Page 43 of Wicked Believer

Except for the homegrown ones, it seems.

I try to swallow the lump inside my throat. I’d hoped, prayed even, for justice against the people who’d conspired to hurt me, but ...

Not like this.

I sit back down at the breakfast table, my stomach still protesting before I glance at a nearby scone. I should eat. Lucifer would order me to, considering my schedule today extends late into the evening, but the thought of anything even close to food right now repulses me.

All those people. All those people ...

Suddenly, the shadows at the edge of the room bend meaningfully as Lucifer steps forth from the ether, or ... whatever it is he calls it, not far from the table.

With a deafening scrape, he pulls out the chair at the table’s head before abruptly dropping down into it, swaying slightly. Like he might be drunk.

Something about the movement reminds me oddly of a pirate, or Azmodeus actually ...

I haven’t seen him this relaxed in weeks.

He blows out a long breath before he looks at me, grinning.

His hair is an artful mess, similar to how it looks just after we’ve fucked, and his tie is undone and hanging from his neck like he’s at the end of a particularly long day. The scent of smoke, of whisky and brimstone, clings to him along with the sulfur-like smell that lingers on his clothes whenever he returns from Hell. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he hasn’t rested in several days.

Time works differently down in Hell, moves slower, or so he tells me.

He exhales, stretching like a languid jungle cat as he casts a fang-laden grin at me. “Ah, I love the fresh smell of torture in the morning, don’t you?” He grabs the glass pitcher of orange juice on the table, pouring himself a full glass as if it’s the most natural thing in the world before he takes a slow sip. His eyes widen, his brow lifting toward one of the nearby waitstaff in appreciation as he says, “Is this freshly squeezed?”

I blink, slow and deliberate.

I don’t know what comes over me, but the next thing I know, the paper is in my hand and I’m standing.

I slam it down in front of him so hard that the table legs shake and some of the orange juice sloshes onto the glass tabletop.

“Charlotte?” Lucifer lifts a chastising brow, like he isn’t certain what’s gotten into me.

“Tell me this wasn’t you,” I demand, pointing down at the headline. “Tell me this wasn’t you.Please.”

He glances down at the headline, his face expressionless, before he quirks his head at me. He waves off the waitstaff, his voice dropping low. “Would you feel better if I told you it was Azmodeus and Wrath, actually?”

My blood runs cold, my knees feeling weak.

“On your orders?”

His lips press together, his eyes going cold. He doesn’t answer me.

But his silence is answer enough.

I turn, prepared to storm out of the room, but Lucifer catches my hand. “Charlotte,” he says, his voice low in warning.

“I can’t, Lucifer. I can’t—”

“If youmustknow, I’m far more subtle than that.” He sneers down at the paper as if what he sees is beneath him, his voice shifting to the familiar tone he uses when he dominates me. LikeI’mthe one being unreasonable. “Though, naturally, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the sudden influx of souls it’s given me.”

Which isn’t a no.

He’s not denying it then.

I collapse into his lap, suddenly unable to support my own weight.

“Have you eaten?” he asks after he’s allowed me to curl into the fetal position, my head resting defeatedly between his neck and shoulder.