All Chapters of The Devil's Broken Doll: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

(Apollo)The palace had stopped trembling hours ago. Apollo had not.The quiet pressed against him like a hand at his throat, familiar and unwelcome. The stillness sat wrong in the bones of the place, like a held breath stretched too long. Rage simmered under his skin like magma trapped beneath brittle stone. Every step he took down the obsidian corridor scorched faint, glowing trails in his wake—lines of molten gold that faded only when the palace, cowed and nervous, hurried to heal them. The stone learned quickly when not to resist him. It learned what obedience looked like.His wards pulsed against the walls like racing heartbeats. His temper wrapped around them like claws.Someone had entered his chamber. Someone had touched his bond. Someone had put their hands on what belonged to him. And worst— they had seen her.The knowledge did not land all at once. It layered. Sank. Settled.His Emberborn girl. His chained fire. His screaming little mortal queen. Names were dangerous things

(Apollo)Adelaide did not stir as he moved around her. Not yet. But the bond tightened all the same, faint and instinctive, as if some deeper part of her knew exactly who was watching.Apollo stood before her in stillness that was anything but calm. The storm inside him did not howl. It compressed. Every thought sharpened, each one circling the same truth from different angles: someone had interfered. Someone had stepped into a space that was not theirs.Jealousy was not the absence of control. It was the need to prove it had never been lost. Every inch of him vibrated with it. With rage, jealousy, hunger, and obsession. A storm of emotion coiled so tightly inside his chest it felt carved into his ribs.She looked smaller when she slept. Not weak. He would never mistake her for that. But softer. A softness she did not know she possessed, and one he was never meant to feel anything toward. A softness that did not belong to him, not really, yet grew in his chest like a blasphemy every t

(Apollo & Adelaide)Her thoughts fractured: Cael. The hands that steadied her. The water on her lips. The one moment of mercy in a place built entirely on suffering. She couldn’t give that away. Not even under pain. Not even under him. His pleasure soured. The sourness lingered, sharp and metallic at the back of his throat. It tasted too much like recognition. Like the knowledge that pain could command a body, but kindness—however small—could begin to claim something quieter and far more dangerous. Heat seethed beneath his skin. Her breath hitched. The bond quivered. His jealousy detonated. His hand snapped to her throat, claws curving possessively around her neck as his tail stilled inside her. His voice dropped into a low, lethal growl. “If he means nothing,” he snarled, the question striking like a whip, “then why protect him? Why endure this—” His fingers tightened. His tail curled. A hard thrust punctuated the next word: “—for someone who is nothing to you?” Her chin lifted

(Apollo & Adelaide)Her lips parted on instinct, but the moment felt electric—dangerous—like she was leaning into the jaws of a predator and hoping he tasted restraint. Apollo angled his hips forward, edging the swollen tip of his scaled cock between her parted lips. The warmth of her tongue hit him, and a hiss escaped through his control. His hips jerked in reaction, pushing the slightly smaller cock deeper into her throat. The weight of him pressed her tongue down, the heat of his flesh almost painful. The faint metallic tang of his scales brushed her lips, smoky and foreign. Her eyes watered, her body tensing with the sudden invasion, but the hunger in his groan vibrated through her, igniting something molten in her core. Adelaide’s mouth closed around him—whether on instinct or cooperation. Her jaw ached, the stretch intense, but the way his breath hitched—sharp, involuntary—pulled a tremor of satisfaction through her. “Good girl,” he crooned, rubbing his fingers along her s

(Apollo & Adelaide) Adelaide felt the bench beneath her vibrate as if it were a living thing. Not sentient, not aware—but responsive all the same. The obsidian carried memory the way skin carried scars, holding the echo of every body that had ever been bent here, every vow broken, every plea whispered into heat. The obsidian didn’t just hold heat—it breathed it. Slow waves of warmth pulsed through the sloped surface, radiating into her ribs and belly as she lay draped over it, her bare chest pressed to the padded incline. Her wrists remained bound by glowing chains of smoke. Her palms were flat on the floor, and every faint movement caused the runes beneath her hands to flare brighter. Each flare arrived with a sound—soft, metallic, like distant bells ringing under stone—marking her motion as if Hell itself were counting her breaths. Her body trembled. Part fear, part excitement, and partly from the lingering, molten echo of what she had done on her knees. Her wrists still ting