I did not scream.
I do not know if that makes me brave or stupid.
Lucifer was still holding me when reality began to settle in like cold water filling my lungs.
His arms were warm. Strong. Unmoving.
Too real.
This was not a dream. Dreams blur at the edges. They feel unstable.
This place felt ancient.
Solid stone walls stretched endlessly behind him. Flames burned in iron sconces, but the fire gave no smoke. No ash. The air was heavy but breathable, filled with something darker than oxygen. Something that tasted like power.
I forced myself to move.
"Let me go."
My voice was steady.
Inside, my heart was slamming so hard it hurt.
His grey eyes studied me, amused, curious. Like I was reacting exactly how he expected.
"Why?" he asked softly.
Because you are Satan.
Because this is Hell.
Because I should be terrified.
Instead I said, "Because I did not agree to sit on your lap."
His lips curved slowly.
Interesting. I had expected anger. Violence. Maybe horns. Fire. Madness.
Not this calm.
Not this controlled, intoxicating presence.
"You will have to get used to it," he replied.
I pushed against his chest again.
He let me go.
Just like that.
No struggle.
I slid off his lap and stepped back quickly, putting distance between us.
The floor beneath me was black marble, smooth and cold. My bare feet made no sound.
"Where am I exactly?" I asked.
He rose slowly from the throne behind him.
He was taller than I had realized.
Much taller.
His black clothes fit his body perfectly. The fabric was luxurious, tailored, almost royal. The sleeves hugged his forearms. The collar framed his sharp jaw.
Every movement he made was deliberate. Confident.
"You are in my kingdom," he said.
I folded my arms.
"Which is?"
His eyes gleamed faintly.
"Hell."
Silence.
I waited for lightning. For dramatic music. For something theatrical.
Nothing happened.
It felt… normal.
Too normal.
"If this is Hell," I said carefully, "where are the screams? The torture? The fire rivers?"
A slow, low chuckle escaped him.
"You humans have very limited imaginations."
He began walking toward me.
Each step echoed softly.
"Hell is not chaos. It is order. It is hierarchy. It is discipline."
He stopped in front of me.
Close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes.
"And you," he added, "will stand beside me."
I let out a breath.
"I did not agree to anything."
His expression shifted slightly.
Not anger.
Authority.
"You were promised."
That word again.
Promised.
"I was not even born," I snapped.
"Exactly."
My stomach tightened.
"You cannot own someone because of a deal I did not make."
His gaze darkened just a fraction.
"It was not your choice."
My hands clenched.
"I am not property."
His lips twitched.
"You are not property."
A pause.
"You are mine."
The difference in tone made heat rush to my face.
Not fear.
Anger.
And something else I refused to name.
"Who made this deal?" I demanded.
He tilted his head slightly.
"You truly do not know?"
My pulse slowed.
"No."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Curiosity.
"Your grandmother."
The word felt foreign.
Grandmother.
"She is alive?" I asked before I could stop myself.
A faint smile returned.
"Very."
My mind raced.
My father's mother.
The woman he adored.
The woman he never took us to see.
"She offered you," Lucifer continued calmly, "in exchange for her life."
The room felt smaller.
"What?"
"She was to die."
His voice was casual, like discussing weather.
"I went to end her."
The way he said it.
So simple.
"So you tried to kill her," I whispered.
"Yes."
"And she offered you me?"
"Yes."
My thoughts spiraled.
"That makes no sense," I said.
"Oh, it makes perfect sense."
He stepped closer again.
"Your grandmother is not what you believe her to be."
I searched his face for a lie.
He looked too confident to be lying.
"What is she then?" I asked quietly.
His smile sharpened.
"A witch."
I laughed.
I could not help it.
A witch.
This was absurd.
He did not laugh.
"She tortured my kind," he continued.
The air shifted.
Subtle.
Darker.
"She summoned demons. Bound them. Used them. All for power."
I stared at him.
"No."
"You are naive," he said softly.
My chest tightened.
"My grandmother owns a bakery in France."
His eyebrow lifted.
"Does she?"
I had never seen her.
Never spoken to her.
Never heard her voice.
My father avoided the topic whenever we asked.
The ticking sound suddenly echoed faintly in my memory.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
"She possessed something rare," Lucifer said. "A stone. Ancient. Powerful."
"And?" I pressed.
"And I do not tolerate humans enslaving demons."
There it was.
Not chaos.
Not madness.
Control.
Discipline.
Pride.
"So instead of killing her," I said slowly, "you accepted a child's soul."
His gaze did not waver.
"I accepted a future queen."
Queen.
The word hit differently.
"You expect me to rule Hell?" I asked.
"You will."
He sounded certain.
Unshakable.
"I have a life," I said sharply. "A mother. A brother. Friends."
His eyes softened slightly at that.
"You have one month."
There it was again.
"One month to detach yourself."
Detach.
Like I was removing jewelry.
"And if I refuse?"
Silence.
The flames along the walls flickered higher.
"You will not."
"That is not an answer."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"If you attempt to run, I will retrieve you."
Cold spread through my veins.
"And if you try to expose me," he added calmly, "the consequences will fall upon those you love."
Katy.
Orla.
Joseph.
My mother.
"You are threatening me."
"I am informing you."
I swallowed.
"You said I cannot tell my friends."
"Yes."
"Why?"
His eyes darkened with something almost possessive.
"Because they are not part of this world."
"And my family is?"
"You may tell them you are leaving. Nothing more."
My thoughts tangled.
How do you tell your mother you are moving to Hell?
How do you look at your brother and lie?
"How am I supposed to prepare to be Queen of Hell?" I asked bitterly.
A slow smile returned.
"You will learn."
"How?"
His hand lifted.
For a second I flinched.
He noticed.
Something unreadable passed through his expression.
His fingers brushed a strand of my hair gently.
"You will visit me."
"In my dreams," I whispered.
"Yes."
A chill ran down my spine.
"You have already begun."
The nightmares.
The shadow.
The ticking.
"That was you."
"Of course."
Anger flared again.
"You could have just knocked."
He laughed softly.
"I prefer drama."
Despite myself, a small, traitorous smile almost formed.
I crushed it immediately.
"I am not afraid of you," I said.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Good."
He leaned closer.
"Fear is dull."
His hand slid to my waist again.
Slow.
Testing.
"And I do not want a dull queen."
My breath caught.
The air between us felt charged.
He smelled like smoke and something darker. Something intoxicating.
I hated that my body reacted.
"I will not marry you," I whispered.
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips.
"You will."
"You are very confident."
"I am never wrong."
Arrogant.
Infuriating.
Magnetic.
"You do not even know me," I said.
His eyes met mine again.
"I know enough."
"Like what?"
His thumb traced the edge of my jaw slowly.
"You are stronger than you appear."
My heart skipped.
"You are angry."
Another pause.
"And you are curious."
I stepped back abruptly.
"I am not curious."
"You are standing in Hell and you are not screaming."
He had a point.
That bothered me.
"I am in shock," I said.
"No," he replied softly.
"You are remembering."
Remembering what?
Before I could ask, the room began to blur slightly.
The flames flickered strangely.
"You are returning," he said calmly.
"Returning?"
"To your room."
Panic flared suddenly.
"Wait."
I did not know why I said it.
His expression shifted.
Interest.
"You have questions," he said.
"Yes."
"Good."
The world around me began dissolving into darkness.
"You will dream tonight," he added.
"Of what?"
His smile turned dangerous.
"Training."
The last thing I felt was his hand gripping my waist firmly.
Then my eyes snapped open.
I was in my bed.
Rain still hitting the window.
My canvas still on the easel.
The painted demon staring at me.
Except now, the painting had changed.
The grey eyes were brighter.
Alive.
And on the lower corner of the canvas, written in black paint I did not remember adding, were three words.
One month left.