she realized he had truly repudiated her...she broke.”
I swallowed hard. The way he said that word, it indicated far more than a crying fit. “What, exactly, happened to her?”
“She became a shadow of herself. Much like a wraith, she only knew two states of being—complete apathy, or mindless rage. When she turned the latter toward Azmodea and me, Daevi took us from her.”
“Wait—she attacked you?”
“I don’t think she was conscious of it. Her wrath was all-encompassing, uncontrollable, random. And in the end, it destroyed her too.”
“What do you mean?” I asked despite dreading the answer.
“She tore herself apart.”
“Figuratively.”
“No.”
I shuddered, the image forming in my mind too vivid, too horrible to dwell on. The memory of the wings pinned in the entrance hall flashed before my inner eye, a brutal reminder of the fact that, yes, demons were entirely capable of ripping off limbs with their bare hands.
“How old were you?” I asked into the weighted silence.
He seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Barely adolescent. Not old enough to have a say in my allegiance.”
“What do you mean?”
Picking up the soap and a washcloth, he started washing me, lathering my shoulders first. “Full-blood demons can choose which side of their bloodline they want to pledge themselves to when they reach maturity. Before then, the parents negotiate the care if they don’t live together. The child has no say in that until they are fully grown.”
Pieces clicked together in my mind. “Lucifer demanded your allegiance after Daevi took you away from Naamah.”
“Just so.”
“And then he...tortured you?” Disbelief dripped from my voice. “Because he was angry at your father? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Fury rarely does.” He continued washing me limb by limb, his movements efficient yet gentle. “Lucifer had just lost my mother to violence and madness, my father—who caused this—was beyond his sphere of influence, and here I was, the spitting image of the male who broke his favorite daughter, the living reminder of Lucifer’s own failure to protect Naamah. He needed an outlet for his wrath, and I was conveniently handy.”
His tone was so casual, nonchalant even, in such stark contrast to the horrid reality his words painted. My stomach turned.
“But...you’re not just Azrael’s son, you’re Naamah’s as well. If Lucifer loved her so much, shouldn’t that fact have counted for something?”
A dry, humorless laugh. “It’s the only reason he let me live.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to process this kind of dysfunctional family dynamic. “What about Azmodea?” I asked after a minute. “Where was she in all of this?”
“Azmodea is fortunate to look like our mother, enough so that Lucifer could never bring himself to harm her. He let her stay with Daevi, though, because he also couldn’t bear to see her often. The resemblance to Naamah was too much.” The water sloshed as he washed my back. “Once I reached maturity, I petitioned Daevi to join her court. She agreed and claimed me as her kin. I’ve been earning my place ever since and proving my worth to her.”
“Your worth?” I asked, a bite to my voice.
“Power is currency here. Progeny is valued because of the potential strength they bring to a demon’s bloodline and territory. The more high-ranking demons an archdemon’s domain has, the stronger that archdemon’s standing among their peers. The territories often quarrel over land and resources and other petty disputes, and Lucifer mostly lets them, as long as the bloodshed doesn’t get out of hand. The more power an individual demon has, the higher they can climb in rank.” He brought the washcloth to my front, stroking it over my breasts and belly in moves more intended to clean than to arouse. “I made sure to climb high and fast.”
I considered that for a moment. “What’s your rank, exactly?” He’d never mentioned it, and it hadn’t occurred to me to ask.
“Cherub.”
If I had taken a sip from a drink right that second, I’d have spit it out in a burst of laughter. As it was, I choked on the amusement bubbling up from a place of unexpected hilarity, untouched by the earlier anguish.
“A cherub?” I asked in between barely suppressed giggles. Images of the chubby baby angels with tiny wings so often depicted in European art over the centuries filled my mind. I giggled some more.
“Glad to see you’re still capable of merriment,” he muttered, his tone warm.
I squeezed his hand, all too aware of how he’d managed to pull my attention away from the maelstrom of sadness that threatened