1. Chapter One

Chapter One

B riar was bought on a Wednesday.

Heat poured through vents in the ceiling, tempering the indoor climate despite the mid-winter freeze outside. Unfortunately, the artificial air did nothing to dry his sweat-slicked palms. This moment was a reckoning. Regret neatly packaged and expertly tied with a bow. Briar touched the tip of each finger to his thumb, poised beneath a yellow spotlight, center-stage before an audience filled with shadowed silhouettes. Someone’s wrist swayed, tipping away from a sturdy armrest. Two fingers flicked upward.

The auctioneer’s voice sliced through the air. “ Another offer! Seven hundred thousand for Briar Wright.”

A bidding war. Briar shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other, hyperaware of the meaty stumps jutting from his shoulder blades. Wings used to perch there, flecked beige and white, hollow-boned and beautifully feathered. The loss of them, and the scars he carried in their place, deemed him an expensive prize.

“Going once, going. . . Oh, right, yes. Another bid. Seven hundred and fifty —”

“One million,” the buyer said.

“My, my,” the auctioneer purred, “what a substantial offer. Do we have a higher bid? Let me remind you, Briar Wright is newly expelled, pure as a lily—albeit rebellious—and is available to retain, exclusively, for one decade.”

Briar’s heart climbed into his throat. He tugged at the sheer white linen draped over his lean frame. The garment pooled delicately around his ankles.

Once a year, every year, the Celestial Auction showcased a prime selection of Fallen and Damned, allowing angels who had tumbled from their heavenly pedestals and humans who had landed in purgatory the ability to expedite their hellish consequences. Twenty-four hours ago, Briar Wright had shoved a bone-shard into his mouth, punctured his cheek, and blotted a sallow scroll with bright, crimson blood, signing over his autonomy, his agency, his soul, his. . . everything . He swallowed around a jagged lump.

A century in here , Michael the Chief Prince had said, watching Briar through the slot on his steel cell door. Or a decade out there. Choose wisely.

“Going once, going twice. . . Sold! Briar Wright, Fallen War Angel, to Astaroth, Great Duke of Hell, for the duration of ten human years! Let it be known,” the auctioneer said.

The gentle rap of rich hands filled the auditorium.

Briar stared at the place where Astaroth’s voice had manifested. One million . But the details remained hidden, cloaked by the shadowy stretch of broad shoulders. One of the demon’s polished dress shoes—Derby’s, perhaps—rested on his thigh, bouncing lazily, and he cradled a short, faceted glass in his palm. The scabbed mounds on Briar’s back fluttered helplessly; phantom limbs scurrying to the left and right, urging him to flee. Fly toward the sun, get away, go now.

But the deal was done, Briar had been sold: his fate sealed in blood and disastrously undoable.

“Come here, dear. No, no— here , yes. There we are, no need to be shy.” Delicate hands clasped Briar’s forearms and hauled him to his feet.

Water streaked his freshly polished skin. Remnants of almond scrub and rose oil clung to the bottom of the tub, leaving his body faintly scented. The fair hair on his legs and arms and between his thighs had been carefully sheared, plucked, and waxed. His fingernails manicured. Toenails rounded with an emery board. Eyebrows shaped, chestnut waves clipped and styled, cheeks blotted with moisturizer and pinched until pinkened. He stepped onto gleaming black tile.

The oversized washroom on the second floor of Astaroth’s estate was stocked with an assortment of expensive goods—perfumes, body oils, bath-bombs, fluffy towels, goat-milk soap. As surprising as the extravagance happened to be, Briar hadn’t expected to be guided there by servants. Nor had he anticipated the assisted bath, where a woman with her hair tied into a tight bun, and a simple, white cloth wrapped over her eyes, had attended to him. He twitched away from her when she draped a robe over his shoulders, coaxing his arms through the sleeves.

Briar had given himself over to servitude. He had signed away his rights, his ability to choose, and he’d braced for a piece of his life to be chipped away and repurposed. Would he be a cook? Someone tasked to clean the estate? Or had Briar been purchased to assist in Astaroth’s daily needs—a carrier, a driver, a guard of some sort? In the end, he had no control over where or how he would be received, but his treatment upon arrival stirred paranoia in his gut. A cook would not be primped. Nor would a maid or an assistant.

But a concubine? They would surely be lathered, rinsed and lathered again, and they would be worth a million-dollar bid, too.

He tongued at the inside of his cheek. “Madam, do you have any idea where my belongings have been stored?”

The bath servant snatched his wrist and smoothed lotion over one arm, then the other. “In your chamber, of course. You’ve been measured, correct?”

“Yes, I was measured at the auction.”

“Splendid. Lord Aster requires your attendance at dinner. You’ll be dressed accordingly.”

Aster .

Briar glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the naked, marble countertop. After spending weeks in a dingy cell under Michael’s watchful eyes, Briar couldn’t help feeling a tad bit relieved. He’d bathed before the auction, but here, like this, he appeared far more himself than he had since the High Court heard his plea for mercy and found him guilty anyway.

His chapped lips had been soothed by beeswax balm, and his cheekbones were prominent beneath flushed freckles. He was angular, fine-boned and boyish, with features most angels bred for battle purposefully roughened—an attempt to chase away unwanted softness. He flinched as the servant crouched, attending to his lean legs with floral lotion, and tried not to kick like a mule when she smoothed antiseptic over his cracked heels, sore from too many days spent pacing in a cell.

Briar turned his gaze downward. Concaved pits shadowed the tightly wrapped gauze covering the servant’s eyes, a punishment he’d heard about but rarely witnessed. She stood again, smiling pleasantly in her ankle-length dress, and handed him a robe.

“I do wish you would allow me to see to your clippings,” she said, gesturing to a basket filled with ointments and bandages.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he said. Fabric brushed his wounded back, still scabbed and raw where he’d been clipped. Pain aside, he would survive. He clenched his jaw and nodded curtly. “Are we done here?”

“We are, sir. Please.” She gestured to a pair of house-shoes. He toed them on. “Right this way.”

Briar hadn’t seen much during transport. He’d glimpsed clustered trees and a wicked gate as he exited the car. Listened to the double doors at the front of the estate creak apart. Palmed the polished mahogany banister as he climbed the stairs, and peered through the oval windows on the second floor, staring out at forested grounds.

For too long, Briar had walked Earth a stranger—tending to wounds, setting broken wings after bloody battles, assisting in extractions of wayward lesser-demons occupying undeserving bodies, pressing his fingertips to sickly foreheads and shooing ailments away. Experiencing this place as a prisoner felt like exploring a decrepit building days before demolition. Iron candelabras jutted from faded red wallpaper in the hallway, and thick, wood-framed portraiture hung on bronze hooks. Briar kept his hands clasped, glancing from the gold-trimmed runner to the single cream-painted door the servant pushed open and held, one arm outstretched, the other perched on her hip.

“Your chamber, dear. I’ll see to you tomorrow,” she said.

“Your name. . . ?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t been presumptuous. Rumors worked their way through celestial circles, whispers of name-changes and namelessness during auction years. Depending on who had purchased you, a name could be reduced to nothing.

“Oh, quite right. I’m Mallory Lewis. Aster claimed me twelve years ago—plucked me out of purgatory like a kitten from a soggy box,” she said, tipping her head politely. “Briar, is it?”

“Yes, Briar Wright.”

“Splendid. Well, don’t be afraid, Briar Wright. You will be fed, clothed, and kept. From what I’ve heard, he’s an attentive lover.”

With that, Mallory turned on her heels and strode toward the staircase. Briar’s heart leapt into his throat. Of course. His knees wobbled, suddenly weak, and his spine turned to jelly. He’d known the moment Astaroth had cast his bid that he was not intended for housework, but somehow, like all unbelievable things, he’d convinced himself that maybe, perhaps, the Great Duke would want him for something a little less promiscuous. His hopefulness soured. Briar stepped into the bedroom and kicked off his slippers.

A zipper sounded. Someone—a lanky Black fellow seated on the edge of a lavish bed—heaved a sigh. “You’re rather small for a War Angel,” they said. Their woodsy eyes shifted from Briar’s feet to his face. They held the hanger of a sleek garment bag from one kinked finger. “Handsome, though. I knew you were something , but seeing you now? It’s no wonder he spent a fortune on you.”

“Auction files are sealed post-purchase,” Briar snapped, matter-of-factly.

“Correct, except I happen to be the one who snatched you from the slush.” One tapered black eyebrow lifted, punched through with a gold hoop. They stood, heeled boots clicking the smooth wood floor, and extended their hand. “You can call me Luca. I’m Aster’s personal assistant. They, them and their, retired Guardian, extremely stylish.”

Briar took their hand, cautiously. “Briar—”

“Wright, yes. I came across your file two days before the Celestial Auction. I chose your showing outfit,” they said, and flashed a toothy grin. “You’re welcome.”

Heat filled Briar’ cheeks. That sheer, glittering dress he’d worn on stage hardly counted as an outfit . Still, he forced a thin smile. “And you’ll be dressing me tonight, I assume?”

“Versace,” they said, revealing a white dress shirt and pressed navy pants. “Only the best for the army on high .” Their voice lowered, hushed and sarcastic. They rolled their eyes. “Trust me, you’ll have much more fun here. Let’s get a look you, shall we?”

Briar swallowed to wet his throat. He shrugged the robe away and let it drop. Luca hummed, tapping their mouth. They tilted their head from side to side. Concentration sharpened their gaze. He wanted to shield himself, to cover his crotch with his hands or push his thighs together, but the moment he moved to cup his hands around himself, Luca tsk’d.

“You’re paler than I thought. The white better not wash you out,” Luca said. They motioned for Briar to follow. A cape trailed behind them, and their black locs were coiled into a knot atop their head. “Stand here—no, here . Ah, there we go. Put these on. Yes, these, too. And. . . Right, yes. I’ve outdone myself. Look at you, little battle bird.”

Briar chewed on the inside of his cheek. He curled his toes, concealed by matte black Chelsea boots. Canary yellow buttons lined his stomach and a thick belt circled his waist. Luca worked their fingers through Briar’s short, light-brown hair, fixing his waves into place with texturizer. They flicked his crisp collar, assessing him with another slow once over.

“When I saw your file, I thought ‘what a catch’ and you have not disappointed,” Luca said.

The heat in his face refused to fade. “Will the other concubines be joining us tonight?”

“There are no others.”

Briar blinked. “Pardon?”

“I’m certainly glad you’re aware of your intended role here but make no mistake, you are the only hopeful Aster has taken in. . .” Luca paused to count on their fingers. “Too long. Anyway, you two will be dining alone. Superbly dressed, I might add. And you will not be meek. Meet his eyes. Engage him in conversation. Don’t, under any circumstance, be dishonest. If you lie, he’ll smell it on you. Understood?”

Briar inhaled sharply through his nose. Hopeful. . . ? He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“ Understood? ”

“Yes,” he said.

“Good.” Luca tipped their chin, brows arched high on their forehead. “I hope you have a healthy appetite. Follow me.”