Azrael's POV
The girl from earlier had blonde hair.
That much I remembered. Everything else was a blur of sweat, sound, and disappointment.
She had moaned sweetly, clawed at my back, begged me to go harder—just like the last dozen had.
And just like them, she'd collapsed in my bed, used and faint, her lips parted in worship she didn't understand.
I sat now on the edge of the grand obsidian bed, shirtless, boots still on, my hair damp from the steam baths. Her naked form was curled among the blood-red sheets behind me, her pale back rising and falling with slow, exhausted breaths.
I didn't remember her name. Didn't care.
My cock was still hard. My soul, still aching.
Nothing changed. Not even after centuries.
The pleasure always faded too fast. A blink. A brief illusion. The release—barely a breath of heat in the freezing pit that was my chest.
I stood.
Even the act of rising seemed beneath me these days, a ritual more than a necessity. The bones of the floor trembled faintly beneath my bare feet as I stepped across the chamber, silent shadows parting for me.
I walked to the massive balcony carved into the skull of a long-dead celestial beast. Below, the Valley of Dread sprawled endlessly in red and black. Lava rivers pulsed like veins through broken stone. Mountains jagged as demon fangs clawed toward a blood-colored sky.
Everything I ruled... was pain made beautiful.
And it was mine.
All of it.
The underworld. The Throne of Night. The legions of fearsome beasts and fallen kings.
I had taken it all. With claw. With flame. With desire.
And yet…
Still, I felt nothing.
Not satisfaction. Not peace. Not even pleasure—true pleasure.
A sigh scraped its way out of my throat. My demon half snarled restlessly, pacing the edges of my soul like a chained beast. It wanted to tear. To claim. To mate.
But no offering ever tamed it.
Not the virgins. Not the witches. Not the fae girls who cried when I broke them open under my touch.
My fingers tightened around the balcony's edge.
Still hard. Still empty.
"My Lord," came a voice, low and rasped like metal dragged against stone.
I didn't turn. "Speak, Kareth."
The general of my war legions stepped into view, cloaked in spiked black armor, his crimson eyes gleaming with the scent of blood. His horns curled back like a ram's, and his wings were still wet with ash from the Northern battlefield.
"A fresh shipment of flesh has arrived," he said, bowing low. "One… unusual."
"Unusual?" I echoed.
"Sold by a mortal priest," he continued. "A girl. Red-haired. Young. Seventeen, perhaps eighteen."
That caught my attention.
He pressed on. "Her back bears a mark. Magical. Ancient. A dragon etched between her shoulder blades. No ink. No scar. It's… alive."
My throat constricted.
"Red hair," I repeated. "A dragon?"
"Yes, my Lord. She's being held in the lower dungeons. Gagged. Chained. Magic-proof restraints."
I felt it then.
Not lust.
Not boredom.
Hunger.
A brutal, snarling thing inside me opened its mouth and roared with sudden interest. The ache in my loins sharpened into a need far more dangerous than arousal.
"Bring her to me," I ordered.
Kareth hesitated. "Now?"
I looked over my shoulder. "Do you need it spelled out?"
He bowed once more and vanished into black mist.
I was already walking.
The harem chamber stank of perfume and lust.
Three of my favorites lounged in the silk cushions, waiting for my touch like obedient pets. One—a tan-skinned minx with golden eyes—crawled forward the moment I appeared. Her fingers brushed my thigh, her breasts pressed to my leg.
"Missed me?" she purred.
I didn't answer.
She licked the sweat off my chest like a starving beast.
Another came from behind, nails dragging down my back. "We were lonely, Azrael," she whispered, pressing her lips to my neck. "Let us make you forget..."
The third, an elven courtesan with silver hair and glowing tattoos, dropped to her knees and kissed the sharp line above my waistband, hands trembling with practiced grace as she pulled at the ties of my trousers.
I let them.
Let them taste me. Worship me. Play their games of pleasure and pretense.
My head fell back against the throne as soft mouths teased my cock to life, as their whimpers filled the shadows. One climbed into my lap, grinding herself shamelessly against my thigh while whispering ancient words of desire.
I stared past her.
Through her.
Into the flames that curled at the edge of the room, into the vision already haunting me.
A red-haired girl. Chained. Terrified. Magical.
Branded by fate.
Branded for me.
I growled low in my throat.
"She's different," I said aloud, the words slipping from me like prophecy.
The elven courtesan blinked. "My Lord?"
I shoved her off my lap. She hit the floor with a soft gasp.
The other two froze.
"I'm not in the mood," I said.
Their shocked silence fed my growing frustration. I stood, my cock stiff and ignored, my skin crawling with something unfamiliar.
"She's already here, isn't she?" I murmured.
Not a question. A certainty.
I snapped my fingers, and the flames around the chamber exploded into ash.
My concubines cowered.
I vanished.
Deep beneath the palace, where sunlight had never touched and screams had long been forgotten, I found her.
The cell was dark. Cold. Magic-sealed.
And inside it, curled like a ragdoll tossed into the gutter, was her.
Red hair matted with blood. Skin bruised. A torn dress hanging off a too-thin frame. A metal collar around her neck, chained to the wall like a dog.
But it was her back that held me still.
Even through the dirt, I saw the shape of it.
The dragon.
Not ink. Not art.
It moved.
It pulsed.
It burned.
My cock hardened instantly. Violently.
She stirred in her sleep. As if sensing me. As if feeling the pull across time, soul, and skin.
A part of me—dark, greedy, starving—wanted to rip the door open. To take her right then, chains and all.
But another part… the older part…
Waited.
Watched.
Knew.
This girl would not be like the others.
And she would never be forgotten.