Page 95 of The Devil May Care

Something.

“Let them,” he cuts me off, voice like gravel. His eyes are fixed on the curve of my mouth. “It’s all I can think about anyway.”

Before I can even process what that means, what he just said, the guards round the bend. They skid to a stop the moment they see him.

“Oh shit,” one says quickly, looking away, eyes wide. “Apologies my Lord, we didn’t realize—”

Caz doesn’t speak right away. He angles his body further, subtly adjusting his stance so I’m out of sight, his coat falling around me like a dark curtain. I can feel the thrum of tension in him—controlled but vibrating just beneath the surface. A prince taking his last few moments of pleasure before he deigns to acknowledge the intrusion. I bite my lip to hold back my laugh.

“Leave us. Now,” he says at last, cold and calm, but with a dangerous edge that freezes the air. “You didn’t see anything.”

The guards bow their heads instantly. “Of course, my Lord.”

“And you won’t speak of it,” he adds. “To anyone.”

“No, my Lord,” the other stammers. “We understand, my Lord.”

They hurry away, boots retreating fast down the corridor and I swallow back my snort. Still, Caz doesn’t let go of me. We stand there in silence for a long breath, the adrenaline thrumming between us like a second pulse. The humor is seeping out of my pores, being replaced with heat. My hands are still pressed against his chest. His arm is still around me, shielding me as if I’m something fragile and precious and not already caught in the fire. Finally, I glance up.

“All you can think about?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, but his arm around my waist tightens, and I relax a fraction of an inch into the firm wall of his chest. Because it’s starting to be all I can think about, too. And I can’t afford distractions right now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

They come for me at dawn. No knock. No voice. Just the scrape of steel across stone as the door to my room swings open, revealing a silent, helmeted guard. I nod like I was the expecting them. Like I’ve been up for hours waiting. Like I slept at all. The robe left for me to wear I clutch in my fist; the heavy fabric wrinkled from how tightly I have been gripping it. I pull it over my shoulders as I step into the hallway, the silence presses into me like a second skin. No words. No explanation. Just a nod from the guard and the heavy thud of boot-steps as we begin to walk.

It’s not far. But it feels like miles. The palace is different this morning. Still and reverent, like it’s holding its breath. There are no servants in the halls, no whispers from passing courtiers. Just the occasional flicker of torchlight and the quiet shiver of air that smells faintly of sulfur and smoke.

It reminds me of the funerals I’ve attended. I don’t remember my parents’—my therapist says that’s okay—but I’ve been to enough. The teacher that got cancer my junior year of high school. The great-aunt of my college roommate. I recognize the same hollow hush. Like everyone’s pretending they don’t want to look—at the casket, at the grief, at the truth—but they can’t help it. I wonder if that’s what I am today. A body being walked to rest. Caz can’t tell me anything, but I got the feeling this is the end of it. Right? If I make it through today, it’ll be over. Or at least the Flame stuff.

I rub the back of my neck.

You’re not going to die. That’s what Caz said. Or what he couldn’t say. His eyes told me the rest. They’re not trying to kill me today. Not yet. Humiliation is the first order of business.

The hallway opens to a spiral staircase, carved into the heart of the palace’s obsidian tower. The walls here are older. Cracked and veined with molten gold. I place a hand on the stone as I ascend, half for balance, half for grounding. Each step echoes. behind me from the guards who won’t meet my eyes.

I think of Caz again. Of the way he looked when he told me he couldn’t speak. Like the words were burning to ash in his throat. Disintegrating before he could string them together. I shouldn’t care that he was trying to protect me. I’m not even sure I have any reason to trust him, but I do. Because in all of this—the fire, the chaos, the blood—I started to believe he was a safe place. I didn’t realize I’d built the idea of him like a shelter, but I did and now I have to trust him to hold firm even as howling winds and torrential rain threaten to drown me. Or maybe that’s a bad metaphor. Maybe it’s a wildfire set to consume.

At the top of the stairs there’s a final door. Two guards pull it open and step aside and I see the chamber. The air shifts. Heat rolls out like a breath, curling around my ankles, sliding up my spine. It smells like ash and blood and something older than fire. Older than time. I step forward.

The room is circular. Vast. Cut into the mountain itself, the ceiling domed and glittering with veins of flame-bright ore. The walls ripple like obsidian water, absorbing the torchlight. This Cazwasable to share. The seat of the Flame. A hall for ceremony and prayer and hushed prophecy. At the center, floating above a carved dais, is the Flame itself. Not a torch or a brazier. It’s alive. Twisting and pulsing like a creature with its own heartbeat. Gold and red, yes—but something else, too. Something deeper. I can’t look away, my eyes pulled to its depth like a magnet to true north, a moth to the light. It hums. It sees. I swallow.

Gilded balconies ring the edges of the chamber. It reminds me of a theatre, but circular. Figures in robes fill them. Daemari nobles, maybe. Elders. A few contenders. The Rite itself is open to all who wish to view it. I wonder if today is the same. And above them all—on a high platform—him.

The Asmodeus. Seated like a king with too little feeling. Gold drips from his cuffs. Shadows curl around his shoulders like a living cloak. His eyes scan the room, sharp and hungry. Watching. Caziel sits beside him. The Ember Heir is darkly beautiful. Still. Silent. His expression carved from obsidian. But his hands—his hands clenched, knuckles pulled white over bone.

He sees me. And for a moment, I forget to breathe. Forget the Flame, the Rite, the other contenders, I feel the pull toward him and him alone. I sway his direction before I catch myself. He shifts in his seat, was that a shake of his head? Does he feel the pull too?

I square my shoulders. This is ridiculous. He’s just a guy. A stoic, ornery, Demon guy. A walking red—or at least gray—flag. And sure, he’s tall and brooding. Thick dark hair with the perfect wave. Stormy eyes that see too much. And I’ve known him for however long I’ve been here. He’s been nice, sure. Or courteous maybe. He is on my side—he brought me George, was outraged at the thought of me hurt for some Crimson Olympics—but do I truly know him? Do I truly trust him?

Yes. I shake my head against my inner voice. She’s a little needy and has attachment issues. It’s not her fault that she’s all-in on the fire daddy. I’ll just gag her for the time being. Whatever happens, I’ll walk forward. I’ll stand before the flame. I’ll play their game. And if I burn—I’ll do it on my feet.

The chamber is so quiet I can hear the drip of molten stone somewhere behind me. The floor pulses with heat, but the air is thin and still. Everyone is watching. Waiting.

One by one each contender is called forward. Their names echo in the chamber. I can’t see someone reading them, but at least it isn’t the crushing voice in my skull. I’m the only one left when my name is called. The first part. Just Kay.

I step forward.