Page 7

And then Lyra fucking smiled at me.

One small, timid curve of her lips beneath the flickering light of a bonfire, and the plan I'd spent years constructing promptly crawled into a grave and died.

Because I'd made her laugh.

I couldn't even remember what stupid thing I'd said, only the way something briefly returned to those unnatural cerulean eyes.

She’d looked so hollow before that moment, like someone who hadn't merely considered dying but had already decided the world would be better once she did.

And somehow, that small curve of her lips healed something inside of me.

The worst part was that I wanted to do it again.

I wanted another smile. Another laugh. Another glimpse of the woman I'd spent a century convincing myself I hated.

I was fucked.

I'd never intended to Ascend into Astaroth's ridiculous little cult, but suddenly being Riven—a harmless Mortal with no history for her to hate—gave me something Helion never could.

A chance to make her love me again.

Consequences be damned.

Being on the verge of facing those consequences, however, was currently making my asshole clench hard enough to crack a walnut.

Not that I'd admit that.

Lyra's head lolled against my chest, her breathing deep and even, as though I hadn't just stolen her from her wedding and given her several excellent reasons to hate me all over again.

The weight of her in my arms felt right, and the flesh she had mangled with her vicious mouth throbbed delightfully with every step, threatening to make my cock swell.

The Manor of Hells loomed through the thick folds of ash pouring from the darkened sky.

I knew what atrocities were inside, yet I still walked towards it, because with my new plan in play, I needed to save the others before I fixed the Throne of Gods myself.

The Manor was the only structure in the vast, empty landscape.

I’d heard rumours from the bone guards before I left that what had once started as a small fire in the first ring of Hell had now consumed four of them over the last century.

Judging by the ash, the thick smoke that burnt the back of my throat and the lack of demons scurrying around… I’d assumed the curse had worsened just like it had everywhere else.

Cerilla’s dramatic entrance had landed us within comfortable walking distance, much faster than sailing the Dead Sea to get here.

She walked next to me, dark eyes shining with what I could only assume was regret as we trailed behind Edgar.

He was an empty shell. I’d sensed it at Ascension, but being this close to him made it obvious and I couldn’t help the tiny flicker of remorse at forcing him to play the priest.

“We aren’t far,” I reassured Cerilla. “Remember, it will only be a few days until I get you out.”

But it will feel like an eternity.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

We walked in silence until we reached the manor’s front steps, its impossibly white walls gleaming beneath a sky that had forgotten every colour except ash. The manor rose seven immaculate stories above me. But beneath the perfectly detailed architecture…

A shiver unfurled through me, below it lay the Nether.

Immaculate gardens spread before it in perfect symmetry, clipped hedges framing beds of ghost-white roses untouched by the ash drifting endlessly from the sky.