Page 40 of Infernal Crown (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #3)

Six Months Later

Lysithea

The routine has become second nature now, though it still feels surreal when I stop to think about it.

Wake up tangled between three warm bodies in our massive bed, the heat of the hell realm making silk sheets cling to skin damp with sleep and desire.

Rivers of lava flow past the windows in their eternal dance, casting flickering shadows across obsidian walls that have become more familiar than any home I’ve ever known.

The bed itself is a work of art - carved from a single piece of black volcanic glass, new and wide enough for four people to sprawl comfortably without anyone falling off the edges.

The silk sheets are a deep burgundy that complements the orange glow from outside, and they’re enchanted to stay cool despite the hellish temperature.

A necessity when you’re sleeping pressed against three furnaces of supernatural heat.

This evening, I’m wrapped around Evren’s chest while Verik’s arm anchors me from behind, his hand splayed possessively across my stomach.

The contrast between them is stark even in sleep - Evren’s skin pale and smooth where it’s not marked with old scars, Verik’s darker and warmer, radiating heat like a living ember.

Dathan lies sprawled across our legs like a territorial cat, silver scars catching the orange light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

His hair fans across my thighs in waves of platinum that shimmer with each breath.

Six months of this, and I still wake up amazed that this is my life.

Not just the physical intimacy, though that’s incredible enough to make me dizzy if I think about it too long.

But the casual way they touch me, even unconsciously.

Verik’s thumb stroking absent patterns on my skin, Evren’s fingers tangled in my hair, Dathan’s arm wrapped around my calf like he’s afraid I might disappear if he doesn’t maintain contact.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Evren murmurs against my hair, ice-blue eyes opening to meet mine. His voice is rough with sleep, carrying that particular rasp that makes my stomach flutter. “What’s got that brilliant mind spinning this early?”

“Just... this.” I gesture vaguely at our tangled arrangement, careful not to disturb Dathan, who’s still dozing. “Sometimes I can’t believe this is real.”

The confession slips out easier than it used to. Six months ago, admitting vulnerability felt dangerous. Now it feels natural, like breathing. These three men have seen me at my most powerful and most broken, often within the same hour, and they’ve never once flinched.

“Trust me, it’s real,” Dathan says without lifting his head from where it rests on my thigh. His voice carries that lazy satisfaction that means he’s been awake longer than he’s let on, just enjoying the warmth and closeness. “I’ve got the bite marks to prove it.”

He shifts slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the crescent-shaped marks along his collarbone from last night’s... activities. They’re already fading thanks to his supernatural healing, but they’ll last long enough to make him smile every time he sees them in a mirror.

Verik’s laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back in a way that makes me press closer without thinking. “That’s because you keep challenging her to sparring matches when she’s wearing the Crown.”

“Not my fault she gets creative with divine power during combat,” Dathan protests, finally sitting up.

His hair falls in messy waves over his forehead, silver catching the light like spun moonbeams, and there’s a smugness in his expression that suggests he enjoyed every moment of our last training session.

The bruises on his ribs from where I managed to land a particularly creative blow have already healed, but his grin suggests he’s hoping for a rematch soon.

“Besides, someone has to keep her skills sharp.”

“My skills are plenty sharp,” I mutter, though I’m smiling as I say it. The sparring sessions have become one of my favourite parts of our routine - a chance to test the limits of divine power against three men who know exactly how to push my buttons in the best possible ways.

“Mmm,” Evren agrees, pressing a kiss to my temple that makes me shiver despite the heat. His lips linger against my skin, warm and soft and familiar. “Especially that thing you did last night with the?—”

“Food,” I interrupt, heat flooding my cheeks at the memory of exactly what I’d done with carefully applied divine energy and his very enthusiastic response. “Let’s talk about dinner instead of my creative applications of power.”

All three of them laugh, the sound warm and rich in the evening air that carries the scent of sulfur and something indefinably magical that I’ve come to associate with home.

This is what I never expected when I first put on the Crown.

Not just the power or the responsibility, but this sense of belonging.

Of being completely known and accepted, dangerous edges and all.

The laughter fades into comfortable quiet as we slowly untangle ourselves, admiring the play of light across skin marked with scars and tattoos that tell stories of lives lived dangerously.

I walk naked across the room to where my clothes were discarded over the back of an ornate chair that probably costs more than most people’s houses.

The dress is well-made yet straightforward, with a deep blue fabric that complements my skin and moves like water when I pull it over my head.

No undergarments - they don’t last long in this heat, and frankly, they just get in the way when three sets of hands have a tendency to wander throughout the day.

“Tonight,” Evren says, climbing out of bed and getting dressed with economical movements that somehow make even pulling on a simple shirt look elegant, “we’re having dinner on the balcony. I found a new wine that pairs beautifully with the sulfur content in our air.”

I snort at his ability to make even the most ridiculous statements sound sophisticated. Only Evren could discuss wine pairings for hellish atmospheric conditions with the same seriousness he’d bring to analysing ancient texts.

“And after dinner,” Verik adds with a grin that shows too many sharp teeth and promises trouble in the best possible way, “we’re testing those new binding techniques you’ve been theorising about.”

“The ones involving divine power and strategic restraint?” I ask, heat pooling low in my stomach at the memory of our last experimental session.

The theoretical applications we’d discussed had proven very practical indeed, though I suspect our research notes would scandalise any actual academics who might happen upon them.

“Those exact ones,” Dathan confirms, his eyes gleaming with anticipation that makes my pulse quicken.

He reluctantly pulls on some clothes, though the casual way he moves suggests he doesn’t expect them to stay on very long.

“We’ve made some modifications to the setup based on last week’s. .. findings.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I ask, settling into one of the chairs by the window to watch them finish getting ready. “Your queen is starving.”

Verik gets up, magnificent in his nudity as he stretches with feline grace.

The tattoos that cover his torso seem to move in the shifting light, dark ink flowing across copper skin like living shadows.

“Then your king shall provide.” He snaps his fingers, and he is fully clothed in perfectly tailored clothes that probably materialised from pure will and excessive magical power.

Show-off. Though I have to admit the effect is impressive, even after six months of watching him casually bend reality to his whims.

Evren disappears through the doorway that leads to the kitchens, moving with that particular purposefulness that means he’s already planned every detail of our meal.

He has become something of a culinary artist since we started having regular dinners together, taking the same methodical approach to flavour combinations that he brings to his research and strategy.

I step out onto the balcony and survey the hell kingdom stretched out for hundreds of miles all around. The view never gets old, even though I see it every day. The realm spreads in all directions like a sea of organised chaos, beautiful in its harsh perfection.

The city below glitters, a sprawling metropolis of black rock and molten rivers that flow in carefully controlled channels between towering spires.

From up here, it looks like a living constellation, points of light connected by streams of liquid fire.

It’s organised chaos. Orderly, even. Verik is a natural-born king, ruling with a fist of iron wrapped in just enough velvet to keep his subjects loyal rather than merely terrified.

The architecture is stunning from this height - buildings that seem to grow from the rock itself, bridges that span impossible distances, gardens of crystalline formations that catch and reflect the eternal sunset.

It’s alien and familiar at the same time, foreign enough to remind me that I’m not in the mortal realm anymore, but comfortable enough that it feels like home.

Dathan leans against the railing beside me, his silver eyes tracking the flow of demons in the streets far below.

Even at this distance, the movement has a pattern to it - the organised bustle of a functioning society rather than the random chaos I might have expected from a hell realm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Verik’s a good influence,” I say, watching tiny figures move through plazas and markets with purpose and direction. There’s something oddly peaceful about observing the daily life of a realm from this vantage point, seeing the larger patterns that individual moments can’t reveal.

“Or you are,” he counters, nudging my shoulder with his in a gesture that’s become as familiar as breathing. “He’s less likely to incinerate people for minor infractions when you’re around.”

“Only slightly less likely,” I point out, because let’s be honest about Verik’s approach to problem-solving.

He grins, silver scars shifting across his cheek in a pattern that never fails to make me want to trace them with my fingers. “True. So, how’s the void-boy doing?”

“Kael’s fine. We’re working on targeted erasure now.

He unmade a particularly ugly statue in the lower gardens yesterday on purpose.

Progress.” The breakthrough had been significant - moving from accidental reality erasure to controlled, intentional applications.

Blackgrove had actually smiled when I reported it, which was roughly equivalent to anyone else throwing a parade.

“Blackgrove must be thrilled.”

“He’s... content. Which is his version of thrilled.” I lean against the warm stone of the balcony rail, enjoying the way the heat radiates through the rock even as the evening air carries cooler currents from higher altitudes. “He’s already talking about expanding Kael’s research opportunities.”

Evren returns, a tray laden with roasted meat that smells suspiciously delicious, and goblets of the promised wine, balanced perfectly, in his hands.

The plates are arranged with artistic precision, garnishes placed just so, everything perfectly proportioned.

He sets it on the low table that’s become our regular dining spot, his movements economical and precise.

A living man, not a resurrected one. I’ll never get tired of seeing that vitality in his gestures, the way breath moves his chest and colour flushes his skin when he’s focused on something.

He hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that’s both casual and deliberate.

The wine is dark red, almost black, with depths that seem to shimmer when the light hits them just right.

It’s probably worth more than some people make in a year, but Evren has a talent for acquiring impossible things through channels I’ve learned not to ask about too closely.

“To progress,” he says, his ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that means he’s genuinely pleased about something.

We clink our glasses together, the sound sharp and clear in the hot, sulphurous air.

The wine is complex, with layers of flavour that complement rather than fight the hellish atmosphere.

It tastes like dark fruit and expensive secrets, with an undertone of something that might be starlight if starlight had a flavour.

A king, a nightmare, a harbinger, and me. Whatever I am. Home.