“Such a messy, desperate boy. You want to cum again?”
He only whimpers in response.
“You want me to stop?”
“NO,” he cries out, and my lips part in a wide grin.
“Goodfuckingboy.” His body convulses at my growled praise, and then he’s clenching around my cock, driving me overthe edge of my own orgasm. I bury myself deep, grinding my pelvis against his ass as I pump him full of cum until my cock softens. Pulling out, I spread his ass cheeks to watch my cum rip from his swollen, pulsing hole and his cum leak from his spent cock.
His wrists aren’t too badly marked from my tie, but still I rub the deep indentations where he strained against the restraints. His muscles quiver under my palms, first his ass and then his back, and I pay extra attention to the marks left by my belt earlier.
“Color?” I ask, but he just moans, lost in subspace. Carefully, I put his arm around my shoulders and help him to the bathroom, where I heave him into the tub and start running him hot bath. He tilts his head back, eyes closed, and spreads his arms along the back of the tub. While that fills, I go to the living room and retrieve his blunt, slipping it between his fingers as I finish off my glass.
“What do you think?”
“Of?” he responds, turning towards me with one eye barely open.
“Her.”
He exhales slowly, filling the air with the sweet, musty smoke of whatever concoction Killian’s worked up recently. “My demon wants her.”
“And you?”
“I don’t want to want her,” he quietly admits.
“Luther?”
He scoffs. “He won’t even admit that he wants her.” I hum in agreement, recalling how he stalked off rather than rise to Killian’s taunting. And we both know how Killian feels already. “What about you? You think she’s a threat?”
I don’t immediately respond. The witchling, if that’s what she truly is, has no magic. No family. Nothing to her name and noone to catch her when she falls. But those with nothing to lose are often the most unpredictable.
“Not yet.” But that doesn’t quiet the urge to keep the little bird in a cage until I can figure out what to do with her. Or why we all seem to be affected by her, in one way or another.
When Thane is ready, I help him walk on unsteady feet back to his room where I leave him with water and his blunt, but he’s asleep the instant his head hits the pillow. I close his door behind me and return to the living room, cleaning up the evidence of our scene and refilling my glass once more before settling into my chair by the warmth of the fire. Unfortunately, my mind refuses to settle as the realities of tomorrow’s responsibilities resurface.
A tugging in my chest grabs my attention when the hearth crackles and sparks. Xaphan exits a moment later, his black coat glowing like the coals of a dying fire. He nudges my hand with his snout, demanding pets.
“Welcome back,” I murmur, ruffling the coarse, charred hair between his ears. His monstrous wolf-like form settles beside my chair and he lowers his head to rest between his paws. So few hellhounds are ever observed outside of Hell, making his presence as much a marvel as my own ability to bond with a familiar in the first place. While most demonic families try to add witch blood to their bloodlines to increase the likelihood of wielding primordial magic, both lines of my family have been conducting their own breeding experiments for centuries. All in the pursuit of the perfect, equal mixture of elemental, sinful, and primordial magic.
I am Ignis.
I am Wrath.
And the last trueborn son of Lilith.
I am exactly what they made me to be.
I exit the portal into the familiar foyer of our family estate, a gothic monstrosity hidden in the depths of the Hudson River Valley built in the late 1700s by my ancestors, searching for new lands and people to conquer.
They found plenty of both.
The plush rug muffles my footsteps as I walk past the large, stained glass windows that line the marble hallways. The Hunter’s Moon illuminates the dark corners like a searchlight, determined to ferret out the secrets hidden in shadow, buried beneath so many bones.
A maid scurries up the stairs when she catches sight of me, no doubt to notify my father of my arrival. My mother will undoubtedly appear at some point like a wraith from the darkness at the scent of its prey. The only question is how long she’ll try to play with her food.
Each step up the spiral wooden staircase feels heavier than the last, until at last I reach the third floor to find the maid waiting for me in front of the heavy wooden doors of my father’s study. She curtsies and opens the door, shutting it behind me with the finality of a prisoner being led to his execution.
My father faces the large hearth with his hands behind his back, a blazing fire warming the large space. Despite my mother holding the title of matriarch of House Ignis, Renard Kovacs is equally enthralled by the element. It suits him, as the patriarch of Wrath. Fire can be indiscriminate in its devastation, fueled by the pain it causes as it devours everything in its path. It’sthe perfect weapon for someone who seeks only to destroy and dance on the ashes and ruins left behind.
