Chapter Thirty-Six - Daughter of Fire

(Adelaide)

She threw herself backward onto the bed, dragging the fur up to her chin like she was trying to bury herself alive. The sheets whispered against her thighs, and she clenched them together, furious at the flare of heat that spiked through her. The bond pulsed faintly, and she swore she could feel him—far away somewhere in the palace—breathing a little faster. The awareness slithered through her like a thread of molten metal, a constant reminder that somewhere in this labyrinth of fire and bone, the Devil’s heartbeat tilted in answer to hers.

She hated that she could feel him at all.

Her heart thudded painfully. This is wrong. This is all wrong. You hate him. He dragged you to Hell. He hunted you. He marked you. He stole you.

And yet…

Her body was still warm, still flushed, still tingling from the release she had given herself. Her thighs still trembled. Her nipples still strained against the air. Her lips still ached from his kiss.

She hated him. She hated herself more.

Humiliation crashed over her in a suffocating wave.

He had watched her. He had heard her. He had touched himself to her. He had climaxed to her. And then he had— She swallowed hard, heat rising up her throat.

She wanted to be sick. She wanted to scream. She wanted—to her horror—more.

The betrayal of her own body made tears prick her eyes.

Her thighs pressed together involuntarily at the memory of his voice, the hunger in his eyes, the taste he’d left on her lips.

Her breath trembled. “Stop,” she whispered into the empty room, curling tighter into the fur. “Just stop.”

She tried to scrub the taste from her mouth with the edge of the fur— rubbed until her lips stung— but nothing helped.

If anything, the friction only deepened the heat inside her. A low ache pulsed between her legs, traitorous and insistent. Her skin buzzed. Her nipples tightened painfully. She hated it. Hated herself for it.

He had violated her privacy. Humiliated her. Claimed her space. Her body’s reactions should have been revulsion.

Instead… it burned.

The firelight on the walls flickered, casting long, twisting shadows that danced across the cracked black stone. Each crack glowed faintly red, as if molten heat lived just beneath the surface. The shadows stretched into shapes that almost looked like reaching hands and curling horns, then snapped back when she blinked, like the room itself was watching and pretending innocence.

Her breath slowed. Not calm—never calm here—but less frantic. Less panicked. More… raw.

She stared up at the ceiling—dark stone etched with twisting patterns she couldn’t decipher—and tried to swallow the knot in her throat. The designs looked almost like constellations inverted, stars carved in obsidian and filled with ember light, a sky turned inside out and nailed above a bed in Hell.

Why had he watched her?

She knew the obvious answer. Because he was cruel. Because he liked control. Because he thought she belonged to him.

But there had been something else in his eyes when he stepped out of the shadows. Something… hungry.

Wild. Tortured.

Like watching her had hurt him. Like leaving had hurt him more.

Adelaide groaned and pressed both palms to her face, willing her thoughts to shut up for one moment.

She didn’t owe him anything. She didn’t owe him understanding. She didn’t owe him compassion.

She especially didn’t owe him curiosity. And yet the questions crawled under her skin like a hive of insects.

How long had he been there? What had he felt through the bond? Had he always been capable of restraint like that? Why did the thought of him losing control…

Her breath caught sharply as heat pooled in her stomach again.

“Absolutely not,” she hissed at herself, furious. “No. No more of that. Not tonight.”

She rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball beneath the fur. The pillow smelled faintly of smoke. Faintly of him. She shoved it away but the scent clung to her hair, her skin, the sheets.

Her thighs pressed together again.

She groaned in frustration and slapped the mattress. “STOP.”

The air vibrated softly. Her head jerked up. Her heart jumped into her throat. Had that been her imagination?

The palace walls always hummed with the heat and magic of Hell, but this felt different. Like a whisper. A ripple. A pulse that wasn’t hers. As if the realm itself had flinched, as if her command had brushed against some old, listening power in the stone.

Her breath hitched.

“Apollo?” she whispered into the dim.

Silence.

But the bond thrummed faintly—farther away than before, but awake. Aware. Watching.

She trembled. She hated that she felt safer knowing he was awake. She hated even more that the thought of him returning made her stomach flip.

She forced her breathing to slow. She forced her mind to quiet. She forced herself to lie still, eyes fixed on the firelight dancing across the far wall.

Exhaustion crept in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable. Her body ached. Her mind spun. Her heart burned. The fur was hot and heavy over her skin, but she needed it, needed anything that felt like protection—even if it was a lie.

Her eyes drifted shut. And sleep dragged her under like a riptide.

She dreamed immediately.

Not of the forest. Not of her village. Not of Apollo’s throne or his shadows or the bite on her neck.

She dreamed of fire.

Endless, swirling, raging fire—beautiful and terrifying, a storm of gold and red and white-hot heat. Flames curled like ribbons around her feet, licking up her legs, not burning, not harming, but welcoming. Embracing. They traced the shapes of sigils along her skin, symbols she didn’t know but somehow recognized, as if she’d been born with them written in her bones.

She breathed in smoke—and it felt like breath itself.

Then the fire parted. A woman stepped through it.

Adelaide’s heart stopped.

She was the most beautiful thing Adelaide had ever seen. Tall. Ageless. Her skin shimmered like polished bronze heated from within. Her dress was made of flame itself, curling around her hips and thighs in patterns that seemed familiar—too familiar. Flaming red hair cascaded down her back in a river of flame that sparked with every movement. Eyes golden and burning—ancient, knowing, unbearably sad. A crown of living embers hovered above her brow, drifting and reforming with every slow inhale, each coal pulsing like a tiny, beating heart.

Adelaide tried to speak, but the woman raised a hand. Hush, her expression seemed to say.

The flames shifted around her like living creatures, curling at her heels, whispering along her arms. The woman stepped closer.

Adelaide felt heat rush through her veins—not pain, not fear, but something powerful. Something familiar, like the first inhale after drowning. The fire recognized her, folding around her like kin, like it had been waiting centuries for this moment of contact.

The woman cupped Adelaide’s cheek. Her touch was pure fire—and pure comfort.

The woman smiled—a soft, aching smile that made something deep in Adelaide twist painfully.

“Daughter of Fire,” the woman whispered without moving her lips. “Wake.”

Adelaide reached toward her.

The fire parted and the dream shattered.

She jolted awake in the dark, gasping, heart slamming against her ribs, the echo of flames still dancing behind her eyes. Her skin still felt sun-warmed, every inch of her tingling as though she’d been standing in the centre of a bonfire that refused to let her go.

The room was dark. The fur was tangled around her legs. Her skin felt hot, electric, tingling, as though the dream’s fire hadn’t left her body. The words echoed in her chest.

Daughter of Fire.

She sat up slowly, trembling, heart hammering. Adelaide pressed a shaking hand over her racing heart. The taste of Apollo was still on her lips. The bond pulsed. And somewhere in the palace— Apollo stilled.

He felt it. Her awakening. Her power. Her fear. Her fire.

He felt all of it.

And he didn’t understand why it terrified him more than anything in the Nine Hells.