IRINA
“Blood,” I whispered, the syllable torn from a throat not yet healed, a soul not yet damned enough. The thirst was all: hot, choking, absolute—a need fiercer than any love, any fear, any memory.
The scent of ancient stone mixed with the iron tang of fear as Dracula’s hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me forward with an authority that brooked no disobedience.
But Dracula was not the only monster I would come to know.
Sometimes the demon Azazel's touch is gentle.
Other times… He is relentless.
Fingers bruising. Mouth demanding. Wings pinning wrists above silk sheets.
Brilliance flaring in his predatory eyes, his voice a command and a benediction in the same breath: Show me how deeply you can ache. His legacy is anticipation, the gasp before the fall, the fever in the marrow that hisses—yes-s, more.
Let me see you break!
AZAZEL
The ache I felt was unfamiliar. Demons are fluent in hunger, lust, and power. We have hymns for cruelty. But that feeling… that trembling weight that refuses to starve has no name in the demon realms. Mortals call it love. The word sounds… tastes so wrong, but Irina had caused me to swallow such poison.
I watched her in the ruin-light of the astral plane. Her beautiful figure was as sharp as a blade, carrying one of Dracula’s grimoires like a stolen heart. She still never looked back, not at me, nor at the smoking carcass of his castle.
This should have never been this hard, should have never felt like this.
