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Dave wouldn’t know what had just happened, or what to feel about it, until he stopped hurting everywhere. He didn’t know how he could now hear Gaz’s voice in his head, and recognize it, but it didn’t matter either.

“He’s crowned you.”

Had he? Opening his eyes was annoying, but Dove forced himself to. Melchom hadn’t moved, but a crown sat on his head. He didn’t think it was any of the crowns in the room. It was made of the same material as his horns, intertwined tendrils protecting all kinds of quartzes and rubies.

It shouldn’t look good, but he just knew it was the part of Melchom that had been missing all this time.

“How did you do it, Mel?”

“Kneel.” Melchom’s voice boomed.

Like a true King’s, Dove supposed. This name fit him much better. There must be something after all behind all of Melchom’s insistence about the importance of names. Being Dove made everything that hadn’t fit before fit now.

Being Melchom’s, too.

CHAPTER 16

MELCHOM

I’ll stave off the gargoyle for you. Be quick.

Gaz didn’t answer him.

There was no need. The hellhound had been itching to draw blood the second she felt her human’s fear. By now, Melchom would bet she stood a chance against the gargoyle.

The two of them leaped at the same time, in opposite directions. Melchom blocked out the shrills and the squelching of organs being yanked out of a body, while blood pooled on the floor. He blocked out the gargoyle’s high pitched screams and the bony ends of its wings flapping and tearing Melchom’s skin apart.

Astaroth had signed his own death sentence the second he thought to step foot inside Melchom’s chambers.

A wiser man would’ve told Melchom to keep him alive and get some answers, but Melchom never claimed age made him wiser.

He’d get the answers, anyway. There was no doubt in his mind that the other Princes had been in on it, too. That was why he’d been called in and forced to take Gaz for a checkup—one they never did to hellhounds. He hadn’t bought one single word about the safety protocols they’d spewed at him. Now he knew why.

Melchom pushed the gargoyle up and against the wall. His strength was waning, but it was still more than enough. He wasn’t going to think of the reason why, but he was going to take advantage of it.

King?

Melchom tuned in. His Dove remained unconscious, but the sound of the carnage going on in the other side of the room had stopped, too.

Gaz had taken it seriously when he’d said to be quick. She was going to be a good pet, after all. A good pupper, as his human would say.

Gargoyles don’t last long once their bonded demon is dead. Go to Dove.

The hellhound made a whimpering sound. He heard the mattress dip under her weight, and paws—talons, dammit—circling until she found a good position to shield her human. The annoying pest was probably licking him, too. They’d need to talk more seriously about that going forward.

It wouldn’t matter if Melchom didn’t find a way to fix Dove. He would, though. Melchom refused to consider another possibility. His Dove was going to survive, and… He’d figure out how not to make him despise him later. Melchom flinched, recalling the human’s face when Astaroth had pointed out the way Melchom’s body was absorbing his fear. Self-hatred had run through his veins like it never had before.

Melchom had been sure Astaroth was the one Prince he could count on, but he wasn’t terribly sad he’d died.

The flapping of the gargoyle wings stopped minutes later. He got the thing off him with a grunt, his torso full of lashes and bleeding gashes. It didn’t matter.

Gaz moved to the side before he had to make her, and he cradled the human’s head with one hand, the other splayed across his stomach. He wasn’t usually in charge of extensive healings. Minions were called in for that. Melchom discarded the thought as soon as it appeared. No one would lay a hand on his human again. Ever. Only Melchom would get to see the inner parts of him.

He focused first on the external injuries. He stitched up the skin, trying not to think about how deep the whip had dug, how much blood the human had lost. He rearranged each cell meticulously until there wouldn’t be even a hint of a scar. White rage forced him to take pauses, clench his fists, and fume until he was able to refocus on his task.

His Dove would need a bath to get rid of all the cakey blood on his scalp, too. For now, he helped his hair regrow, adjusting it until all of it reached the length the human fantasized about when he imagined himself in front of a mirror. He had the most beautiful hair. Melchom remembered running his fingers through it that morning, while Dove slept. He should’ve woken him up then and got his fill of him before… Before Dove was taken from him like this.

Something wet bumped his arm.