Chapter Thirty-Eight - Mortal Flesh

(Apollo)

Smoke trailed behind him as his feet barely touched the ground. The torches flared violently as he passed, reacting to the magic rolling off him in waves. Shadows chased at his heels like hunting hounds, drawn to their master’s rising fury.

He burst into the hallway leading to his chambers, slowing only when he reached the massive iron door.

He stopped with his hand inches from the handle.

He felt her on the other side—felt her shaking, felt her breath catching, felt her heartbeat stuttering. But it wasn’t lust now. Not entirely.

Something had frightened her. And he hated that more than he’d ever admit.

He pressed his palm to the cold iron. It hummed beneath his touch, sensing the mark, recognizing him.

He didn’t open it. Not yet. He breathed in, steadying himself, forcing control back into his muscles. Forcing his voice to steady. Forcing his heartbeat to calm.

If he walked in there like this—raw, shaking, half-feral—he’d frighten her more.

He leaned his forehead against the door.

“Breathe, Little Flame,” he murmured softly, letting the words travel through the metal, through the air, through the bond. The command slipped into her like warm smoke, smoothing the jagged edges of her panic, slowing each frantic inhale by a fraction.

Her breath steadied. Just barely. He exhaled shakily. He didn’t know why he cared. He didn’t know why her fear tightened something in his chest. He didn’t know why watching her pleasure herself nearly broke him apart.

He only knew one thing: He was losing control. And whatever was awakening inside her—whatever fire stirred in her blood—was going to tear him apart long before it ever crowned her.

He rested one hand over the tattooed mark on his arm. The mark pulsed.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “Damn me. Damn all of this.”

He pushed the door open.

Apollo stepped into the chamber slowly, quietly, as though sound itself might break her. The firelight flickered over his skin, painting his shadow long across the stone floor. He closed the door behind him with a soft thud, the enchantments sealing them in with a low hum. The air shifted as the wards recognised their king and his chosen, thickening, closing in, turning the room into a sealed, private world of heat and shadow.

She lay tangled in the sheets, breathing soft and uneven, sweat drying on her flushed skin. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a dark halo, threaded with moonlight and firelight. The black fur clung to her hips, barely covering anything at all.

Even exhausted, she looked wild. Untamed. His. The bond thrummed in agreement, as if the magic itself approved of the sight.

Apollo swallowed hard. He shouldn’t go closer. He should turn around, lock the door, and leave before he did something he’d regret. Before he touched her again. Before he tasted her again. Before he forgot who the predator was supposed to be in this story.

But the bond pulled him like gravity.

He moved toward the bed before he realized he’d taken a single step.

Her dream still pulsed faintly through the mark. Heat. Fire. Something ancient brushing her subconscious. Something that wasn’t him. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He frowned. “No more nightmares,” he murmured, though he wasn’t entirely sure he had the power to make such a promise. Still, the shadows along the ceiling receded a fraction, as Hell itself paused to listen when he spoke.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped. She didn’t wake.

Her lips parted slightly with a soft exhale. Her brow furrowed. Her fingers twitched beneath the sheets.

Apollo stared at her—too long, too intensely, with a hunger that wasn’t purely physical.

Something twisted in his chest. Something old. Something he thought he’d carved out centuries ago.

He reached out before he could stop himself. His fingers hovered over her face—shaking with restraint, with fear of touching her, with fear of not touching her. He brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting it slide across his fingertips like silk.

Her breath hitched in her sleep. His chest constricted. He let his hand drift lower, tracing the line of her temple, the curve of her jaw, the softness of her cheek. Her skin was warm—far warmer than before. Warmer than a human should be.

The echo of the dream. Or the bond. Or… something else. The heat under her skin felt contained, as if an entire inferno had been carefully tucked into mortal flesh.

He leaned closer, unable to stop himself, drawn by a compulsion deeper than magic. Her scent enveloped him.

It wasn’t just arousal now—though it lingered, faint and maddening. It wasn’t just sweat drying on heated skin. It wasn’t just human softness. There was something else beneath it. Something like embers.  Something like sunlight. Something like fire trapped behind fragile skin.

He inhaled deeply at the hollow of her throat. His eyes fluttered shut. The world fell away. A low, involuntary sound escaped him—half growl, half groan, all hunger.

He dragged in another breath, slower, deeper, letting the scent of her fill his lungs until the ache in his chest sharpened.

He should leave. He knew he should leave. But his body moved before the thought could finish.

Apollo slid onto the bed beside her, the mattress sinking under his weight. The sheets shifted, the firelight catching on the lines of his bare torso as he lay on his side facing her.

The moment he settled, she stirred.

Her hand reached blindly toward the warmth—toward him.

He froze.

She curled into his chest like she’d done it a thousand times, pressing her face against his skin, her breath warm against his sternum. Her thigh brushed his hip. Her fingers fisted lightly in the sheet between them.

She sighed. A soft, peaceful sound. As though she had finally found something safe. The sound slid under his ribs, lodging there like a blade made of light.

Apollo’s entire body went rigid.

His heart slammed against his ribs so violently he wondered if she could feel it. The bond thrummed in response, tightening around them like a silken noose.

He didn’t breathe for several seconds.

Couldn’t.

Then—slowly, cautiously—he exhaled.

His arm moved on its own, sliding around her waist, pulling her an inch closer. Not enough to wake her. Just enough to feel the heat of her skin through the fur and the sheet. His fingers brushed the small of her back. Her body responded instantly, melting into him like liquid heat.

His throat tightened. He didn’t understand this. He didn’t understand her. He didn’t understand why his entire body loosened the moment she touched him in her sleep. Why the fire inside him dulled. Why the rage quieted. Why the hunger twisted into something softer. Something he hated.

Something that terrified him more than losing control.

He lowered his forehead to hers. Their breaths mingled—hers softer, his ragged.

“Little Flame,” he whispered, voice breaking against the words. “What are you doing to me?”

She didn’t answer. She only curled closer.

And for the first time in a thousand years, the Devil lay awake beside someone… and didn’t know if he was more afraid of touching her—or of letting go.