Seraphina cradles his face in her delicate hands, her honey-colored eyes swimming with celestial worry. "Are you truly prepared to confront her, Sparky?" The angel's intuition, as always, proves sharp—she senses the turmoil roiling beneath Lucian's carefully constructed facade. The psychological warfare Lilith waged against him took decades to overcome.
"Hell fucking yes," Lucian declares, though I detect a slight tremor in his voice. "I've got you now, Phina-baby. My own personal angel therapist who fixed my broken ass." His signature grin returns, though tinged with genuine emotion. "Ready to go show that psychotic bitch what happens when you mess with a reformed bad boy with his heavenly honey."
Seraphina tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "Okay, but maybe we could, you know, come up with an actual plan first?" Her melodic voice remains gentle as a summer breeze. "Instead of our usual 'run in guns blazing and hope we don't die' approach? Because that's been working outsupergreat for us."
The weeks among us have clearly left their mark on heaven's messenger.
"Holy shit, would you listen to that sass!" Lucian practically bounces with delight. "I've created a monster—a totally adorable, celestial monster. Should I be worried you're gonna smite my ass now, Cupcake?"
"Someone must be the voice of reason among our little family," she counters. "Since you're all ready to charge in like vengeful warriors without divine guidance—"
"A strategy will be devised during transit," I interject, checking my watch. "The journey provides ample time for planning."
Danica
8
Aftera battle royale of trying to force-feed me their witch's brew, the terrible twosome decided to take a more direct approach—jamming a needle in my arm. My muscles scream in protest as Lilith's iron grip pins me to the mattress, her perfectly manicured nails digging crescents into my skin. Morgan looms over me, syringe gleaming menacingly in the dim light. Despite my thrashing and cursing, the needle finds its mark, and liquid fire courses through my veins.
"There we go. That wasn't so terrible, now was it?" Morgan's voice drips with false sweetness as she caps the empty syringe, like she's just given a child their annual flu shot instead of injecting me with their bullshit poison.
"Fuck you. Fuck both of you straight to hell!" The words tear from me, raw and furious. Already the drug seeps through my system like a cold sludge, numbing everything. Leaving me hollow and defenseless. The emptiness where my magic should be aches like a phantom limb.
Fucking witches and their supernatural roofies.
Lilith rises like some twisted Disney villain, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skin-tight dress that looks like Jessica Rabbit went through a goth phase. "Well then, dinner awaits." Those emerald eyes flash with predatory anticipation. "Our guests are getting restless downstairs, and I've wasted enough time playing with the likes ofyou.Come, Ishtar."
Her creepy feathered surveillance camera glides from its perch with silent grace, settling on her shoulder like the world's most judgmental accessory.
She spins on her fuck-me heels and click-clacks towards the door, pausing to toss a final command over her shoulder."Morgan, dress her up. Make her look..."Her lips curl into a cruel smile. "Presentable." The door closes with an ominous click, leaving me alone with Witch Bitch and the sinking realization that 'dinner' probably isn'treferring to a nice pot roast. Something tells me I'm about to star in the world's worst vampire dinner theater, and I'm not going to like my role.
I glare at Morgan. "Let me guess—it's a black-tie affair in the torture dungeon?"
But even as I spit sass like armor, fear claws at my insides. Dinner guests? Lilith's twisted idea of presentable? I have a sinking feeling this isn't going to be a pleasant evening of small talk and canapés.
Morgan's smile spreads across her face like poison, all sugar-coated malice. "Impressive—you'll see."
The second the cuffs click open, I launch into action like a caged animal finally freed. My fist flies toward her face—and then nothing. My body freezes mid-swing, muscles locked in place like I've been turned to stone.
What the hell?
"Cute," Morgan drawls, circling my paralyzed form. "But let's get one thing straight—I can turn you into a living statue with less effort than it takes to blink." She taps my frozen chin with her finger. "So maybe we skip the heroics?"
Ice slides down my spine as the reality of my situation sinks in. This isn't some bargain-basement witch playing at dark magic. The power rolling off her in waves makes my skin crawl—ancient, dangerous, and absolutely lethal. And here I am, powerless as a kitten thanks to their magical cocktail, at the mercy of a witch who can apparently turn people into human mannequins with a thought.
"Mm-hmm," I manage through gritted teeth, because what else can I do? Morgan finally releases me from her magical straitjacket, I massage my wrists, trying to get feeling back into my tingling fingers while my mind races through escape scenarios—each one more impossible than the last.
"Perfect. Time to play dress-up," Morgan chirps like we're having a goddamn slumber party, disappearing into what I assume is the closet from Hell.
I'm left sitting here, my heart beating out of my chest, wondering how the hell I'm going to MacGyver my way out of this one.
After hours with a beauty SWAT team—enough makeup to stock a Sephora and enduring hair-yanking torture sessions—I'm trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in expensive silk. Morgan painted, plucked, and polished every inch of me, probably using products that cost more than my car payment.
Given my recent greatest hits—featuring my brother's attempt at vampire murder—fighting every supernatural on the planet—getting kidnapped by Vampire Barbie, and being drugged into magical submission—I must have looked like something dragged backward through hell's gift shop.
Now I'm being paraded through what has to be Bruce Wayne's evil twin's summer home—if Bruce Wayne was a bloodsucking sociopath with a thing for dramatic real estate. The place is a monument to "fuck you" money, perched on its cliff like a glass and steel predator watching the waves below. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch toward the star-studded sky, framing a view of the ocean that's gone midnight-black, that would be breathtaking if I wasn't, you know, being held hostage.
City lights twinkle in the distance across the water, close enough to taunt me with freedom but too far to offer any hope of rescue.
