Page 82 of Lustling

Deimos is unraveling.

I see it in the sharp, restless movements as he paces across the room, in the twitch of his fingers, the way his jaw grinds until I half expect the bone to splinter. His energy burns through the air, thick and volatile, a storm of static that makes the walls feel too close, too alive. It’s the kind of tension that makes lesser demons drop their eyes, makes them retreat to the shadows rather than risk catching the full brunt of his fury.

But I am not lesser.

So I watch. Sprawled out on the couch, a predator at rest, my body loose, my mind honed to a blade’s edge. Letting him wear himself thin, knowing exactly where this will lead. He doesn’t see it yet. He never does. But I do.

Deimos needs grounding. A tether. A hand to drag him out of the chaos in his skull and force him back into flesh, into sensation, into obedience.

And I’m more than willing to provide.

“You’re fucking twitchy,” I say, stretching my arms behind my head, every word deliberate.

His glare snaps to me, golden eyes sparking. “She’s unprotected.”

I snort, unbothered. “She has Cassiel.”

His jaw ticks. “That’s what worries me.”

Ah. There it is—the fracture line beneath his rage.

It isn’t just that Lillien is gone. It’s that she’s gone withhim. With Cassiel. And no matter how carefully Deimos pretends otherwise, he hasn’t forgiven that betrayal—the offer to give her up, to hand her over like some pawn on a board. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

I roll my neck, exhaling through my nose. “You know she can take care of herself.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps pacing, restless, twitching, gnawing on his own fury. A wild animal in a too-small cage. And I know what he needs before he can put a name to it. So I give it to him.

“Deimos.”

My voice cuts through the air, low and firm. A command wrapped in quiet amusement, sharp enough to snag.

He stills for a moment before he turns. Golden eyes locking on violet.

“Come here.”

I catch the hesitation in him—the half-beat of resistance—but it’s weak. A dying flame.

I smirk. “Don’t make me come to you, little incubus.”

And that does it. The shift happens all at once—the weight of dominance falling where it belongs. He exhales sharply and stalks toward me, shoulders squared, already knowing what this is, what I am doing.

Taking over. Taking the reins. Taking him.

I sit forward slowly, rolling my shoulders, savoring the moment. “Undress.”

This time he obeys without question. His shirt drops to the floor, followed by the soft thud of his sweats. His skin gleams with a faint sheen, his scars catching the low light. I strip withless urgency, my movements steady, calculated. I want him to feel every second of this surrender.

Because Deimos can’t admit he needs it—needs someone else to bear the weight, even if only for a moment. But I know. And he knows I know.

I rise from the couch, looming over him. “Kneel.”

The word falls, and he obeys—bracing himself against the back of the couch, back arched, exposed. His cock already hard, straining, desperate.

I waste no time. My hands clamp to his hips, fingers digging hard enough to leave marks, and I press my cock against him. He’s slick already, his incubus nature betraying his need, letting me push forward and sink into him inch by inch. A groan tears from my throat as the tight heat drags me under.

Deimos hisses, sharp and guttural. “Fuck.”