Page 71 of An Unexpected Ascension
Perhaps the man who triggered an eternal hatred within me has nothing to do with the woman who haunts my thoughts. She’s blameless, even I can admit to this, but those burning eyes of jade – the same as those that taunted me, brought me to relish the feeling of bathing in my enemies’ blood – they’ve found me conflicted.
For centuries I’ve known peace in death. Watching the hope fade from the eyes of wretched souls. It's a comfort, bestowing violent justices to the worst of humankind knowing full well, I’ve committed ungodly acts myself.
And now? When I find those emerald gems settled on me a quiet rage ignites but not rage alone. The angel has seeped into my being, touched my soul, tantalized it until it wants nothing more than to ravish her, to taste her. Her wicked seduction weakens me, lures me to her until I’m mad with desire. Desire for a woman I have no business wanting.
The crimson skies darken still, a night falling over Hell. Though time does not truly exist in the afterlife, there is a shift in light here. The darkness, a willing partner, blanketing the perversion and debauchery overtaking the souls of the damned. Every bitter thought, every twisted impulse intensifies, pulsates until it becomes a living entity. Until it’s brought forth under the veil of night.
Then comes the morning, shedding a light on every depraved act committed just hours before. Showing you just how sick you are, how much you belong in Hell.
So, when the skies lighten, lifting their protection of the darkness and my hand falls from my cock, shame swells deep in my chest.
Slinking out from beneath my sweat-soaked covers, I slide into fresh undershorts. The muscles in my arms ache as I stretch into a black T-shirt and my thighs scream with the climb into my jeans. Perks of fighting off the advances of Greygore. At the very least I can happily say my ass might be the only thing that isn’t riddled with pain.
I journey to the west wing, only a small detour to the Great Hall where Lucifer and I converse over a morning spread of delicacies. A routine that we found rather suits us.
To my dismay, I find the hallway empty, not a bucket or a mop. Not even the little creature that infests my fantasies. No, she happens to be drowning in plush blankets and swallowed whole by her mattress.
The slam of her heavy door does not rouse her in the slightest. Nor does the blinding red light beaming into the room after the curtains are slung open.
“Day one and you’re already avoiding your duties.”
Gripping the edge of her blanket near her chin, I rip it back revealing a very naked body. Her nipples instantly pebble, the chilled morning air licking at her flesh.
Surprise has her body jolting upward, snatching her blanket back to hold against her. Those green eyes glassy and her hair a curtain of darkness against her pale, flushed skin.
“What the hell?! Ever heard of knocking?”
“You sleep like the dead.” I chuckle.
“I am dead.”
“Mmm, yes. You are. Now, get up. The floors won’t clean themselves. When you’re finished maybe you can see if we’ve left you anything to eat.”
Her face heats, those rosy cheeks deepening in color.
“Where would I even find supplies to clean with? And why do I feel like shit?”
With the snap of my fingers and pure will, I conjure forth a bucket filled to the brim with suds and a mop.
“Nifty,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
There’s a silent battle between us, not a word spoken or a muscle twitching. Her glowering gaze finds my domineering one, neither of us willing to concede.
I can hear her heart beating; buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum, so quickly I’m almost convinced she lives. But in death, it’s just another muscle that’s forgotten there’s no need. Like how our lungs ache when holding our breath despite being unable to suffocate. It’s not real, all in our minds, just another form of torture to endure.
“Leave,” she finally says. “I need to get dressed.”
I tilt my head, pure amusement whirling from me like shadowed tendrils that are eager to tease. With another snap of my fingers, a dress appears in thin air, fluttering down onto her bed.
With the tips of her fingers, she holds it up, her eyes widening.
“No way. I’m not wearing this.”
That scowl... her features twist in distaste and a fury ignites beneath her skin. I find this petty torment fulfilling in many waysthat I shouldn’t. I’m Second in Command. I brutalize. I violate. I condemn souls to an eternity of misery. Why do I find such pleasure in a simple frown marring such a beautiful face?
She tosses the French Maid uniform to the floor, the tool of the short skirt splashing against the noire wood.
“Then stay naked.” I shrug, turning on my heels to leave.
