Hell bent around her now—not just in submission, but in worship.
Lina walked its molten halls with fire at her heels and ash in her breath, a queen not born of darkness but baptized by it. The Heart had awakened something ancient inside her—something wild, divine, and dangerous. No longer mortal. Not entirely demon. Something else.
And Andra, the demon king who once chained her, now watched her like a man drowning in the very sea he set ablaze.
She had become the storm he summoned.
That night, beneath the crimson moon that never set in Hell's sky, he found her alone on the obsidian balcony of the palace. The wind carried the scent of fire lilies—a flower that bloomed only where death kissed the earth.
Lina stood in silence, staring at the rivers of lava below. Her gown, a weave of shadow and flame, clung to her like hunger.
"I almost killed a world for you," Andra said behind her.
She didn't turn. "No. You tried to cage one."
He moved closer, slow like a predator, silent like sin. "And now?"
She looked over her shoulder, gaze like burning honey. "Now I wonder if I should've burned you where you stood."
A low sound rumbled from his chest—not anger. Lust. Madness. Worship.
He closed the space between them, fingers brushing the edge of her jaw. "Would you?"
She didn't pull away. "Maybe."
His hand slid to the back of her neck, possessive, tender in the most violent way. "Even now, I want to ruin you again," he murmured, "to drag you back to that moment when you hated me most… because at least then, you were mine without question."
Lina's breath hitched. Her fire didn't flare in protest—it shivered.
She turned fully now, looking up at him. "You never had me."
"I do now," he said darkly.
"Only because I allow it."
Their lips hovered close—heat, war, and something terrifying between them. Not love. Not yet. Something older.
She kissed him first.
It was not gentle. Not soft. It was a battle. Teeth, breath, flame. A war that tasted like ash and eternity. When she pulled back, her lips were red with fire, his claws tangled in her hair.
"If you ever try to own me again," she whispered against his mouth, "I'll turn your bones into my throne."
His grin was pure wickedness. "Then I'd burn just to feel you sit on it."
And Hell sighed. Because it knew:
This was not a love story.
It was a catastrophe.
And they were both too far gone to stop it.