Page 25 of His Infernal Purr
“For my legions.”
Strike.
“For myself.”
Strike.
“For FINN.”
Final blow.
The last attack lands with such force that it sends Valefar crashing through the warehouse wall, leaving a demon-shaped hole in the corroded metal. He lies amid the rubble outside, green blood seeping from multiple wounds, scales cracked and broken.
I stalk toward him, preparing to deliver the final blow.
“Yield,” I demand, standing over his broken form.
Valefar coughs, green ichor bubbling at his lips. “This… changes nothing,” he gasps. “The mortal… still dies… eventually.”
“Yield,” I repeat, raising my clawed hand threateningly.
“I… yield,” he finally spits, hatred burning in his eyes. “The victory… is yours.”
A binding contract forms between us at his words—ancient demonic magic that enforces the terms of our combat. Valefar is now obligated to honor his defeat, to leave me and mine undisturbed.
I step back, allowing him to struggle to his feet. “My territories and legions remain mine. Finn Hughes remains under my protection for the entirety of his natural life and beyond. You will not touch him or interfere with him in any way.”
“As agreed,” Valefar acknowledges bitterly. “But remember my words, Morax. Mortals are temporary. This victory… is also temporary.”
With a final hateful glare, he tears open a jagged portal and limps through it, disappearing back to Hell to nurse his wounds and his pride.
The moment he’s gone, the adrenaline that sustained me evaporates, and I stagger, suddenly aware of my numerous injuries—broken ribs, lacerated wing, various wounds leaking obsidian blood.
“Morax!” Finn’s voice reaches me as if from a great distance. I feel his hands on me, trying to support my much larger frame as my knees buckle.
“I’m fine,” I try to reassure him, though the words emerge as more of a pained grunt.
“Like hell you are,” he retorts, his veterinary training kicking in as he quickly assesses my injuries. “We need to get you home. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” I insist, taking one step before nearly collapsing again. “Perhaps… with assistance.”
The journey back to the apartment is a blur of pain and Finn’s constant reassurances. Once there, he helps me to the bedroom, carefully arranging my injured wing before gathering first aid supplies.
“I don’t suppose demon anatomy is covered in vet school,” he mutters, examining the wound on my shoulder with clinical focus.
“Surprisingly similar to your larger predatory mammals,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Though our healing capabilities are significantly enhanced.”
“Good to know,” he says, beginning to clean the wounds with gentle efficiency. “Because you look like you went ten rounds with a wood chipper.”
Despite the pain, I find myself smiling slightly at his characterization. “You should see the other demon.”
“I did,” he reminds me, applying some kind of antibiotic ointment to the worst gashes. “Right before you threw him through a wall.”
We lapse into silence as he works, his hands steady and sure despite the unusual patient. When he reaches my cracked ribs, his touch becomes even gentler, carefully wrapping them with practiced movements.
“This would be easier if you weren’t seven feet tall,” he complains mildly.
“I could shift to a smaller form,” I offer.
