All Chapters of Spellbound by Obsession: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The dream began as it always began: with the scent of jasmine.White jasmine, sweet and nauseating, impregnating the air of the temple. The marble columns rose around me, cold and indifferent. I was on my knees. The chains bit into my wrists, my ankles, my neck — silver forged under a full moon, the only metal that could bind an incubus. My wings were broken. My horns, sawn down to the root. My tail hung inert, without the strength to move.She danced before me.Lilith. Not the first, not the mother of all demons. A Lilim who had taken her creator’s name as a throne. Hair red as fire, eyes green as poison, skin white as the bones of the men she had devoured. She danced naked under the moonlight that entered through the open roof of the temple, her hips drawing slow circles, her hands running over her own body as if it were the most sacred thing in the world.It was.She was the most sacred thing in the world — to me. In that time, I believed it.“Are you hungry, my love?” Her voice wa

The apartment door slammed shut behind me with a crash that echoed off the thin walls.I stood there in the dark entrance hallway, back pressed against the wood, fists clenched at my sides. My breathing was uneven. My heart hammered against my ribs. And my eyes — my damn eyes — burned with tears I refused to let fall.I wasn’t going to cry. Not for him. Not for a demon who treated me like a toy he could drop and pick up whenever he felt like it.“Idiot.” I hissed at the empty apartment. “Fucking idiot.”I tore off my heels violently, one after the other, throwing them into the corner. The jacket followed to the floor. The t-shirt — the t-shirt he had given me, the one that still carried a faint scent of musk and electricity — I almost ripped while taking it off.Almost. But I couldn’t. Because despite everything, despite the anger and the hurt, his scent still calmed me.And I hated that.I hated that he had that power over me.I turned on the kitchen light. The bare bulb flickered be

I woke up with the feeling of being embraced by a furnace.Something heavy was wrapped around my waist, warm and firm, holding me against the mattress. My legs were trapped between other legs — larger, more muscular, covered by hot skin that brushed against mine.There was a familiar weight on my left thigh, something that coiled and uncoiled slowly, like a cat kneading the blanket.The tail.I blinked, still dizzy with sleep. Morning light came through the thin curtains, pale and gray — the rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast. I blinked again, trying to process. I had gone to sleep alone. I was absolutely certain I had been alone when I passed out.I turned my head slowly and came face to face with Mortyss.He was lying on his side, his face inches from mine. Shirtless — his bare chest rose and fell with slow, steady breathing. Pantsless — his legs were tangled with mine, his hot skin against my cold skin. His dark hair was messy, falling over his forehead. His eyes…His

The supermarket was an absurdly mundane place.I had already visited infernal dimensions, negotiated with ancient demons, and survived centuries of hunts and persecutions. But nothing — nothing in a thousand years of existence — had prepared me for the experience of choosing cereal brands on a supermarket shelf at ten in the morning on a Tuesday.“This is ridiculous.” I murmured, examining a box of artisanal granola that cost eighteen dollars. “Eighteen dollars for compressed oats?”“Welcome to the real world.” Evelyn replied beside me, tossing a package of rice into the cart. “Where normal people don’t have a pocket dimension that materializes food out of nowhere.”“My dimension doesn’t materialize out of nowhere. It replicates recipes from memories. It’s different.”“Sure it is.”She was having fun.I could see it in her eyes — the golden sparks dancing, the lips curved in a smile she was trying to hide. There were still remnants of the hurt from the night before, a shadow that ling

I have hated Mortyss for approximately seven hundred and thirty-two years.It is not an ordinary hatred, the kind that time dissolves or indifference erases. It is a refined hatred, aged in oak barrels like fine whiskey. A hatred I cultivate with the same care a gardener gives to his roses — pruning, watering, pulling out the weeds of forgetfulness.It all began in Vienna, in 1291. I was about to seduce a duchess — a delicious woman, married to an old and filthy-rich count, exactly the type of victim I preferred. She was already in love. She had already given jewels, secrets, promises. One more night and I would have had her fortune and her soul.Then Mortyss appeared.Without asking permission. Without respecting territory. He simply appeared, with that martyr pose he has always had, and convinced the duchess that I was “dangerous.” That I would drain her life. That she deserved something better.She believed him. Of course she believed him.Mortyss has always had that irritating tal