Page 29 of Letters to Satan

I’m dead.

Deceased.

He’s killed me.

There’s no other explanation, because my body is made of lead, and I can’t find the energy to move even a finger. Niklaus scoops me up, my nerves buzzing and ass burning as his cum slides out of me, and god only knows where it’s landing. I’m like fucking Hansel or Gretal, leaving a breadcrumb trail of his jizz that keeps leaking from my ass.

Too exhausted to hold on, I nuzzle into the coarse hair on his chest and close myeyes as he carries me. A door clicks and I peek out of one eye, finding us in a cozy bedroom with a giant bed and roaring fire.

“What are we doing?” I murmur, my lips barely moving.

He balances me with one hand, but my eyes drift shut again, only half conscious as I’m lowered onto a pillowy mattress and surrounded by his scent. Cinnamon and clove with a hint of smokiness, and I breathe deep as my heavy limbs sink into the comfort.

“Did I hurt you?” Niklaus asks, voice surprisingly tender as the bed dips beside me, and I crack a single eye open. His shirt is off, but his pants are still on, unbuttoned and unzipped, and although he’s tucked himself away, obvious streaks of cum stripe the fabric around the fly. My dick gives a feeble attempt at rising before telling me to fuck off and promptly going back to sleep.

“You hurt my balls when you kept edging me,” I mumble, and he chuckles as he grips my chin and tilts my face to his. These funny pangs in my chest are getting worse, more intense, the more time I spend with him, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

He says nothing, just watches me for a moment before leaning in to kiss me. “You’re going to destroy me,” he whispers, something forbidden in his eyes, and rises from the bed.

“Nik?” I whisper, but he acts like he doesn’t hear me and walks through a door. Debating whether to follow him, and questioning why I want to, I pull my lip between my teeth. Relationships are a luxury Icannot afford to have. The responsibilities of ruling the realm allow little time for even a quick fuck to ease the tension.

I know where my duties lie.

So why have I been hiding out here for the past week, playing house with him?

Before I can convince myself to get up and leave, show him exactly where we stand, he enters the bedroom wearing a pair of flannel pants slung low on his hips, carrying a glass of water and a cloth. Wordlessly, he hands me the cup and peels my sticky underwear down my legs, wiping me clean before lifting my knees and inspecting my ass.

It’s terrifyingly intimate.

“I’m fine,” I insist, but he ignores me and gently cleans me before leaning in to place a soft kiss on my thigh. When he scoops me up again, my eyebrows knit. “Where are you taking me now?” Out, I’d wager. Anywhere but here, in his space. Now that the sex is done, I suppose he has no more use for me.

It’s understandable, but fuck… why does it sting so much?

He pushes through another door and warm, humid air coats my skin as the sound of running water fills the room. A hint of a smile softens his rugged face as he carries me over to an enormous bathtub. “A prince has to be pampered. It’s part of the rules, or so I hear.”

For a second, I stare at the water, with tiny salt crystals visible in the bottom of the tub. A small bath pillow rests on one side and a candle flickers onthe other, and to my absolutehorror, the sting of tears burns behind my eyes.

“Where’s my wine and grapes?” I ask, a sniffle breaking free beyond my control.

Asniffle.

I am The Devil… The Lord of the motherfucking Underworld, and I’m snivelling like a baby because he ran me a bath?

He hums, an amused sound, before he finally puts me on my feet. At least he’s allowing me the dignity of stepping into my bath instead of dropping me in like an overgrown sperm. “Do you want a glass of wine, Damien? I didn’t think you’d be hungry after that dinner, but we worked up quite the appetite.”

A grin digs into my cheeks as I glance up at him, his green eyes softer than usual. When he reaches over to shut the water off, I expect him to leave, but he grabs a washcloth and dips it into the tub, nudging me to lean forward as he drags the steaming water over my back.

“You don’t have to wash me… I’m not a child,” I protest, even though every muscle in my body relaxes into his touch.

There is a sarcastic edge to his chuckle. “Oh, you most certainly are not, my little prince. You’ve ruled over Hell for nearly two hundred years. I’d daresay you’ve warmed that throne longer than multiple generations of my family have been on this Earth.”

“Were you not related to the previous Santa?” While I lack precise details, I know the former Santa Claus served for almost eighty years, a short periodfor a supernatural leader. The transition of power was done quietly, and until now, there wasn’t much information about the man who took his place.

The man currently washing my hair.

“I wasn’t,” he says, wringing out the washcloth and letting the water shower over my head. “Traditionally, these positions are passed among families, but there have been instances where that wasn’t true. In those cases, and mine, it was because there was no living heir to inherit the position. Most people don’t realize that a handful of humans have lived in the North Pole over the years. My mother was one of those humans.”

“Is she still here?”

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