath the blanket. A small inhale answered the touch, feather-light against his chest. Her breath. Her body. Her.
Adelaide.
His eyes opened. He found her nestled against him exactly as she had fallen asleep. Her forehead pressed beneath his jaw, one hand lightly fisted in his hair, bare legs tangled with his. His wing curled around her, shielding her from the cool air drifting through the stone arches. His own magic seemed to choose this. The membrane glimmered faintly—devil’s fire and ember-light pulsing in a rhythm that did not belong solely to him.
Apollo went very still. For a long moment, he simply… watched her. Watched the slow rise and fall of her breaths. The faint parting of her lips. The tiny crease between her brows appeared when she dreamed. The way she fit against him, small but unafraid, soft but unbroken.
A living contradiction. His living contradiction.
He let out a slow breath—too slow for a demon of his rank, too shaky for the King of Hell. Something unfamiliar pressed against his ribs, tight and unwelcome.
He had slept. He had slept with her in his arms. And Hell had not burned him for it.
He couldn’t remember the last time another body had shared his bed in anything resembling peace. He had taken hundreds—willing, unwilling, obedient, or simply unfortunate—but none had remained once desire cooled. None were ever held afterwards. None were kept.
None had been invited into the place where he slept. Ever.
Because sleep was vulnerable. Vulnerability was dangerous. And danger was death—even for him.
Yet here she was.
That cold, instinctive voice which lived in the pits of his soul — the one forged from centuries of survival and war — whispered that this was a mistake. Kings did not allow softness this close. Kings who wished to endure did not let warmth linger where armour should be. But his arm tightened around her anyway in a slow, unconscious curl.
Cherish.
The word flashed in his mind like a brand, scorching, instant. He flinched. No. No, that wasn’t a word meant for him. He possessed. He devoured. He ruled. He did not cherish. But when she shifted and made a soft, drowsy sound in her throat—barely a hum, barely conscious—something inside him softened further, betraying him.
Cherish.
He could no longer deny it. She did not feel like a possession. Not anymore. Not entirely. She felt like something he could lose.
His hand rose before he commanded it. Fingers brushed the back of her shoulder. Her skin warmed beneath his touch, Emberflame flaring with sleepy heat he felt to his core.
The bond between them thrummed—alive, curious, newly formed.
Apollo exhaled quietly, allowing himself to lean down, nose brushing the top of her head. He lingered there. Breathing her in. Heat. Salt. A faint, lingering sweetness that clung to her skin after the baths. Her scent threaded into him, settling deep, marking something ancient and territorial in a way no blood oath ever had.
His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Little Flame…”
Her eyelashes fluttered. She shifted, nestling closer, and something deep in him—something old, bruised, and starved—stretched toward her warmth.
His mouth moved before he could silence it. “…wake.”
Not an order. Not a command. A request.
Another first.
She stirred against his chest, brow scrunching faintly as she surfaced from sleep. Her lips brushed his skin by accident—just a ghost of contact, but enough to send heat pouring through him.
Her voice was hoarse with sleep. “Apollo…?”
Hearing his name like that—unarmed, unafraid—hit him harder than anticipated. It has been centuries since another creature spoke his name with such softness.
He swallowed once, slowly. “Here,” he murmured.
She blinked up at him, eyes heavy but soft—unguarded in a way he had never seen from her, not even in the bath. Vulnerability and trust flickered there. Not blind trust. Not the trust of a captive. But the fragile, cautious trust of someone who had begun to see the person beneath the monster.
His chest tightened painfully. Careful.
He brushed his knuckles along her jaw, tracing the line where sleep had warmed her skin pink. The contact felt… ceremonial. As if some old law he had never learned was being quietly invoked.
She shivered. “A little early to be touching me like that,” she whispered, but there was no real protest—just a flutter beneath his fingertips.
His mouth curved, slow and faint. “You thought I was touching you?” he said softly. “Not yet.”
Her breath hitched, and he lowered his head.
He didn’t claim her mouth. Not this time.
Instead, he pressed his lips to the corner of her jaw, a whisper of warmth. Then lower, along the line of her neck. A faint, reverent trail—a promise rather than a demand. Her pulse jumped beneath his mouth, quickening as he followed it.
He felt it then—how easily he could ruin this if he chose to. And how desperately he did not want to.
“Apollo…” she breathed again, softer this time, almost unsure.
He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.
“Say no,” he murmured. “If you want me to stop.”
Her breath stuttered. Her lips parted. Her fingers curled in the fabric beneath his shoulder. She didn’t say no. A flicker of guilt tightened her chest—not because of him. Somewhere far above Hell, Lyra still waited for a sister who wasn’t coming home. The thought hurt. It always would. But when Apollo cupped her face with impossible gentleness, the hurt shifted. It was not gone, not soothed, just… carried differently.
So, he kissed her again—slow, deliberate, lingering—this time beneath her collarbone. A soft exhale left her as her back arched just slightly, barely a tremor, but enough for him to feel every shift of her body against his.
Heat pooled low in his stomach. But this wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t possession. This was longing. Pure and simple and breathtaking in its unfamiliarity.
He moved with a patience he didn’t know he possessed, mapping every inch of her with lips and hands—not claiming, not conquering, but learning her. Memorising her. Worshipping her in the only way he knew how.
Her hands rose, sliding into his silky hair. Her fingers found the smaller horns, poking through his hair at his temples. She traced the size and shape of them with her curious fingers.
His eyes fluttered shut. He shuddered—hard—against her. He pressed his forehead to her sternum, breath shaking. “You undo me,” he whispered