Page 27 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charlotte

The following days pass by in a blur, an endless parade of media coverage and seemingly nonstop interviews, until I basically collapse in a heap on Imani’s desk late one night.

The first twenty-four hours after Olivia’s death were the worst. Locked away alone in the penthouse, like a princess trapped in a tower, until the last of the protestors finally dispersed and stopped screaming their hatred at me.

But honestly, I’m not sure which was more exhausting—all the invasive interviews I had today or the loneliness that’s been gripping me.

Lucifer hasn’t been home in several days.

I fiddle with a spare paper clip on my desk, trying hard not to look as miserable as I feel.

This morning when I arrived at Apollyon headquarters, there was an odd sense of comfort in seeing how full my inbox was, even with all the security staff not allowed to be more than five feet from me, but now that I’ve gotten my inbox under control, that familiar feeling of emptiness whenever Lucifer’s away is back again, needling me.

“Go home, Charlotte,” Imani says, sensing I’m well past my limit. “Get some rest.”

I don’t need to be told twice.

When the security team delivers me safely back to the penthouse, a feeling of thickness tightens my throat. I wrap my arms around myself, unable to stand the sight of the empty halls as I wander aimlessly.

Maybe I should text Jax and see if she’s available tonight? Or maybe even strike up a conversation with Ramesh to see how his wife and kids are doing.

Anything to avoid being alone.

I open my text app, reading through all the unanswered messages beneath Jax’s name.

Shit. There’s too many of them.

What kind of lame friend is so busy they unintentionally ghost their bestie?

But as I wander up to our bedroom, typing out a reply, I find a familiar face waiting for me.

“Lucifer,” I exhale. It feels like I can breathe for the first time in days.

“Charlotte.” Lucifer grins, his smirk beckoning me.

I want to drop my phone along with the Dior bag I’m carrying and launch myself into his arms without a second thought. Give in to the relief that fills me. Beg him to do whatever it takes to make me feel whole.

I’m an honest-to-God mess whenever he’s gone.

I’m addicted to him, truly.

But I ... can’t seem to stop the hurt that holds me in place.

I watch him for a long moment, opening and closing my mouth several times. At first, no words form, until I manage a weak, “Where have you been?”

Lucifer quirks his head. “Everywhere, darling.” His eyes narrow as he watches me, the darkness in his gaze intensifying as he clocks all the evidence of how I’m feeling.

My hunched shoulders, the slight press of my lips, the long-pained look I give him before I glance away.

“You’re . . . upset?”

He says it like it’s a curious observation, his attention combing over me as if he legitimately expects to find me injured but doesn’t.

I try not to cast a weak, sad smile at him, at how unsure he seems, but I would never let him know how amusing it is to see him openly confused like this.

To Lucifer’s credit, he must be getting better at reading human emotion, or me at least, because he spends a moment longer looking a bit perplexed before his eyebrows shoot up suddenly. “You’re upset with me ?”

“Hurt, actually. There’s a difference.” I shrink a little. I don’t consider for even a second how risky I’m being by correcting him, or what punishment will be in store for me later.

All I want is for him to see me.

To see how badly I needed him here. With me.

“Is this about the other day?” he asks, stepping carefully toward me. Like if he moves too fast, I might break. Too many people have been treating me that way lately. “Your PR idea or perhaps—”

“The death threat I received?” Time seems to stop, my breath hitching as my heart slows to a pause.

“How you left me alone in the aftermath? Or maybe how you murdered my father without my permission, haven’t given me any more information about what all this fated business means for our relationship, or maybe the over a thousand people you killed? You tell me.”

Lucifer goes still. “I did what I had to do for our future. Even if you can’t see it yet. Every one of those people ,” he sneers, “had a hand in helping plot against you. The bombs at the Met Gala. Your abduction. You think that was the act of a sole individual, who—”

I wince. “I can’t do this with you right now.”

The tension in the room expands until I can’t even tell where it begins and I end. Heat rises in my face.

“She took my choice from me,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

“Charlotte,” he breathes, hesitating before he reaches for me. He captures a lock of my hair, stroking it between his fingers as I turn away from him, and that familiar emptiness creeps back in.

I want so badly to close the distance between us—to be honest, open, and transparent with him, give in to the vulnerability I’m feeling, to voice all my desires and concerns—that I almost step toward him, but after what he said following my father’s funeral, I’m .

.. not certain I can trust it, trust him .

Not any longer.

In the aftermath, you weren’t there, I want to whisper, thinking of all the days that’ve passed since Olivia. You weren’t there for me.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I turn away from him.

But Lucifer snarls, fast and punishing. “You will not turn your back on me. Do I make myself clear?”

I freeze, my breath going shallow before I face him. “Crystal.”

I don’t want to fight with him anymore, but the growing divide between us seems so insurmountable that I can’t begin to see how either of us is ever going to cross it.

Lucifer draws closer to me, prowling like a languid jungle cat until he reaches out and slowly brushes my cheek. The movement is soft at first, tentative, but when I try to turn my head away from him again, he grips the back of my neck, his fingers digging into my skin possessively.

The next thing I know his mouth is on mine, forcing me to kiss him, driving all other thoughts from my head. The feel of his lips is almost too much at first, his touch filled with a hunger that matches my own.

And I can’t stop the relief that fills me.

I missed you, his kiss seems to say.

Followed by, Forgive me?

It’s not an apology. I know better than to expect that. I’m not certain an apology is something he could ever truly mean.

But that he would ask for my forgiveness is the harsh reminder I need.

You’re mine.

Totally. Completely.

A warm tear slides down my face as I soften for him, the need inside me growing until I’m meeting him tongue for tongue, touch for touch, as desperate for him as he is for me. His mouth on mine hardens, turning into something crueler, more tempting.

The energy between us shifts, growing electric and heavy.

Until neither of us can resist.

It’s not his softness I need right now.

I grip his shoulders, my nails digging in.

Suddenly, his hand dips below my skirt. He shoves the crotch of my panties aside as he probes me, my pussy already damp for him. Like the brokenness in him knows exactly how to heal the brokenness in me.

Love made toxic.

“Ah, I see,” he purrs, stroking down the center of my folds in a way that makes me whimper. “This is why you’ve been so poorly behaved lately, hmm? Being late to dinner. Running from your security team. And now? Turning your back on me. You’ve been begging for it.”

I can hardly think through the haze of desire that grips me, all logic and resistance driven from my head as he strokes me, slow and deliberate. “I ... don’t know what you mean. I—”

But Lucifer simply smirks at me, curling his fingers inside me in a close mimic of that beckoning come-hither gesture that seems to summon all my desire.

I melt into his arms instantly, allowing him to hold me upright as he supports my weight.

“When you cannot ask for what you want, why not misbehave? Right, little dove?” He lays a kiss on my neck, one of his fangs nicking me. “A brat-fueled temper tantrum gets my attention all the same, doesn’t it?”

I shake my head, the admonishment clearing the haze. I want to be a good girl for him. I always do, except when I ...

Deliberately try to drive him mad.

“No, sir. I—”

But the dark look he spears me with silences me, making it clear that he’s read me for filth.

And he knows it.

“How many times did you wish for my cock while I was away?” His voice wraps around me, making my pussy practically purr with anticipation. His gaze rakes over me as he wets his lips, drinking me in appreciatively. “How many nights have you touched yourself when I ordered you to be patient for me?”

I freeze, my face and neck growing impossibly hot.

I open my mouth, trying to find some excuse, but I ... don’t answer.

I wish I could be as bold as he expects me to be. To ask for what I want.

But no matter what I do, I can’t seem to make this .

.. this feeling go away. The constant shame that my father created in me.

So, I do the only thing I know how to do.

The one thing I’ve done every night since he first claimed me, broke me in two even as he put me back together again, until he made me forever and irrevocably his, even as he destroyed me completely.

I look up at him, willing the softness in my eyes to say it for me.

Conquer me. Claim me, I plead. Remind me I’m yours.

“Please, sir?” I whisper, my neck and face on fire with shame.

Lucifer smirks wickedly. “In the future, you will ask for what you want, or you will not receive it at all, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I practically keen, my breath hitching as he strokes that spot deep inside me again, the one he knows makes me come undone.

Seconds later, I’m openly panting for him, sliding up and down on his slick, coated fingers until my pussy is a wet, dripping mess.

The dirty little slut only he can make me be.

Lucifer’s responding grin is heavenly, sin and desire all rolled into one.

Already he’s won this round, and we’re only just beginning.

“Go to the playroom and wait in position for me,” he orders, removing his hand from my pussy only to lick his fingers clean. When I don’t immediately move, his eyes darken as he growls, with all the force of an experienced dominant, “ Now , Charlotte.”