Page 106 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Volume control, my lord,” Azrael reminded him, covering his mouth with a hand that felt feverish against the noble’s clammy skin. “This is merely the introduction. If you exhaust your voice so early, how will you properly beg for mercy later?”
When he removed his hand, Lord Whatshisface whimpered, tears streaming down his face. “Please,” he gasped. “Whatever you want?—”
“What I want,” Azrael corrected, “is for you to understand your place in the hierarchy. For you to appreciate Lord Lucien’s mercy in allowing you to continue existing despite your disrespect.” He selected another instrument, this one designed to simulate the sensation of being flayed alive without breaking the skin. “And for you to recognize the consequences of betrayal.”
By the time he had completed his lesson, all three nobles were trembling, broken in spirit if not in body. They had confessed every detail of their conspiracy, named every collaborator, revealed every hidden resource. And they had sworn new oaths of loyalty, not with the reluctant compliance of the coerced, but with the fervent desperation of converts who had glimpsed the abyss.
Azrael rewrapped his instruments, rolled down his sleeves, and donned his coat once more. Not a hair out of place, not a drop of blood spilled. Only the faint flush on his pale cheeks betrayed the rush of satisfaction he’d experienced.
It wasn’t enough. The rage still simmered beneath his skin, a low-grade fever that wouldn’t break. The thought of them plotting against Lucien—his Lucien, who he’d waited for through centuries of patient devotion—made him want to tear the castle apart stone by stone.
“You will attend tomorrow’s equipment delivery,” he instructed the three nobles, his voice deceptively calm. “You will show enthusiasm for the project. You will publicly pledge resources to support the rebuilding efforts. And you will report to me weekly on the activities of your fellow conspirators, whom I shall be visiting in turn.”
He moved to the door, then paused, glancing back with a small smile that contained nothing of humor and everything of promise. “Oh, and should you entertain thoughts of fleeing Iferona—don’t. There is nowhere in this realm or any other where you could hide from me. I have spent centuries perfecting the art of finding those who wish not to be found.”
With that, he dissolved into shadow, leaving them huddled together, forever changed by their night of education.
Azrael visited two more noble houses before dawn, delivering similar lessons tailored to each recipient’s specific transgressions. By the time the eastern sky began to lighten,he had neutralized the immediate threat to Lucien’s plans and established a network of informants among the formerly resistant nobility.
A productive night, by any measure.
As Azrael withdrew from the last lord’s estate, flowing through the night as living shadow, his thoughts returned inevitably to Lucien. The night’s interrogations had provided only temporary distraction from the memory that had been tormenting him since dinner—Lucien’s lips parting slightly as he sipped his wine, the flash of pink tongue as he licked a drop from his lower lip, the way his silver-white hair caught the candlelight as he leaned forward to make a point.
Azrael had noticed the changes in his master’s behavior over the past weeks. The lingering glances, the slight catch in his breath whenever Azrael stood too close, the way his pupils dilated when their hands accidentally touched. Tonight at dinner, the signs had been unmistakable—Lucien’s pulse visibly quickening when Azrael leaned in to refill his glass, the subtle shift in his scent indicating arousal, the way he’d watched Azrael’s hands with fascination bordering on hunger.
His master wanted him. The realization was both intoxicating and maddening.
For centuries, Azrael had served with perfect devotion, never allowing himself to fully acknowledge the deeper nature of his feelings. He had always desired Lucien—from the moment of his creation, that desire had been intertwined with his devotion like vines sharing the same trellis. But he had contained it, channeled it into service, into the meticulous preservation of his master’s form, into the violent elimination of anyone who dared disrespect him.
But since Lucien’s awakening, something had changed. This new version of his master—kind, vibrant, compassionate—had intensified desires Azrael had always harbored but never fullypermitted himself to express. What had once been a manageable hunger now threatened to devour him whole.
The memory of their almost-moment in Lucien’s chambers before dinner resurfaced with painful clarity. Standing so close that a mere inch separated them, Lucien’s scent filling his senses, those blue eyes dropping to Azrael’s mouth with unmistakable intent. Had the clock not chimed at that precise moment, what might have happened?
The thought sent a surge of heat through Azrael’s incorporeal form, temporarily disrupting his shadow state. He paused, hovering above the sleeping city, forcing himself to regain control. Such lapses were unacceptable. Dangerous. A butler did not act on his desire for his master. Did not imagine claiming those perfect lips, pressing that luminous body against the nearest surface, making him cry out in pleasure rather than just surprise.
Yet the images came unbidden, more vivid and demanding with each passing day. Especially after tonight’s dinner, where Lucien had been so responsive to his proximity, so affected by his touch. The scent of his master’s arousal had been subtle but unmistakable, growing stronger throughout the evening until it took all of Azrael’s centuries of discipline not to act on it.
He resumed his journey toward the Dark Citadel, his form flowing faster now, driven by an urgency he refused to acknowledge. He needed to check on Lucien, to ensure he was resting comfortably. That was all. Just the normal concern of a devoted butler for his master’s well-being.
The lie was so transparent he didn’t bother completing the thought.
As he flowed back toward the Dark Citadel, Azrael reflected on the night’s activities. The “educational sessions” with the nobles should have left him satisfied, centered, fulfilled as they always had in the past. Violence done in Lucien’s name had beenhis primary source of pleasure for centuries—the quickened pulse, the heightened senses, the rush of accomplishment as fear blossomed in his victims’ eyes.
Yet tonight, even as he extracted screams from Lord Whatshisface, even as he watched terror spread across Lady Afterthought’s face, even as he methodically broke their resistance and reshaped their loyalty, something was missing. The satisfaction was hollow, a pale shadow of what it once had been.
Because now his other hunger had grown too powerful to be ignored. The desire that had always simmered beneath his devotion had boiled over, consuming his thoughts, clouding his judgment, creating vulnerabilities where none had existed before.
Most concerning of all, it was intensifying beyond his ability to control. Each day brought new awareness of his lord’s physical form—the graceful movement of those slender hands that Azrael had preserved through centuries of careful maintenance, the curve of those perfect lips when he smiled, the way silver-white hair fell across his forehead when he was deep in thought.
When Lucien had emerged from his bath that first night after awakening, water droplets clinging to his alabaster skin, Azrael had experienced a momentary lapse in his perfect composure—a hitch in his breathing, a tightening in his chest, a heat that pooled low in his abdomen. He had ruthlessly suppressed these reactions, as he always had, attributing them to concern for his master’s well-being after such a long dormancy.
But the symptoms had persisted, worsened. Each casual touch, each smile, each moment of proximity now triggered responses that Azrael could no longer fully control or conceal. And then there were the dreams—visions that had haunted him for centuries but now refused to be banished upon waking.Dreams of Lucien in his arms, of pale skin against his own, of blue eyes darkened with an emotion Azrael had always known but never dared name.
As Azrael materialized in the corridor leading to Lucien’s chambers, he caught sight of a small shadow melting away from beneath the door—Mr. Snuggles dissolving into darkness. The dragon’s single purple eye fixed on Azrael with a gaze that seemed almost… challenging.
Azrael paused outside Lucien’s chambers, straightening his already immaculate appearance before quietly opening the door. The room was dark save for the silver moonlight streaming through the partially open curtains, illuminating the large bed where his master slept.
The sight that greeted him stole what little breath he needed.
