Page 20 of Unholy Bond (The Corruption of Evelyn Adams #2)

I did not waste time hating the dress. Hate was energy, and there were more worthy causes for it.

The dress would be a tool, an emblem, a costume for tonight’s performance.

I slid the slip of pink polyester to settle over my skin.

It hit mid-thigh and clung to my ribs in a way that left nothing to the imagination, which was Lucifer’s point.

He wanted the world to know he could make the Mother of Monsters into a cupcake.

The lace trim of the dress itched even where it didn’t touch skin.

The pink made my hair look yellow, my skin sickly, my lips a slash of accidental red.

I practiced my smile until the edges of my mouth wanted to split.

At first, I tried a subtle, demure upturn.

False. I layered on a bashful giggle, the look that said, “I was just happy to be here, Daddy ”.

Worse. I tested every variant I’d ever seen on a desperate woman, from big-eyed adoration to the submissive downward gaze, and none of them fit.

What did work was the smile that cost something. The one that stretched too wide and let the madness shine through just a little. I locked it in place, counted to five, and then, showtime.

The halls of the palace were already hot with expectation.

The air reeked of copper, perfume, and the faint sweetness of formaldehyde.

Every surface had been buffed to a shine, every corridor lined with draping velvet the color of dried scabs.

I kept my steps measured, toes pointed, shoulders back.

I passed a window and caught my reflection in the black glass: a lollipop in a haunted house.

At the end of the corridor, two of my children waited, each dressed in uniforms that flattered their grotesque features.

The first bowed deeply and presented an arm.

I took it, ignoring the bristle of carapace through the fabric.

The second, a pale girl with eyes like wet marbles, clutched a bottle of wine with both hands and trailed behind us.

They shepherded me through the main rotunda, past a row of headless statues, and into the dining hall.

Lucifer had gone for baroque. The table stretched the entire length of the room, carved from a single plank of something that looked like petrified whale bone.

Every place setting shimmered with black glass and silver cutlery.

The candelabras overhead dripped molten wax onto the backs of the lesser demons tasked with holding them aloft, and the flames burned a lurid green.

The effect was oppressive, theatrical, and somehow almost funny.

Lucifer waited at the head of the table, wearing a suit so perfectly tailored it might have been grown on his body. He stood as I approached, the heat from his gaze a physical force. He looked at the dress, then at my face, and then at the wine.

“Beautiful,” he announced, with the warmth of a glacier calving. “Sit.”

It took all of my control not to roll my eyes or lash out to him as I sat on the chair to his right. The spidery demon filled my glass to the brim, then disappeared. The pale girl poured for Lucifer, the bottle trembled once—our code—then stilled. She retreated to the shadows.

Lucifer raised his glass. “To your compliance. Long may it last.”

He didn’t drink. “Stand,” he murmured into the pause, the word a leash. “Spin. Smile.”

Applause snapped into place—thin and obedient—as I turned.

He drank then and I matched him as I sat down, draining half the glass in one swallow. The wine hit the back of my throat like a knife. I almost choked but swallowed the burn and set the glass down with a steady hand.

Lucifer bared his teeth at me, showing the full array. “You never could hold your liquor.”

“I learn,” I said, keeping my gaze soft.

He waved a hand, and the rest of the guests trickled in.

Most were his, the spawn of his more recent conquests: demons with skin the color of tarnished brass, or tails tipped with syringes, or faces made for mugshots.

They each bowed as they passed, but none dared meet my eyes.

I scanned them, counting at least thirty, each more dangerous than the last.

The meal began. Platters arrived, stacked high with meats still twitching, fruits that bled juice the color of arterial spray, and breads with crusts so black they shimmered.

Lucifer never ate at first; he liked to watch me pick at the food, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.

I obliged, slicing a steak into tiny morsels and chewing with deliberate slowness.

I could see, in the corner of my eye, his fingers tapping a staccato on the table.

The first test came with the soup course.

The bowl steamed with a smell like burnt ozone and root vegetables.

I cupped my hands around it, letting the heat soften the skin of my palms, and traced a tiny sigil on the rim with the tip of my nail.

Just a taste of the Void, a sliver of black to see if the wards would react.

Nothing. The soup’s surface quivered, but the color stayed true.

I risked a glance at Lucifer, who seemed more interested in the cutlery than the contents of my bowl.

I upped the ante with the wine. As I refilled my glass, I whispered a fragment of the old tongue under my breath, nudging the liquid to swirl counterclockwise.

The wine obeyed, forming a tiny whirlpool before settling.

Still no reaction from him, but a ripple passed through the demons at the table.

I caught the eye of a brass-skinned one near the end and saw a twitch of fear.

I smiled at him, just a little, and watched as he spilled wine down his front.

The green leaned a shade colder. Ink seemed to thread the bone—there, then not. The talk thinned and the skin that made up the wards inhaled. I kept the count, pulse to pulse, letting the room teach me its cycle; by the next sway of the flame I had it: sixty-six.

And then a pause.

“Parlor tricks,” said Lucifer, interrupting my thoughts.

A wet ring haloed my glass. I dragged one bead with my nail until it kissed a hairline fissure beneath the table; cold leapt up my finger, clean and bright. I let it numb my fingertip and kept smiling.

Lucifer leaned over, voice pitched low for my ears alone. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“You throw an excellent party,” I replied. “It would be rude not to.”

He laughed, and the sound sucked the warmth out of the room. “You always were a quick study. That’s why I kept you around, even after the betrayal.”

I dipped my bread in the soup, chewing carefully. “You don’t believe in forgiveness.”

He shrugged, a ripple of muscle under the suit. “Forgiveness is for mortals. I believe in incentives. You behave, you get a reward. You rebel, you get reminded of your place.”

I looked at him, wide-eyed and perfectly blank. “And if I do both?”

The sharp curve of his lips could be called a smile, if you were generous. “Then you’re truly mine.”

The palace purred, only for me.

The hand came down on my thigh at the start of the second course, a weight that squeezed just enough to bruise but not enough to leave marks for the crowd.

I flinched, only because it was expected.

He wanted me to react, to test the limits of my docility.

I let him slide his hand higher, the claws just grazing the hem of my dress.

My skin prickled, the nerves raw and over sensitized.

I forced myself to take another bite, ignoring the pressure.

Lucifer turned his attention back to the table.

“I want to thank you all for your service,” he said, voice booming over the chatter.

“We are entering a new era. The world above is fractured, and soon, we will take our place as its only constant. I expect loyalty. I demand it. Those who doubt will be replaced.” He let the words hang, then squeezed my thigh a little harder. “There are no second chances.”

I looked down at the table, then back up, adopting my best look of dumb devotion. “Of course, my lord.”

He laughed, squeezing my thigh again, fingers moving in small, rhythmic circles.

My body responded in all the humiliating ways.

Heat pooling between my legs, a flush crawling up my throat.

But above the noise of my body, my mind was silent and surgical, cataloging every touch, every gesture, every gleam of emotion on his face.

I let my hand drift to his under the table, resting lightly on the back of his wrist. I kept my nails retracted, soft and compliant.

His thumb stroked the inside of my thigh, then pressed hard, as if daring me to object.

I let a black vein pulse up my temple, just once, a warning to the Void not to jump the gun. The power inside me surged, eager, but I forced it down with the force of memory and spite.

Even with all that effort, his pulse hiccupped under my palm. One beat gone thin, then righted. The sigil stitched at his cuff blinked a fraction out of time and steadied. I widened my eyes like a good girl and reached for my wine.

The conversation at the table drifted to battles won, tortures administered, new punishments invented.

The demons traded stories like office gossip, but behind every anecdote was a layer of threat.

I giggled at the right moments, even offered a story or two of my own, nothing too revealing, just enough to keep the guests unsure of where I stood.

Every so often, I traced another sigil on the glass, or on my thigh, letting the Void out in infinitesimal increments. No alarms. No pushback.