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He fixed his hair while he walked toward the hallway that connected with the mayoral building. At first sight, it looked like he was alone, but with a quick squint of his eye, he could tell at least four minions were tracking him.

“What’s up with you? No shiny object to fixate on?”

Daddy Melchom!

He didn’t bother to ask them not to call him that, or to point out he wasn’t a Daddy. That had been his first mistake when they started doing that.

How’s your gift?

You’re spending a lot of time with him.

Does he still taste nice? He tasted so nice in the cells.

Melchom paused. His fists clenched, fury building up and spreading from his gut. “You fed off my property?”

Usually, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Fear was fear, and he’d felt how strong the pheromones Dove was releasing that day were.

This time, though, it mattered. The human had been marked as a gift to him. As his. Even if Hell was quite lax when it came to protocols and rules, feeding off a higher level demon or their possessions was off limits.

Why did you have to open your mouth?

Melchom, we were just curious.

We haven’t had a human in so long.

How do you think he’s gonna care?

Shut up, he might! It’s not fair we don’t get any.

“You don’t get any because you haven’t proved you deserve it,” he growled. “Now scram.”

They all did.

Melchom took a deep breath. He glanced up at the paintings that lined the way to the west wing of the castle. As usual, the first in the row of thirteen paintings made him wince. Beelzebub’s sense of humor was to thank for it. If it were up to Melchom, the other demon would be strangled and buried in cursed flames for the rest of eternity.

The image was disrespectful—not because of its sexual nature, but the fact that this row of paintings would begin with the depiction of Melchom’s dethroning. In the painting, King David bent over a bed that had stopped being his more than two thousand years ago, one of his hands reaching back. Those disgustingly skilled fingers were curled tight around one of his horns. The dethroning was signified by the nubby thumb beginning to separate Melchom’s crown from his head.

It was humiliating. His blood boiled, resentment still wreaking havoc through his system.

He’d been pathetic, falling for that coward’s trickery.

Melchom shook it off, forcing his muscles to relax and his fists to unclench.

There was one reason why that painting was there: Beelzebub knew it was the path he had to take to reach their offices, and he wanted Melchom to not be thinking clearly, to be fueled by emotion.

You’re going to be late, Daddy.

Melchom sighed. “Shut up if you don’t want me to encourage the princes to cut you off.”

He wasn’t going to be late anyway. He liked to keep the minions in line though, remind them he still held on to some power. They needed a firm hand.

Melchom thought everyone around him did—new additions included.

As predicted, he wasn’t late. Two turns, and he was walking inside the conference room. It wasn’t much of one, he supposed, but given the long oak table and the dozen chairs with little else inside… Calling it a conference room stuck. In reality, it was just the place where everyone tried to prove who had a metaphorical bigger dick.

The answer for the literal one was Melchom.

The thought boosted his mood some. It was easy to lose sight of the fact that most of the assholes were just jealous of him—wary of what he had been and what he could come back to be.