Page 132 of Lustling

Raz runs a hand through his long hair, mask slipping back into amusement, though I hear the steel beneath it. “You’ll thank me later. I’m not your meal. I’m your weapon.”

The ache in me throbs. I swallow it down, forcing words past it. “Then tell me how. How do I stop him? I don’t know what I’m doing. They tried to train me, but half my power makes no sense.”

Raziel’s grin fades, replaced by something harder. Older.

“First things first,” he says, tapping his chest. “No more feeding on me. You’ve got a whole bond of demons who’ll happily bleed for you. Use them. That’s what the bond is for.” His eyes narrow. “Stop thinking like prey, little one. You’re not a victim. You’re a force. You burn for a reason.”

The words carve into me, settling deep.

“You’re stronger than Zepharion. Stop doubting. And with the three of them tied to you?” He smirks, sharp and knowing. “You’ll be unstoppable—if you stop being afraid.”

I whisper, “And if I fail?”

His gaze is iron. “Then you die. And Deimos burns the world trying to follow.”

I flinch, but I don’t look away.

Raziel leans closer, voice low, almost tender. “But you won’t. Because when the moment comes, you’ll feel it. That edge between breaking and burning. That’s when you stop holding back. You call on all of them. And you burn him from the inside out.”

The air vibrates with the certainty in his tone.

Then he steps back, satisfied. “Good girl.”

My heart lurches at the words—warm, shameful, wrong—and he sees it. Smirks.

“Oh, you’re going to be trouble. Make sure to remind my brother to bring you around when you settle.”

He flicks his hand. The world shatters like glass.

Light. Power. The throne room slams back into place.

Zepharion’s hands are still wrapped around mine, as if nothing happened at all.

But everything has.

SEVENTY-NINE

The marble beneath my feet gleams like a blade. It reflects the warped hues of the stained-glass dome above, where slivers of blood-red and violet light fall like bruises across the floor. I keep my eyes lowered—not in deference, but in defiance. If I look at him, I’ll flinch. And I will not give Zepharion the satisfaction of flinching.

His voice drones on, sonorous and syrupy, layered with power and the unspoken weight of the crowd watching. It pours through the chamber like oil, thick and suffocating, dripping down the back of my throat until I feel like I’m choking on every syllable. My hands are in his—held not as a lover holds a bride, but as a captor holds a prize. There are no shackles, no chains. Only the binding thread of dark magic pulsing beneath my skin, laced through the ceremonial choker still locked around my throat. His fingers are cool, practiced, steady. Mine tremble faintly, just once, before I tighten my grip to hide the quake.

And then—I hear Deimos.

His voice doesn’t come from the throne room. It cuts through the fog in my mind, slipping through the bond.

“Are you okay?”

That voice is a lifeline. Steady, low, grounding. The bond thrums with it, and my throat catches as I answer silently.

“I met your brother.”

A beat of silence. Then the faintest huff of wry laughter curls through the hollow in my chest.

“We’ll talk about that later.”

I swallow hard, dragging in a shallow breath that does nothing to calm the panic clawing beneath my skin.

“What do I do?”