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Belphegor had not become an archdemon, my form taking too much of the Source as Lucifer created us simultaneously, and that had made my brother bitter as a child.
Would he keep me safe? Yes. Would he also be so hot and cold that I didn’t know what to expect or even what I wanted to be true? Also yes.
Not for the first time, I wished the bastard would wear a fucking shirt. His comfort in his own body was disarming at best, distracting at worst.
was the Red witch, and yet sometimes it seemed like it was me who was trapped under his spell.
There’d been days when I’d dreamt of feeling that way about my skin, days when I’d wondered what it would feel like not to wish I could hide every inch of myself, to disguise the evidence of my abuse that came in the scars that lingered both on my skin and in my mind.
Knowing that what I felt was genuine had changed everything for me. There was no denying our inevitability now.
a man that wasn’t even fucking mine.
I didn’t know how to do any of this. Beelzebub nodded, an understanding smile crossing his face. “I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready to let me in, songbird,”
“Who the fuck is Mephistopheles? It sounds like a Goddess-damned disease,”
“I couldn’t take back the way I feel even if I wanted to. You have burrowed your way into my soul and branded me with your mark.”
Was I capable of loving him back now that my bindings had been broken? The flutter in my stomach said yes, and I wished I could clip that fucking thing’s wings and tell it to shut up.
