Page 33 of The Simurgh

That perhaps he had deserved that violent lesson.

That perhaps…he was not so different from his abuser.

Rather, had notbeenso different from his abuser. Now, Pitch felt a thousand worlds away from that creature who had shuddered beneath the Alp.

He redoubled his attentions on his binds. Straining against them. The single raven was joined by more of his brethren. The cackles and caws were like ugly laughter. Mocking the daemon who imagined escaping.

‘Well, you’d be surprised what I’m capable of, you pissy lice-infested rats.’

As he struggled, his heels grazed the stonework. There was a ridging there, an unevenness he’d wager his balls were sigils carved into his stony mattress. It took every ounce of self-control not to call for Scarlet. The wisp’s absence as loud as their presence.

There came a soft hush from elsewhere in the room, the sense of the space being filled. Pitch winced, his skin prickling.

A dazzling champagne-yellow light spread through the chamber, creeping up the walls and stretching across the ceiling. Thin veins of forest green hinted through the light, as the Archangel’s aura claimed the room.

‘I trust you are well rested, your highness?’

Gabriel stood at his head and leaned over him, giving Pitch an upside-down view of his grossly false smile.

‘Very well rested, thank you,’ Pitch returned. ‘I had no idea how much I needed that nap. Very generous of you to provide the means.’

‘The least I could do.’

‘True, true.’ Pitch frowned. ‘I picked you for blue, the eyes I mean. That brown does you no favours.’

The angel’s wretched smile crept higher. ‘They are hazel.’

‘They are ugly.’

‘Shall I pick out your eyes so you shan’t be disturbed by mine, then?’

Pitch pursed his lips and frowned. ‘I suppose that might solve the issue, yes. That would be most kind of you.’

He did not see Gabriel move. Now he pressed his hand to Pitch’s chest, his hues shifting from yellow to the deceptively gentle shade of a spring sky.

The angel closed his eyes and whispered his magick.

Pitch felt each word flow from Gabriel’s palm and move through him, like a butterfly’s wings touching at his ribs, playing at his throat. An unwelcome touch beneath his skin.

It spilled strongest of all into his belly, circling there like hawks over a kill. The dull ache there surfacing, growing sharper.

Pitch tensed, ready for– a fight? A greater wave of pain?

Nothing came.

Gabriel’s eyes opened, bright with annoyance, a hint of flame, and, much more welcome, confusion. He dug in his fingernails, venting his frustrations on Pitch’s body. The sensation was oddly distant, and did not pinch half so much as Gabriel’s grim-set jaw and fierce expression might suggest.

‘Something wrong, dear?’ Pitch said.

Truly, he should shut up, but the opportunity was more golden than those damned magickal apples the UnSeelie Court purported to own.

He had no one but himself to blame when Gabriel dug in harder. No one else to blame when the Archangel’s nails broke skin. Pitch watched his blood run in slippery rivulets that spread like crimson fingers down his chest and into the hollow of his empty belly, finding paths in the scars left by Iblis and Azazel’s interrogation. But he couldfeelso little of the wounds, next to nothing of the discomfort they should bring. It struck him as odd, of course, but rather fucking fantastic.

Still, no point letting the angel know his torments were bearable.

Pitch threw back his head, pressing his lips tight, making a good show of being in terrible pain.

Gabriel muttered some rather unholy things beneath his breath and withdrew his hand, flicking it to be rid of the blood. He shifted to stand at Pitch’s side. The angel wore a flowing robe of pristine white, a stunning contrast to his olive skin, It was embroidered with intricate gold needlework, and pinched in to accentuate the narrowness of his waist. His onyx hair was lifted, gathered in a loose bun near the crown of his head, revealing the elegant length of his neck.