Page 99 of The Devil May Care

I’m not dead.

I’m not in the Flame Chamber.

I’m not in my own room.

And the air smells like spice and ash and something herbal—like soap, or fresh cloth, or—Someone’s been here. My eyes track slowly across the room. There’s a tray on the low table—half a cup of tea, a bit of bread, untouched. The hearth burns steady in the corner, casting shadows across familiar stone walls. I’m still in the palace. Still… me. Sort of. I breathe in again and feel it stir. The mark. It doesn’t hurt. But it’s there, Alive, and that’s when I hear the sound. A soft, pointed littlemrrowfrom somewhere nearby.

I blink. “George?”

Another soft grumble answers me, followed by a louder purr. It’s one I know by heart. Low, steady, and deeply self-satisfied. I shift, slowly, wincing as my spine stretches and my muscles protest. My neck turns toward the hearth. He’s there, and he’s not alone.

Caziel sits in the armchair beside the fire, one long leg folded under him, the other braced against the floor like he hasn’t moved in hours. His tunic is rumpled at the collar, his hair slightly disordered, and there’s a shadow of something like exhaustion clinging to the corners of his eyes. And George, my traitorous, beautiful disaster of a cat, sits curled in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Caziel is feeding him by hand. Small bits of dried meat, held delicately between two fingers. George swats at the air when he’s too slow.

I stare.

“I think I might still be hallucinating,” I rasp.

Caziel looks up sharply. And just like that, all the tension in him breaks.

“You’re awake.”

“Apparently.”

George meows again, trying to climb the man like a scratching post. The Ember Heir lets him, letting out a soft sound that might actually be a chuckle.

“I tried to make him stay in your quarters, but he wasn’t having it,” he says. “Slipped out. Showed up at my door an hour after I brought you here and refused to leave.”

“Of course he did,” I whisper. My throat stings.

“He’s eaten better than I have the last two moons.” He strokes his hand down the back of my orange menace. His skin shimmers in the light, the edges of his fingers blurring like bad AI. Either the Flame messed up my vision, or his glamor is on the fritz, but I swear I see long dark claw-like nails tipping the end of each hand. I blink and they’re back to regular, blunt-edged fingers. “You slept like someone had cut the cord between your soul and your body.”

“Certainly felt that way.”

Caziel carefully lifts George off his lap, despite the cat’s very vocalobjections, and rises. His movements are slow, careful, like he’s still afraid that I, or the moment, will shatter if he makes the wrong move. He stops in front of me. Almost close enough for his knees to brush the edge of the mattress. I consider shifting, making room for her to sit. To join me.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d wake. Sarai came often. Changed your clothes. Bathed you. Kept the fire going.”

“And you?” I ask. I don’t know why I ask. This is clearlyhisroom. Some part of me knew it the moment I opened my eyes, but if he was going to leave me alone, why bring me here? He hesitates, glancing away almost embarrassed. Is that pink climbing his cheeks? I must have said or did something while half out of it, but that’snotmy fault. Blame the Flame thing. I certainly will.

Did I talk in my sleep? Mention his shiny Clark Kent waves? Ask him to eat me out? Curse his bloodline and his stupid Rite and stupid fucking Flame?

“Nothing like that,” he says, his form flickers again, pointed tips on his ears, then the soft curve of cartilage is back. “But the prudent thing to do is not to stay uninvited in the rooms of unconscious young ladies. I apologize for the lack of privacy. I couldn’t bring myself to…”

He lets the words trail off and I stare at him, suddenly unsure what to say. Because what I heard is what he held back. Not the matter of my honor, or the outdated notion of chaperones—honestly, it’s kind of cute—but that he was here. He thinks I’ll be upset that he didn’t leave. I always thought of Hell as an orgy of iniquity, but Caz’ concern was my honor. Because he stayed.He stayed while I slept like the dead, burned out and branded, with nothing to offer except a barely functioning heartbeat and a cat with an attitude problem.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I murmur. My voice is ravaged. Choked by emotion. “I— thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,Sæl.”His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not for this.”

The way he says it—quiet and plain—hits harder than it should. There’s no dramatics in it. No performative softness. Just truth, stripped bare. I reach for the cup on the tray nearby. Lukewarm now, but I sip it anyway. Bitter and sharp. I force down another swallow before setting it aside.

“You said Sarai changed my clothes,” I say, glancing down at thetunic I’m wearing. It’s clean, soft, a little too big in the shoulders. It’s definitely not mine.

“She dressed you,” he says, almost seeming to sway toward me. “I…turned my back.” There’s a beat. Then he adds, “I made a vow to stay that way until she left.”

An inexplicable bolt of heat ricochets through my body. This time I can’t blame the Flame, or the brand, or whatever it is. I press my thighs together trying to relieve the ache. It must be adrenaline or some unknown side effect to being marked. He’s attractive, he’s kind even if he’s not nice, but I shouldn’t be picturing him pressing me down into his sinfully comfortable bed and pushing this tunic up over my hips. Not when I was literally in a mini coma for the past however long I was out.

It has to be proximity; this weird crush I have on the Demon prince is inconvenient and growing. Lust and attraction fueled by life-or-death stakes like wartime romances. I swallow hard.