I stilled. “We’re in my father’s castle?”
We were in Hell, like my mom’s prophecy predicted, in the home of a male I’d only met through conversations in my head. A male with an authority complex, a cunning disposition, and little tolerance for my snark.
“The King of Hell is your father?”
I slowly nodded, but couldn’t think about the male who sired me. Not yet. Not after Oliver’s bombshell.
“You’re the Princess of Hell.”
Heavenly Shit.“Yep.”
“How could you have kept that from me?” he accused.
I shot him a dry look.
“Right. Stupid question.”
“A year, Oliver?” Disbelief rang in my tone.
He sighed again. “I know. But I guess Hell’s been having issues. The gates used to open for a few minutes every day, releasing and gaining souls. Now it’s a lot less—if ever.”
“Is it all that bad? What soul wants to end up in Hell?” I muttered.
“Probably no one. But when I kill Marcus, I hope he ends up here.”
“Yeah, I can think of a few people I want to send to Hell too.”
We lay in silence, both lost in our thoughts, when Rune jumped onto the bed. She lay across the pillows and attacked my cheek with her tongue.
“Okay, okay!” I pushed her large head away.
Oliver snorted. “She sure does like you.” Then he sat up. “Oh, fuck-a-duck.”
“What?” I groaned. We didn’t need any other earth-shattering reveals at the moment. I needed to find clothes, my mom, and a loophole to this new cage.
“Rune’s eyes are glowing.”
“So?”
His face scrunched in puzzlement. “So, it has something to do with him—her angel counterpart. I read something about Soulhound bonds years ago. They’re connected somehow, like he can see through her eyes. And maybe more. I don’t remember.”
“And her counterpart is?”
Someone knocked—not on the door wide open to the bedroom, but on another, hidden beyond the wall.
“The oh-so-scrumdiliumcious male who rescued you and lives down the hall from us, and is the?—”
A male walked into the room.
A sinfully hot male—in a slam-you-up-against-a-wall-and-satisfy-all-your-needs kind of way. His black button-up hugged every bulging muscle, sleeves rolled to reveal tattooed arms inked in black that curled into the open V of his shirt and wrappedaround his neck. A clean fade sharpened his dark hair, longer on top, neat at the sides. And when he moved, the gold accents on his sleeves caught the light—mirroring the burn in his golden eyes.
“Him,” Oliver whispered in my ear. “The General of Hell.”
Shit.
The general’s eyes flashed with shadows. Not flame—shadows. What the hellwashe?
He snapped his fingers, and Rune jumped down, placing herself at his side.
