Chapter 31 His Chamber
(The Devil)
He came to a stop at the entrance to the human cavern. Already, he could hear them calling for mercy. He could feel their anguish and pain reaching up for him. The doorways yawned open like the jaws of a monstrous grave. Heat rose from the pits within—wet heat, sickly heat, carrying the reek of desperation. Lanterns flickered along the cavern’s throat, illuminating rows of cramped stone cells where broken souls rattled thin chains and prayed to gods who had abandoned them centuries ago. He heard begging. Muttering. Laughter scraped raw by madness. Bodies hunched in corners, rocking. Some hissed like animals. Some whispered names they no longer remembered. One moaned his title in worship; another screamed it in hatred.
This—the human pits—was a place even demons avoided when they could. A place of decay made flesh. Instinctively, his grip tightened on the woman in his arms. Could he leave her there? Surrounded by the dead. Surrounded by the worst of humanity. Surrounded by souls condemned to suffer for eternity in his realm.
She would wake to darkness thick enough to choke on. To hands reaching through iron bars. To teeth gnashing in shadows. To the stink of madness, rot, and rage.
And she would break.
Not physically—he’d seen her survive worse tonight—but in ways that could never be mended. Her fire would go out. That spark he felt in her blood would rot like fruit left too long in the heat. And the idea—her light dimming—sent something vicious ripping through him. The Beast snarled, not in triumph but in protest, claws scraping against the inside of his skin as if rejecting the image outright.
He took one step down, and his bare foot landed on the first heat stone step.
No.
The word cracked through him like a blade. The heat stone beneath his foot glowed brighter, reacting to the sudden spike in his aura. Even the wailing from the pits faltered, dipping into a brief, uneasy silence.
He wouldn’t leave her to rot in a cell with those scum-suckers. Not when the thought of another creature’s eyes on her—human or otherwise—made his hands curl protectively around her hips.
Not when the realm itself seemed to lean toward her, curious.
Not when every instinct he’d buried a millennium ago snarled: mine.
He turned on his heel and strode toward the wing of private chambers—rooms no mortal had ever touched.
Until tonight.
The corridor stretched long and dim, lit by torches that recognised their master and flared brighter as he passed. Servants scurried backward into the walls; some dropped to their knees, trembling at the sight of a human carried through sacred halls. Whispers rose like wind through canyon cracks—words like “forbidden”, “unprecedented” and “chosen”. One braver than the rest dared a glance at the girl’s limp form—and promptly yelped as the nearest torch spat a rain of sparks, singeing his shadow. The palace itself was warning them to look away.
His chambers lay far from the pit, carved into the heart of the palace where the stone was warm, and the air tasted faintly of iron and fire lilies—his favourite. A place of solitude, fury, and ritual. A place no mortal should ever see.
Yet here he was, bringing her into the part of Hell that belonged to him alone.
He stopped at a tall iron door—his own chambers—and shouldered it open with a growl.
The hinges groaned like waking beasts, spilling heat and shadow and the heavy scent of brimstone into the hall.
As he crossed the threshold, a single thought settled through him—dark, sharp, irrevocable:
If she behaves, she’ll live like no mortal ever has.
If she doesn’t— She’ll still be his.
Because he was no longer certain he could give her up, even if he wanted to. The decision lodged in his chest like a blade driven point-first into stone—irremovable, absolute.
The room within was cavernous, filled with shadows and firelight from sconces along the walls. A massive bed dominated the space—dark wood, thick furs, silk sheets the colour of spilled wine.
Heat shimmered faintly above the stone floor, the temperature rising and falling in slow breaths as though the chamber itself recognised its master’s return. The walls, carved from obsidian veined with living magma, cast ribbons of molten orange across the far corners. Every flicker of flame seemed to lean toward him—toward her—as if the room were watching. Waiting. High above, in the vaulted ceiling, old symbols had been carved into the stone—crowns, thorns, suns split in half. Tonight, faint lines of gold threaded through them, like veins remembering how to glow.
He crossed the room and laid his Little Flame gently upon the bed.
Her body sank into the softness, her limbs slack and pale against the dark fabric. Her dress—what remained of it—clung in torn, filthy strips barely covering her.
The contrast struck him hard: her fragile human curves against his realm’s harsh textures. Pale skin glowing faintly beneath the firelight. Bruised ribs rising with shallow breaths. Her dark hair—matted with sweat, soil, and blood—fanned across the sheets like spilt ink. She looked breakable. And somehow still unbroken. Even unconscious, a small line creased the space between her brows, as if she were arguing with someone in whatever fractured dream held her.
He stood over her, breath unsteady. She was bruised. Bleeding. Exhausted. And somehow still the most defiant creature he’d ever seen.
His gaze travelled over her form—slow, dragging, unwilling to look away. Every scrape and bruise made something violent coil inside him. Not anger at her. Anger at himself. He shouldn’t have let the Beast take her down so hard. He shouldn’t have slammed her into the ground. Shouldn’t have—
No.
She was brave; she fought back. Determined and furious. He couldn’t just leave her like this, dirty and bleeding, especially when he was the one who caused these wounds.
He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. “I need to clean you,” he muttered, his voice rough. The admission tasted foreign; he was far more accustomed to ordering torment than tending to the aftermath of it.
She didn’t respond. Her chest lifted and fell shallowly, breath shaking.