All Chapters of The Devil's Broken Doll: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

(Caelum Ashborne)His magic moved. Emberflame—thin, threadlike, but unmistakably alive—slipped out of him in a reach he did not authorize. It felt like a hand reaching through time. It seeped through the hairline fracture in the stone as easily as smoke, curling into the chamber in a faint, invisible stream. His eyes flew wide. “Stop,” he whispered, but power didn’t hear words. It heard want. And gods help him, he wanted her. Not to take her from the Devil — not yet. Not even to interfere. He wanted to touch. His ember brushed her first. He felt it the instant it happened—like dipping his fingers into heated water after years of frost. Her magic sparked at the contact, shocked but not repulsed. It felt raw and bright and wild, flaring up toward his like a startled animal deciding, mid-flight, not to flee but to circle back and investigate. Heat jolted through him so sharply he had to bite down on a groan. He felt her pleasure. Not in detail, not in images or stolen sensation,

(Apollo & Adelaide)As they floated, Adelaide thought of Liam. Of Lyra. Of home. She thought of the cross. The ropes. The cold. The agony. Her mind flinched away from the phantom bite of rough wood against her back, from the weight in her shoulders, from the way her fingers had gone numb. And then— She thought of his mouth on hers. His tenderness in the water. The safety of this heat. This moment. Her emotions surged, hate and desire twisting until her chest ached. It felt like being split in two—one half reaching for him, the other dragged backward, desperately clawing for a world that no longer belonged to her. The overlap left her raw, caught between past pain and the unfamiliar pull of the present. “I don’t want to be here,” she whispered at last. Apollo went still. Even the water seemed to pause, the faint current holding its breath around them. “But,” she added, breath shaking, “I don’t… hate you the way I did.” He didn’t speak. His thumb traced a long, slow line down

(Apollo)He kissed her again, deeper this time — but still careful. Testing. Learning. His hands roamed her body with a reverence he didn’t recognise as his own. He memorised every sound she made, every breath that rushed through her. Slow sighs. Quiet inhalations. A soft, shaky exhale when his lips brushed the hollow of her throat. Her legs shifted slightly beneath him, brushing his hips, opening for him. The contact was light — but the effect was devastating. A sound rumbled low in his chest, more breath than growl. The kind he’d never made for anyone. I want this. I want her. Gods, what is she doing to me… His hand slid lower, over the gentle curve of her stomach, the dip of her waist, the softness of her thigh. She shifted into his touch without thinking, her breath catching. “Is this alright?” he murmured. She nodded, unable to speak. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, the top of her breast. She gasped quietly — not in pain, but anticipation. His hand slid

(Apollo) The throne room breathed with him—not lungs, but a cathedral that knew how to inhale. Hellfire pulsed in the veins of the black stone—a slow, molten heartbeat answering his. Columns rose like ribs, etched with runes that faintly glowed in the gloom, around the vast chamber. The throne itself—carved from obsidian and bone—sat on its dais, a jagged crown wrapped in shadows more creature than absence. High above, unseen arches disappeared into darkness, resembling the vaulted ceiling of a fallen basilica. When he exhaled, the shadows leaned in. On his inhale, they pulled back. The entire room seemed tethered to his lungs. Apollo lounged there. One elbow rested on the armrest, long fingers crooked against his mouth, as if in bored contemplation. Any demon glancing up would see their king—distant, composed, terrifyingly still. Power looked like a statue in repose: every line relaxed yet coiled, a blade at rest in its sheath. To them, he might have seemed a god asleep. Or a devi

(Apollo)Apollo let the threat hang between them for a moment, then sliced it neatly aside. “But the mortal lived,” he said. “And she burned last night exactly the way I needed to see.” Cael’s gaze flicked up, just once. “Then my interference did not harm your… experiment.” There it was again—that infuriating, clean logic. Disobedience framed as service. Apollo studied him the way he’d study a blade he’d just discovered a hairline fracture in. Trustable. Useful. Potentially deadly if mishandled. “The girl’s flame is rare,” he said at last. “And I’m not finished with it.” The word girl scraped against his teeth. Once, he would have said mortal or subject or, on a merciful day, vessel. Once, everything that bled in his realm had been a resource, a lesson, a warning. Never singular. Never hers. He’d built an empire on brutal honesty—on naming things exactly as they were and watching lesser creatures break beneath the weight of it. Truth had always been his sharpest tool. No