Page 109 of Lustling

“She’s not just any woman,” I snap, my voice steel. “She’s mine.”

Lucifer’s smile cuts sharper. “You left Hell. Left me. Left your blood and crown. And now you crawl back… for a succubus.”

“She’s my mate.”

“And you bring your trembling choir boy and your chained beast.” His gaze slants toward Bastion, whose jaw is a stone.

Lucifer rises. Slowly. Shadows peel back from him. The throne pulses behind him, alive, beating. The air scorches with his power. My skin prickles with old instincts, clawing at my bones.

“You walked away from your birthright,” he says, voice a blade of silk. “From your blood. From me.”

“I found something better.”

“Love?” he sneers.

“Loyalty,” I growl. “And yes. Love.”

He circles closer, wings ghosting the air. “Then you’re a fool. And you’ll burn with her.”

“I’d burnforher.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrow, gold flames catching in the black. “Then I hope she’s worth the ash.”

We lock eyes. No throne. No crown. Just war waiting to bleed.

Then he sighs, already bored. “You want her back? Then take her. Earn her. Survive what Zepharion has become. He’s stronger than you think. I do not let weak demons become Wardens of Hell.”

“I will.”

“You’ll need allies. Strength you don’t yet have.” His gaze flicks to Cassiel, still shaking. His lips curve. “And perhaps a way to keep your warriors from spilling their cum in their pants like a adolescent boy.”

Cassiel glares through the shame, defiant.

Lucifer laughs softly, cruel and cold. “Then let the games begin.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

The food tastes like nothing. I chew. I swallow. I pretend.

Across the table, Zepharion holds court with two of his generals, droning on about troop movements and allegiances that mean less than ash to me. All I can feel is the hollow ache in my bones, the way hunger gnaws its claws up my throat, stretching me thin and brittle.

I sit rigid in my gilded chair, fork to plate, eyes lowered. A picture of composure. A mask stretched over a scream.

And then?—

A flicker. A tug.

So soft I almost miss it. Like breath on my chest. Like fingers brushing the edges of a dream.

Cassiel.

My hand freezes. My spine locks. My breath snags, sharp and panicked. For one wild moment, the fire in my blood surges—not from hunger, but from hope.

“My Temptress.”His voice slips through my mind like silk over flame.“Can you hear me?”

The fork nearly falls from my hand. My chest tightens—pain, need, joy all strangling together in one brutal knot. I can’t lookup. I can’t react. I stare at the meat on my plate like it matters, features schooled, breath shallow.

“I’m here,”I whisper inside.“I feel you.”