2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

B riar’s heartrate spiked as he eased down the last two steps and followed Luca through a square entryway adjacent the staircase. His boots clopped the floor like hooves, echoing through the quiet, dimly lit house. They made their way past the busy kitchen, alive with spewing faucets, popping oil, and sizzling pans, to the dining room. He paused in the doorway, frozen in place by something akin to fear—a peculiar brand of curiosity. Why would the Great Duke of Hell, an original Fallen, require convincing to take a partner? His lungs tightened, as did the muscles below his navel. More importantly, why would a demon of Astaroth’s caliber choose someone as inexperienced as Briar to entertain him in bed?

Luca set their hand on his tailbone and gave him a gentle push. “Go on.”

He stumbled, easing toward an extravagant table draped in crimson cloth. Pillar candles reached toward the chandelier high above, and flames danced in a stone fireplace, casting an orange glow across the cherrywood floor. The room was silent and still. Besides the crackling logs, Briar heard nothing but the sound of his own pulse. He steadied his breathing, paying mind to how quickly he inhaled, how loudly he exhaled, and lifted his chin.

At the head of the table, Astaroth sat with one foot propped on the edge of his chair, cradling a wine glass below parted lips.

Demon king, Briar thought, snared in Astaroth’s cool, thoughtful gaze, you are not what I expected .

Astaroth sipped his wine. His foot slipped and he kicked the chair beside him, pushing it carelessly. “Sit,” he said, inclining his chin toward the empty seat.

Briar approached the table as he would a coiled cobra. “Lord Astaroth—”

“Aster,” he corrected.

Briar recognized the familiar rasp. One million. Except here, with candlelight jilting across his strong jaw and straight nose, the Great Duke was not confined to darkness. Like this, Briar’s buyer became fiercely handsome and deceptively youthful. He wore his hair short, buzzed close to his scalp, and was dressed simply, swathed in black from head to toe. A pink scar marred his chin, but otherwise, his olive complexion was free of imperfections. Even his hands, knuckles topped with bronze bands and a copper signet ring, appeared smooth and hairless. Long, dark lashes flicked as he studied Briar’s face.

“You’re Briar,” Aster said, as if a question lingered somewhere after his name.

“You bought me, you should know,” Briar said. Panic shot through his stomach. Apologize . He set his teeth, squared his shoulders, and waited, testing the space between them. A Duke of Hell could demand respect—earned or not. He anticipated the back of Aster’s hand to grace his cheek, but the blow never came.

Instead, Aster laughed in his throat. Cutely, almost. Like a muffled hiccup. “I did, didn’t I?” He set his glass on the table and reached for the decanter, carefully pouring thick, violet wine into Briar’s empty goblet. “So, tell me, what could possibly convince a dedicated War Angel to mend the enemy?”

Briar’s mouth tightened. He dug his thumbnail into his palm. “It’s complicated. A moral duty, if you will.”

“You had a moral duty to the lesser-demon occupying the body of a young girl?” Aster rested his elbow on the table, trailing his pointer finger along the rim of his wine glass. “Interesting.”

“They had a pact. Neither could survive without the other. No harm had been done, not by the demon, not by the girl. They were living peacefully.”

“Michael felt differently, I’m sure.”

“I’m a medic,” he said, exasperated, and swallowed the urge to snap. “War Angel or not, I was charged to heal the wounded, cure the sick and ensure survival. I did my job despite how Michael felt.”

“They killed her anyway?”

“Slaughtered her like a lamb,” he bit out.

“What a shame.”

“Yes,” he said, and cleared the emotion from his throat. “Yes, it was.”

Aster hummed, clanking his glass against Briar’s. “I can relate, you know.”

“I disobeyed my commanding officer. You instigated a civil war. I doubt we stand on common ground.”

“Technically, I disobeyed my commanding officer, too,” he said, offering a crooked smile. He pushed the glass toward Briar. “It’s bad luck not to drink after a toast.”

“What’re we toasting to?” He lifted the glass to his mouth, resting the rim on his bottom lip.

“I intended to say mutual disregard for authority, but I’ll choose something else. Courtship. How’s that?”

“Who’s courting who, Great Duke?” Briar asked, weighing heavy on the click at the end of duke . Pomegranate bloomed on his tongue, spiced with cardamom and cloves. When he lowered the glass, Aster pushed against the stem, guiding it back to his mouth. Briar took another long pull, gaze steady on the demon seated before him. Aster’s eyes scaled his throat as he swallowed.

“Well, I certainly can’t court you if I own you,” he mumbled. His thumb found a red droplet lingering at the corner of Briar’s mouth. “I could have you, though.”

Briar blushed terribly. “And if I’m not a thing to be had?”

Another soft, surprised laugh. Aster brought his wine-stained thumb to his lips and sucked it clean. “Then I’ll convince you.”

“Pardon. . . ?”

“What, exactly, did you think I was going to do? Strap you to my bed like a wild hog? Spare me.”

“Excuse my surprise, but your assistant chose lingerie for my showing and you retained me for an absurd amount of money. How, exactly , would you like me to respond? Thankfulness? Glee? Relief?” Truthfully, Briar was rather relieved. Cautiously optimistic, at the very least. “You don’t need my permission, so why convince me?”

“I don’t need you, period.”

“Then why bid on me?”

“Because you’ve never broken a rule in your entire godforsaken life, and because my assistant has insisted, relentlessly, that I’m lonesome in this great, big house, and most importantly, because Michael noted that you’re ‘stubbornly righteous’ in your file . ‘Rebellious and softhearted’, it said. ‘Unfit for battle.’” Aster’s clear, gray eyes narrowed. He set his chin on his knuckles. The pointed toe of his shiny black boot tapped Briar’s shin. “I’m curious, though. Was the bit about your virtue true?”

Usually, Briar’s wings would flutter and puff, responding to the influx of adrenaline stampeding through his veins, but now, the stubs on his back twitched helplessly. Blood rushed to the surface of his skin, blotching his chest and face. His teeth set hard. For the first time that night, he looked away from Aster, toward the fireplace and the painting above it— Dante and Virgil in Hell by Bouguereau—and ignored the heat prickling in his nose.

Opportunities had come and gone, to kiss and be kissed, to share his body with another, but he simply. . . hadn’t. Somehow, remaining untouched had been accidental. Being kissed would’ve led to being touched, and being touched would’ve led to sharing a bed, and sharing a bed would’ve led to sex and intimacy, and Briar had no interest in navigating the inevitable heartache afterward. He inhaled shakily.

“ Really? ” Aster purred, arching a thick, perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Plenty of people aren’t interested in sex,” Briar said, matter-of-factly.

“True. There was a box for that. Yet it remained unchecked in your auction file.”

Briar’s lips peeled apart. He shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea, but I’ve never partaken.”

“You are interested, then?”

“That depends on who’s asking.”

Aster’s smile ticked upward, just barely. Candlelight pushed shadows into the dips and curves on his face—hollowed cheeks, savagely beautiful bones. “I’m asking.”

Briar made the mistake of meeting his eyes. Everything inside him tightened, his lungs, his stomach, his heart, and he desperately tried to ignore the knot clenching beneath his navel. “I’ll need convincing,” he said, and sipped his wine.

“Good.” Aster glanced over his shoulder toward the door that led to the kitchen. Seconds later, Luca walked into the dining room.

They slapped a scroll with thick, yellowed edges on the table and met Briar’s eyes, tipping their chin politely. “Dinner will be served momentarily,” Luca said, before they walked back into the kitchen.

Briar’s breath caught. He blinked, staring at the black ink and the red splatter that had determined the next decade of his existence. At the top of the scroll, the words: Briar Wright—Angel of War—10 Year Retainment scrawled across the page in perfect cursive. At the bottom, where he’d signed in blood, was Astaroth’s name, thinly written. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the sound of a loosed pocketknife.

“I, Astaroth, Twenty-Ninth to Fall, Great Duke of Hell and Commander of Legions, free you, Briar Wright, Fallen Angel of War, from this binding contract.” Aster sounded bored, almost. As if he’d recited those same words many times before. He dug the blade into the heel of his palm and pressed his bloody hand to the scroll. “Consider yourself off retainer. Let it be known.”

Panic unspooled in his chest. Briar blinked, once, twice, a third time. His lips wobbled, trying and failing to form a coherent response. He blurted, “What?” Because nothing else seemed valuable enough to say. After a beat, he added, “Why?”

“You’re free to stay, if you’d like. You’ll have access to the manor, food, a warm bed, clothes— nice clothes, knowing Luca—and I’ll expect nothing from you besides general courtesy to my staff and the others who live here. Wash your dishes, obviously.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The atrium remains open, even during winter, and the pool is heated. In spring, we’ll cook fresh vegetables from the garden. Berries arrive in summer. If you’d like to take one of the horses out—”

“You’ve returned my free will after purchasing it. I’d appreciate an explanation.”

“No one here is owned , Briar Wright. I bought them, declared them free, and most have stayed to keep me company. Thankfully, I have a loyal staff who cleans this. . .” He circled his hand in the air. “Ridiculous house. And cooks who enjoy being in the kitchen, because frankly, I don’t. Like I said, you’re free to go. But I’ll take care of you if you decide to stay.”

“And if I decide to run a blade through your heart. Then what?” Briar challenged.

Laughter bubbled in Aster’s throat. His brows knitted, surprise jumping to his handsome face. "Then I’ll crucify you in my front yard,” he deadpanned, and rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t like ownership. I’m not patient enough for it and I’m not responsible enough for it. I have one pet—Chastity—and she’s enough.” Briar opened his mouth. Aster cut him off. “Addressing your specific concern, if I wanted to fuck someone, I’d call one of my brothers and ask them for a favor. Paimon has exquisite taste in men—rockstars, exclusively.” He shrugged, sipping his wine. “Or I’d run off to Vegas.”

The heat in Briar’s cheeks refused to quit. He searched Aster’s expression, hunting for a wedge he could crack open, a place lies might linger. “You bought me to keep your bed warm, and now. . . ?”

“You’re presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

Aster gave Briar a slow once over. “No, you’re not. But whatever idea you have about me is likely wrong. I’m not interested in people who aren’t interested in me, and unlike a few of my brothers, I don’t have a taste for. . .” His lifted his chin, glancing to the floor then back to Briar. “Fear,” he decided. His mouth curved into a smile. “But you’re still welcome to keep my bed warm.”

“If I want to?”

“If you want to.”

“Why does this feel like a trick?”

Aster snared the scroll with two fingers and pushed it toward him. “It’s not.”

The kitchen door swung open. Servants presented their dinner on gaudy, gilded dishware. Garlic scented the air, as did smoky wood and honeyed carrots. Dark meat, lightly charred and pink in the center, slid onto Briar’s plate first, followed by finely chopped shallots and a drizzle of sauce. Next, glazed carrots, roasted squash and a dollop of mashed potatoes. Briar’s empty stomach ached.

“Elk heart,” Aster said, gesturing to Briar’s plate. He pressed a thick napkin to the cut on his palm. “With. . . What was it, Clementine?”

The servant, Clementine, spooned potatoes onto his plate and smiled fondly. “Cherry wine reduction, sir.”

“See? This is why I don’t cook. I could never ,” Aster said. He scooted closer to the table. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you? There was a box for that in your file, too.”

Briar stared at the perfectly assembled food. “No, I’ve just. . . I haven’t. . . It’s heart? ”

“If we’re going to slaughter an animal, we might as well eat the entire thing.”

He poked the potatoes, then a blackened pepper, and decided, finally, to cut into the heart. At least, it didn’t look like heart. He brought a piece to his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. It was gamey, but beautifully cooked, and truthfully, Briar was too hungry and confused to complain. Aster refilled both their glasses. They ate quietly. Briar tracked Aster’s eyes, coming and going while he forked carrots into his mouth and sipped his wine.

“I’d like to talk to your staff before I make a decision,” Briar said.

Maybe it was his full belly, or the snow drifting past the window, or the logs popping in the fireplace, but he knew he’d rather be confined to Astaroth’s estate than wandering the Colorado woods, wingless and alone. Even if Aster was, actually, a barbaric terror, Briar would endure the Great Duke’s company—in bed or out of it—if it meant staying warm. For a while, at least.

“Feel free,” Aster said.

Briar cleaned his plate. Two servers cleared their dishes, and Clementine, with her blonde curls and milk white skin, set a lavish cake in the center of the table.

“Spiced ginger cake with wine-poached pears and cinnamon caramel,” she said, radiating pride. She clasped her hands together and glanced at Aster. “I improvised with the buttercream. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’ve made one of these for the house, right?” Aster said, appreciating the dessert with gentle leaning, left then right. He swiped his finger through the frosting.

Clementine swatted him playfully on the shoulder. “Yes, there’s plenty. Don’t be rude.”

“Good, go eat.” He sucked his finger clean and shooed her.

Briar, quite frankly, had no idea what to think. Clementine walked into the kitchen and Aster knifed the three-tiered cake, tipping a generous piece onto Briar’s dessert plate.

For years, he’d heard rumors of the first Fallen. The Kings and Great Dukes and Generals. Monstrous beasts who prioritized sin over all else. Lucifer’s legion reigning over Earth, creating chaos, thriving on havoc, manipulation, and pain. He had tended to wounds lesser-demons left behind and skewered ghouls on short-swords. He’d wrenched open jaws of the recently possessed, glimpsing the rot festering like lichen inside vacated bodies. But he had never met one of the first, and Aster did not match what Briar had imagined.

“I hope you stay. I wouldn’t mind your company, and honestly, Luca was right, you’re quite beautiful,” Aster said, casually, as if it were a normal thing to say. “I’d like the chance to look at you more often.”

Once again, Briar blushed terribly. “I’d rather not be reduced to. . . to cheap decoration.”

“You weren’t cheap,” Aster assured.

Briar shoved a forkful of cake into his mouth. It was annoyingly delicious.

“Decoration isn’t brave. It isn’t smart, either. It’s there to be dusted and comfortable and ornate. If you honestly think I’ll be ogling you like a Creo cabinet, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“But you will be ogling me,” Briar said.

Aster’s smile split into a grin. “I’ll be admiring you.”