Chapter 82 Pain Is Easy
(Apollo & Adelaide)
“I want the sound you make, when you forget how much you hate me.”
Her lashes fluttered open. She stared at him, stunned. “…What?”
“I want the noise you make,” he went on, ignoring her shock, “when you are right at the edge of giving in, when your body betrays you. When you would promise me anything if I just let you fall.”
Colour flooded her cheeks. Her pulse hammered wildly under his hand.
He felt the memory hit her—like a shift in the air—the night on the bed, his mouth on her, his tail inside her, the climax that had ripped fire straight out of her bones.
The bond sang with it. Lust. Shame. Fear. Confusion. Images shivered through the connection in half-formed bursts: the taste of his skin, the burn of the ropes, the blinding white heat behind her eyes.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Like that.”
She shook her head violently, ropes flickering brighter. “No. No— I won’t let you—”
“You already did,” he said, and there was no gentleness in it. “You came for me, Little Flame.”
Tears spilled over, hot and furious. “I didn’t—”
“You burned,” he said. “For me. With me. You screamed my name while you did it.”
Her voice broke. “Stop.”
He didn’t. “Your body remembers,” he murmured, thumb brushing a shaky line across her lower ribs. “The mark remembers. Even if you lie to yourself.”
“I won’t tell you anything,” she choked.
“I know,” he said—and smiled. “Not yet.”
His hand slid sideways along her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her hip. The motion was slow, deliberate, designed not to shock but to anticipate. He let his claws barely graze the outer swell of her thigh, trailing static across nerves already strung too tight.
Her breath hitched, chest rising sharply. Her thighs flexed against the bonds, a futile attempt to close.
Fear licked along the bond.
But so did something else— That same low, unwilling spark.
Her skin pebbled where his touch passed. Not from cold. From desire.
He stepped closer, so his body just brushed hers, the heat of him searing against her bare front. The cross creaked under the slight shift in weight. His chest was a furnace, every breath baking her nipples, every exhale stroking over her lips like invisible fingers.
His horns cast her face in shadow. His breath ghosted over her lips.
“Here is how this will work,” he said quietly. “I will ask you who was in this room. You will say nothing useful. And I—” his hand slipped a fraction lower “—will teach your body new definitions of the word ‘torture.’”
Her throat worked.
“Pain is easy,” he went on. “You already fear that. It will not break you quickly. You’ve proven that much.”
He let his eyes roam slowly down her body, taking in every trembling inch.
“But pleasure,” he whispered, gaze snapping back to hers, “that will eat you alive.”
He watched the way the words hit—like a slap, like a spark, like a prophecy. They lodged in the bond, echoing back at both of them as if the magic itself were memorising the threat.
“You can’t make me enjoy this,” she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her own doubt.
He bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Little Flame,” he murmured, “I already did.”
Her breath stuttered.
Apollo lifted his free hand and gestured lazily through the air.
The mark on his arm flared.
She cried out—the reaction instantaneous, her back arching against the cross as if a jolt of heat had shot through her veins. Her nipples tightened visibly, her skin flushing from clavicle to stomach in a rush of colour. Her toes curled, digging at nothing, as a phantom pressure bloomed between her thighs like fingers closing around a wound she didn’t remember getting.
“What—what did you—” She panted, swallowing hard. “What was that?”
He watched her like a scholar watches an experiment.
“Just a reminder,” he said mildly, “of how you felt when I had my mouth on you.”
Her eyes shone with tears, but he could see it—beneath the horror, beneath the shame—a flicker of unwanted hunger.
No, she thought, and the bond whispered it.
Yes, his body answered.
He leaned in again, lips almost brushing her ear. “This is what I will do to you,” he murmured. “Again and again. I will pull you to the brink of that fire… and keep you there.”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip.
He felt the tiny, betraying tremor that ran through her.
“You’ll break,” he said softly. “Not from pain. From need.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, though the word shook.
His hand cupped her jaw, forcing her to face him fully. “Two days,” he said, voice like stone sliding over stone. “Perhaps three. You will learn there are worse things than screaming for mercy.”
He drew back a fraction, just enough to hold her gaze, forcing her to see exactly who was promising this.
“You will scream,” he continued. “You will beg. But not for it to stop.”
His thumb dragged slowly along her lower lip, feeling the way it trembled.
“You will beg me to let you fall,” he said. “You will think that telling me what I want to know will save you.”
Her voice came out thin and broken. “Will it?”
He paused. For a heartbeat, he almost said yes.
Then the jealousy surged again—the memory of that dress, the violation of his wards, the fact that someone else had stood in this room and he had not known.
“No,” he whispered, and there was nothing but Devil in it. The word snapped through the room like a closing trap, and even the air seemed to flinch.
Her breath shuddered out, a small sound of despair.
“Who came into this room?” he asked again, almost gently.
Her shoulders slumped. Her head tipped back. Tears streaked down her temples into her hair.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I swear on everything I have left. I don’t know.”
He studied her. Searched her eyes. Searched the bond. Found nothing but truth. It didn’t matter. Punishment was already in motion. Truth would not save her from the shape of his fury; only his mercy could, and he had none to spare.
He lowered his hands, letting his claws drift like threats at his sides.
“Very well,” he said softly.
The cross creaked as he stepped back. The air cooled by a fraction, though it still clung to them, thick and oppressive. Somewhere in the stone, a low, resonant hum began, as if the palace itself were bracing for what it knew came next.
“You may keep your silence,” he said.
Relief flickered weakly across her face—misplaced, premature.