Chapter 9: His Claim, His Rules

Lyra's POV

I didn't sleep.

How could I?

The images from earlier refused to leave me. They replayed again and again—the Demon Lord sitting in front of me, untouched by shame or hesitation, Seravine on her knees before him, mouth working him like she'd done it a thousand times. And those eyes—his cruel, beautiful eyes—never once leaving mine.

Even now, long after he had vanished from the room, I could feel his stare on my skin like heat. Like pressure.

The chains were gone.

But the invisible grip he had on me? That wasn't fading.

I curled up under the silk sheets on the bed—his bed. I hated that it smelled like him, like shadows and smoke and heat. My legs kept pressing together, restless. My breath refused to settle.

What had he done to me?

What spell had he woven into my veins?

I turned on my side, trying to shake it off. But my body was alive, too alive. Tingling. His touch hadn't even been intimate—just my throat, my hair, the damn mark on my back—and still I burned. Shame and something darker battled in my chest.

And deep down, where I didn't want to admit it… I wanted more.

I wanted to know what it would feel like to be the one on my knees.

What was wrong with me?

I shut my eyes tightly and tried to sleep.

I didn't know how long I drifted in and out, but I woke to the sound of boots echoing on the marble floor.

I sat up quickly.

He was back.

The Demon Lord entered the room like he owned the air. He always did. That black robe was back on his body—loose, flowing, teasing what was beneath. His hair was damp, like he'd just stepped out of a shower made of sin. And those eyes were worse in daylight. They didn't just glow—they devoured.

"I trust you slept well," he said, voice smooth as oil and just as dangerous.

I swallowed and clutched the sheet tighter around me. "You know I didn't."

He smiled. It made my skin crawl—and heat.

"Good."

He didn't ask for permission. He walked straight to the edge of the bed and sat. I tensed as his hand reached forward, brushing my hair behind my ear.

"You saw only a glimpse last night," he said. "A taste. That was lesson one."

I blinked. "Lesson?"

He leaned closer. "You are mine, Lyra. Body, blood, soul. But obedience doesn't come without training. You're unbroken clay right now. Soft. But I'll shape you."

My stomach twisted. "You can't just decide that—"

He raised his hand. I flew back again, my body dragged into the chair near the hearth.

Chains.

Familiar now.

"What did I tell you about defiance?" he asked, voice quiet, deadly.

I bit my lip. The chains stung this time. Tighter. "You said not to tempt you."

He smirked. "And yet here you are. Still testing my patience."

He stood and walked to a dark cabinet, pulling it open to reveal rows of vials—liquids in red, black, even glowing gold. I watched him mix one into a goblet before walking toward me.

He knelt.

My breath caught.

He brought the cup to my lips.

"Drink."

I stared at it, unsure.

"It won't kill you. But it'll make you feel… open. Honest."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to spit it back at him. But I drank.

It was sweet. And then bitter. Then… hot. Like fire sliding down my throat and settling in my chest.

My thighs clenched without warning.

"What the hell—" I gasped.

He smiled. "Honesty potion. Useful in moments like these."

I stared at him, furious and trembling. "You drugged me?"

"I enhanced you," he corrected. "Now, let's begin."

He spent the next hour testing me.

Touching. Speaking. Commanding.

He told me to sit still while he trailed fingers over my throat, my shoulders, my breasts. He never rushed. Every touch was slow, calculated. My skin betrayed me—goosebumps rising every time his hand passed.

The potion made everything feel sharper. More vivid.

When his lips brushed the side of my neck, I moaned. Moaned.

He laughed. "So responsive. You were made for this."

"You're a monster," I hissed, cheeks burning.

"Yes," he agreed. "But I'm your monster now."

He stepped back, finally releasing the chains.

I slumped forward, humiliated. Breathless.

"Put something on," he ordered. "You're coming with me."

I blinked up at him. "What?"

"You need to see what happens to those who defy me in public."

A new wing of the palace.

This place was colder, darker. Shadows clung to the walls like living things. I followed him barefoot, dressed in a thin slip of fabric that did little to cover me. I was too dizzy to argue.

We entered a throne room.

But this wasn't the grand hall I expected—it was smaller, more intimate. A single servant knelt on the black stone floor. Trembling. Bleeding.

"Master," he whimpered. "Forgive me. I—I lost the shipment—"

The Demon Lord didn't even look at him.

He raised his hand.

The servant screamed.

His body lifted off the ground, twisting in midair like some invisible hand had grabbed every nerve. Bones cracked. Skin blackened.

I turned away.

But he growled. "Look."

I did.

Because I couldn't disobey.

The man's flesh began to flake away, turning to ash.

The Demon Lord said one word: "Vermin."

The servant exploded into dust.

Gone.

Nothing remained but a smear on the floor and the faint smell of burnt hair.

My stomach turned. I could barely stand.

"This," the Demon God said, turning to me, "is what I do to weakness. To failure."

He took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up at him.

"And you, my little flame… you don't get to fail."

I shivered.

Not from fear.

But from want.