Severus tapped his knuckles on the doorframe, battle-weary and more drained from the day than he cared to admit. “You rang, brother?”

He wasn’t sure why his brother had summoned him to their very empty entertaining hall, but here he was, being a good sport. He hadn’t exactly been prompt; Malachi had called him through the manor’s speaker system some time ago, but Severus hadn’t come trotting along like an obedient dog until he was sure Moira was all right on her own.

“Hmm, yes.” Malachi beckoned him in with a crooked finger, studying one of the dozens of papers spread across what had once been an elegant dining table. Now, all the chairs had been swept aside and stacked against the walls. Any simpleton would have thrown a sheet over them to protect them from the dust, but his brother wasn’t exactly adept at housework.

None of them were, to be fair. Alaric and Severus only begrudgingly team-cleaned their home every other month or so; Moira had taken over much of the cleaning after she had moved in, despite their constant insistence that it wasn’t necessary. She had told him that it kept her busy while he and Alaric were out of the house all day, but he still didn’t like the idea of her tidying up after them all the time. She wasn’t a servant. Alaric had wanted to hire a maid service, but Verrier put his foot down; the fewer people who had access to the building, the better.

“What’s all this?” Severus asked, his shoes clicking curtly along the tile as he crossed to the table. Contracts of some sort, written in a very old Latin script. He reached for the nearest page, only to stop when Malachi cleared his throat.

“How is she?”

“Fine.” When prompted by his brother’s arched brow, Severus quickly added, “Better. Today shook her, as I thought it would. We shouldn’t have brought her.”

Malachi snorted. “Like you have the resolve to leave her behind. She wouldn’t let you…not when you’re so tightly wound around her little finger.”

A retort brewed on the tip of his tongue, but Severus swallowed his annoyance instead. After all, Malachi had been helpful today. He had taken a near disemboweling for the cause, been chowed on by Diriel’s hellhounds, and protected Moira once she’d sprung him free. Now, clad in his usual form-fitting attire, his dress shirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his wild golden hair pinned back, he looked almost presentable. Hours ago, he’d been a bloodstained mess.

But Severus had been too. Covered in his blood, the blood of Diriel’s vassals—so much blood. Under his nails, in his ears, caked up his nostrils. Every injury he’d sustained had healed, but he still couldn’t forgive himself for not getting to her. Moira had charged into the fray to defend his brother, and there had been too many fucking obstacles in the way for Severus to reach her. He’d be kicking himself for years to come; it was by some miracle that Asmodeus and his boys had shown up when they had. Given more time, Diriel’s vassals might have turned their sights on her.

Asmodeus. Trailing his finger along the dusty table, Severus shuddered at the memory. The former angel was one of the six hundred and sixty-six who’d fallen alongside Lucifer. Like Verrier, they had been cast to Hell for disobeying the laws of Heaven, and here they had ruled ever since. Corrupted Ones. Demons yet not, infected, poisoned, by the spirit of Hell: or so the stories went. Asmodeus and his band of merry men made up the Exsequores—the enforcers. They spent their time corralling and punishing miscreant demons. Rumor had it they delighted in every sentence passed, and from the way the creatures had pounced on Diriel as the carriage pulled away, Severus was inclined to believe it.

Things could have taken a very, very, very bad turn today.

He shouldn’t have brought Moira.

But Malachi was right, the bastard. Severus was hopelessly wound around her little finger, and he was starting to wonder if it clouded his judgement. He loved her, sure, but in the end, what would that love cost him?

“Where is she?” His brother’s voice cut into his musings, silencing what could have been a very long, very arduous spiral into regret and self-doubt.

“My room,” Severus told him, turning his attention back to the papers. “I brought her something to eat. She’s settled now.”

She had cried herself raw on the carriage ride back, chilling both demons to the bone with her ethereal anguish, only to start up again once they were alone. The battle. The blood. The hellhounds. Diriel. Her father’s name. As a child of Hell, nothing beyond their run-in with the enforcers rattled Severus. But for Moira—it was all too much.

He should have left her behind.

While he had wanted to ask for her thoughts on Aeneas, he had decided to give her time to process the news herself first. He tended to her feelings, held her while she cried and kissed her when she stopped. Severus had insisted she think on everything. Verrier had named Aeneas among the angel sketches Severus had made when all this first started. Moira had seen his face there. She had read the name before; if he recalled correctly, she thought it sounded rather archaic. It likely played across her mind now, a memory tainted by all that the fucker had done to her.

Severus had kept his cool in front of her thus far, but the fact that Aeneas was head of the Seraphim Securities branch in Farrow’s Hollow troubled him. He ran the show. Leader of his garrison: all the other angels would look to him for guidance. One word and the full might of Heaven could rain down upon Severus—and Moira.

They needed to play their cards carefully when they returned to Earth. Very, very carefully. It was a wonder Aeneas hadn’t smote them both already.

“Well, good,” Malachi crooned, maintaining an unnerving amount of eye contact as he swept all the papers up into a single neat stack. “If she’s all tucked away with a good meal, then I can assume I’ll have your full attention?”

He let out a bristly exhale. “Don’t be a fuck, Malachi.”

His brother grinned, and for a few moments, Severus was tempted to grin back. The flicker of his lips, the sudden humor in his heart—was this what it felt like to bond with one’s sibling? Unimpressed with himself, Severus forced his lips into a thin line, then nodded to the pile. “What’s this?”

“This is a contract signing over the property ownership to Cordelia in my absence, who will then entrust it to Auntie Circe when she needs to go topside.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Wait a moment. Your absence?”

“From Hell,” Malachi said frankly, his fingertips drumming the edge of the marble table. “I’ll be returning to Earth with you, and I can’t go unless we sign the deed over to Cordelia…together. I’m sure there are countless rats waiting to descend upon such a prime piece of real estate. It should stay in the family.”

Stay in the family? Severus finally allowed himself to grin. “How selfless of you. Tell me, brother, why is it that you want to go to Earth? Burned all your bridges here?”

“You’re about to square up against an angel,” Malachi remarked, lifting his chin haughtily. “An angel who is leading a squadron of other angels. You’ll need my help.”

Severus couldn’t help himself: he snorted. Loudly. Repeatedly. He held a hand over his mouth to contain it, but he couldn’t stop. Malachi wished to go topside so he could help? Never in his very long life had Severus known him to be quite so selfless. There had to be an ulterior motive in play.

“D’you think I’m a fool, Malachi?” he asked once he’d settled. His brother had watched the whole display in silence, exasperation dripping from every pore. Waiting, Severus crossed his arms and chuckled, his laughter more subdued this time. “Tell me the real reason, and perhaps I’ll consider lending my signature.”

“Don’t be petty, brother, it doesn’t suit you.”

“And, what, altruism suits you?” he fired back, the laughter dead and buried now. “Be serious with me.”

“I was being serious with you,” Malachi growled, stalking around the corner of the table, going toe-to-toe with an unflinching Severus.

“When?”

“When I said I wanted to be a better brother,” Malachi hissed, his eye twitching. “I tortured you, Severus. I know it now. I’ve had a fucking century in this place by myself to reflect on our history, and I…I want it to be better. You and I… We’re all that’s left. You’re my family—”

“I haven’t had a family for centuries, and we both know it.”

“Save the dramatics—”

“I will not—”

“You are my brother,” Malachi snarled. “You’re the only one I’ve got. I’ll not grovel at your feet and beg forgiveness. I’ll not ply you with sweet words and trinkets, hoping to change the past. We are alone, you and I, and I wish for us to be allies. I wish for us to be better than they were, because I know for a fact that we are.”

“An incubus, better than any old run-of-the-mill demon?” His words trembled as he spoke them, and Severus hated himself for it. “Blasphemy, brother, utter blasphemy—”

“Stop,” Malachi stabbed the dead center of Severus’s chest with a thick finger, the claw biting through his shirt, “being petty. I am sorry for my past behavior. Have I not proven myself willing to do the work? I saved your lover’s life today—”

“After she saved yours,” Severus spat, taking a much-needed step back, his heart racing. “You’ve never been one to sit in another’s debt, Malachi.”

“She’s a good fighter,” his brother remarked. “Strong. Determined. Brave. She was terrified, yet she thrust herself in harm’s way for me. Mother would approve.”

“Enough of this—”

“Let me help you help her.” Malachi prowled after him, hands clasped behind his back now and head ducked down so they were at eye level. “You face an angel, brother. You’ll need all the help you can get. If I’m more hindrance than help, we’ll go our separate ways, but you must—”

He shook his head, scowling. “I must do nothing.”

“We are brothers, Severus. You must let me try.”

The chaos demon paused, and only then did Severus feel the wall pressed up against his back. He pushed off it, stalking around his brother—but only back to the table, not out the door. If Malachi was so desperate to leave Hell without losing the family estate, he must have his own game afoot. The idea of him helping Severus—of lending a hand in his hour of need against a real foe—was laughable.

But what did it matter if Malachi abandoned him the second they were through the hell-gate? What was it to him? If anything, it would prove Severus right, and it would put Malachi in his debt—because he couldn’t leave without Severus’s signature, his full name scrawled in blood across dozens of those parchment papers.

“Fine,” he muttered, swiping a hand over his hair—forgetting, briefly, about the horns. “I’ll sign it, and then your actions will define us, Malachi. Do you understand me? It will come down to you.”

Malachi dipped into an unnecessary little half bow. “Naturally.”

Fucker, I don’t believe you for a second. “Well, summon Cordelia, I suppose. I want to get Moira back where she belongs as soon as possible.”

“No need, brother, she’s already here.” Malachi crossed the room with an annoyingly confident strut, forever the victor. “Let herself in, too, the minx.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose; of course Malachi already had Cordelia waiting in the wings. Naturally, his brother was just that arrogant—because Severus would yield and Malachi would get his way, as per usual.

He glared up sharply when Malachi clapped him on the shoulder in passing. With a heavy sigh, he swallowed his snarl and joined his brother at the table, skimming the first page of the contract with only mild interest. He’d made it to the small print at the bottom when the click-clacking of heels distracted him.

“Hello, boys,” drawled that raspy jazz-singer voice, made harder and smokier in Hell. In waltzed Cordelia, dressed to the nines in her summer attire—black lace from head to toe, including the gloves.

“Thank you for coming, Cordie.”

“You’re lucky I adore you, Mal. I don’t miss the midsummer roast for just anyone.”

Ahh yes, the midsummer roast—demons torching human souls in Pandemonium’s ceremonial town square. What a sacrifice his cousin had made to be with them today.

After she greeted Malachi with a surprisingly gracious hug, Cordelia sashayed around him and made a beeline for Severus. Alaric would have found her wildly fascinating, all her magic-induced scarring on full display. There was hardly a sliver of untouched skin left on her face, but even now, Cordelia was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, scarred or not.

“Hello, cuzzy,” she greeted, kissing his cheek when he offered it. Neither went in for the hug, but she patted his chest affectionately instead, leaning in with a smug grin. “Glad to see you looking more yourself.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he told her, finding his mood suddenly improved at the sight of Cordelia as it never had before. In some strange way, she reminded him of Farrow’s Hollow—and the fact that he was headed back there shortly. “We go topside as soon as we’re all sorted out here.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said lightly, shooting a sidelong glance Malachi’s way as he strolled toward them. “And I’m left with this pile of dust and marble in the meantime. How lady fortune smiles upon me.”

“Consider it a temporary measure,” Malachi said as he settled himself between them, an arm thrown over each of their shoulders. Severus stiffened at the touch, but Cordelia snuggled up next to him like a purring cat. Honestly. Where had the dignity in this family gone? Malachi gave them both a squeeze, then marched them over to the stack of papers. “Now that we’re all present, let’s get signing. The notary will be arriving shortly.”

As Cordelia plucked off a glove and sank a sharp tooth into the flesh of her bony index finger, Severus shot his brother a skeptical look.

Why the rush to go topside, brother?

Was he running away from something down here—or running to something up there?

Only time would tell, and Severus knew that time would vindicate him; Malachi would disappear the second they stepped out of the gate, and all this talk of rekindling their relationship, of being better brothers, would be shown for the bullshit he knew it to be.

Severus just knew it. He could gloat at last—for he would finally be the victor in this never-ending marathon of fraternal competition.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

* * *

Moira had never seen so many family portraits in one place before—not unless said place was a museum or gallery, and even then, this was excessive.

She stood before one wall of four that was lined, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with portraits of varying sizes. They all appeared painted; oil paintings, it seemed, but she didn’t dare risk a touch, even if she was curious about technique, about the oils used in the finishing. Not only had her degree forbidden her from touching any work of art with her hands, museum relics and artifacts included, but she half expected the demonic faces to lunge out at her if she got too close. Hundreds of twisted yet handsome figures peered down at her—down their noses at her, more like—and, ever since she had innocently wandered into this grand hall on the first floor, she’d felt like someone was watching her.

Well, not someone—someones. The artist had managed to create portraits with eyes that followed her no matter where in the room she stood. It should have unnerved her enough to send her running, but she found she couldn’t look away. There was just so much intricate, rich detail to take in. While nothing here was remotely close to Severus’s style, she couldn’t help but wonder if his love of portrait work stemmed from this space. It sprawled the entire three levels of the building, and had she worn shoes, she knew each tentative footstep would have echoed.

Like much of the rest of the house, the room had been neglected after Malachi and Severus’s parents passed. Dust coated the tops of the portraits she could reach, and there wasn’t a speck of furniture or décor to be found. Just a giant room with hundreds of demon paintings—and just about every single one of them looked smug.

Must be a Saevitia thing.

She frowned, saying Severus’s last name over and over again. Saevitia. When she had first learned his true name, back on that fateful day in her bedroom, her world falling apart all over again, he hadn’t offered a last name. Just Severus. Incubus. He identified more with that, with this caste of demon looked down on by all the others, than he did his own family. That should have been telling enough, but as Moira studied the portraits, hands clasped behind her back, she wished she knew more. More about him, about the clan and its history. More about his relationship with his brother, his parents, his extended family.

Moira just wanted to know him. She loved him. And she loved her family. It had always been important to her to fall for a man who shared those values, but she could understand why he chose to go it alone.

She could be his family, then, and Severus could be hers. Severus, and Ella. Moira could live with that—quite happily.

Because the only blood family waiting for her in Farrow’s Hollow was some high-ranking angel who wanted her tortured and murdered. If that hadn’t changed the emphasis she placed on relationships with her immediate family, she’d be a lunatic.

Aeneas. Onions.

What had she ever done to him?

Did he loathe her on principle? Could he really be so petty—so cruel?

She knew she had to stop thinking of him as an angel in the traditional sense. Angels were supposed to be loving—to protect mankind from the evils of the world. Apparently her dad had missed the memo.

She shook her head, dragging in a deep breath before moving on to the next portrait: a female demon, her wispy white hair painted down to her shoulders, flyaways and all. Moira admired the bluish undertones in her otherwise pale skin, her full black eyes and sumptuous mouth. The Elizabethan collar had the most wonderful detail, with all its little buttons and pearls and gold embellishments.

Moira wanted to use the clothing to take a stab at the era the portraits were completed in, but time ran differently in Hell, and if Cordelia could dress like she had just waltzed out of a Victorian gothic romance, then there was no telling when Elizabethan collars had been in fashion.

She needed this—the distraction. After Severus had dropped off a much-needed meal—fluffy breads and a platter of thin-sliced, maybe raw, meats—and disappeared to see what his brother wanted now, Moira had been left to dwell on everything. On what she had seen today. On the way she still saw the merciless red glare of the hellhounds whenever she closed her eyes. On Asmodeus and his cruel smirk. And on her dad. It all came back to him, and it made her stomach turn. Unable to sit still a second longer, she’d polished off the breads, still leery of the raw meat, and gone exploring on her own.

Moira had forced herself to admire the details of the home, from the crown molding to the pillars, to the accents of gold throughout and the enormous white marble staircases. She thought back to her lectures on architecture and interior design. She kept her mind as busy as she could, hoping to block everything else out, but she only succeeded in that when she found the portrait room.

Time had no meaning surrounded by all these portraits, but she guessed she’d been at it—her curious, somewhat academic inspection of Severus’s family—for about an hour when she heard the curt click of shoes stalking toward her. Wingtip oxfords, most likely; Severus seemed partial to them in Hell and on Earth. She cocked her head to the side ever so slightly, a small smile playing across her lips as she listened to the familiarity of his gait, his strides long and leisurely, yet precise as always. She knew he’d have one hand in his pocket—she knew it without so much as glancing back.

The clicks stopped directly behind her. He had no hum in Hell. No faint vibration, nothing hiding under the surface. She smiled, leaning into his sturdy figure when he wrapped his arms around her middle, and tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder, her neck exposed. Severus trailed his lips across the sensitive skin, murmuring a soft rumble of approval.

“You had me worried, you know, when you weren’t in the bedroom.”

“I had to walk,” she told him, her gaze drifting upward, higher and higher, across the portraits. “I had to get out of my head.” Still, she didn’t want him to worry. He did enough of that already. Exhaling softly, she leaned back even further to kiss his cheek—a quick peck and nothing more, giggling when he tried to turn swiftly and catch her lips too.

“Tease.”

“I didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I like worrying about you. I’ve never worried about anyone except myself, and I find the change of pace refreshing,” Severus insisted, his mouth back on her neck, their bodies swaying ever so slightly side to side. Their own little dance, here, with hundreds of judgy eyes watching them. Moira smoothed her hands along his arms, clutching at his elbows and grinning at the faint hint of teeth on her throat.

“I’ll keep that in mind, I guess.” She nibbled her lip for a moment, still staring at the portraits, but no longer seeing them. It was easier to get lost in him—and infinitely more fun. Moira found comfort in the strength of his body, firm and unrelenting, even after today’s battle. In his scent, masculine and gruff, yet reassuring too. Strange how a smell could do so many things, elicit so many feelings—touch every one of the senses. His scent stirred visceral memories of their naked bodies entwined as rain hammered his Farrow’s Hollow bedroom, of wicked smiles and dangerous glances. It made her wet—and it made her whole.

“Everything all right with your brother?” she asked, knowing the subject merited a quick check-in—even if being wrapped in his arms made her knees weak.

“As all right as it’ll ever be, I suppose,” he said after a sharp exhale, his breath hot against her skin. His head lifted from her neck, and a tentative glance up showed his black-eyed stare wandering between the portraits, that red pupil especially noticeable amidst the white and gold airiness of his family home. She wanted to press him more about Malachi, but it was clear as day that the topic needed to be handled delicately. So, Moira waited. Let him bring it up again—if he wanted to. If not, she’d try another day.

She only meant to glance back at him briefly, get a read on his expression, the look in his eyes. But in his true form, Moira just couldn’t help but openly ogle him. Severus had been startling at first—the ashen-grey skin, the horns, the crazy black hair, the claws. He should have sent her running. It was her first thought whenever she learned something new about him, whenever she saw a new side to him. Run. But she couldn’t—she wouldn’t.

While Hell might have been too overwhelming for her, Moira found she adored Severus in Hell. There was something different about him down below—a cool, genuine confidence that she hadn’t always seen on Earth. He knew who he was. He didn’t take shit from his family anymore. And his raw, open affection with her was priceless. Confident, laid-back, yet still in control—demon Severus was sex on a stick. If she wasn’t so terrified of everything down here, so in her head about her dad, Moira had a feeling they would never leave the bedroom.

“Take a picture, you ridiculous creature,” Severus said, his tone straddling the line between teasing and self-deprecating. Moira chuckled, tipping her head to the side, an unspoken come hither for his mouth.

“Speaking of pictures,” she said, trailing her nails along the landscape of his face—gaunter in Hell, with higher cheekbones. “I haven’t seen your portrait yet. I found Malachi’s, but not yours.”

“No, I suspect you wouldn’t.” He broke away suddenly, snagging her hand and tugging her along until they stopped at the painting of his brother. With all that golden hair, he looked positively angelic. Moira smirked; maybe she should tell him that.

“But—”

“I had one. I assume they took it down when I went topside and never came back,” Severus mused, loosely clutching her hand as he studied the other portraits around Malachi’s. “I’m sure Father burned it.”

“I’m sorry your parents were such dicks.”

He snorted, drawing her into his arms again, her back fitting perfectly into the hard dips and lines of his chest. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t care. Not anymore.”

Moira bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from blurting I very much doubt that. She had seen his face when he learned that his parents were dead. He cared—at least a little.

He nibbled at her ear, each soft breath eliciting a new wave of goosebumps coursing down her body. Moira had forgone all the tight leather and uncomfortable studded crap they had packed for this trip, and instead opted for an airy floor-length dress instead. Eggplant-purple with a high neckline and sleeves to her elbows, it dripped opulence with each flutter of the excessive skirt fabric, and while it needed to be worn with a belt to hug her figure, Moira had gone without that too. It hung loosely down her body, concealing it, which she knew Severus wouldn’t like—but she looked forward to the hunger in his eyes when he realized she’d ditched the underwear too.

“If you want to keep looking at the, er,” he waved a hand toward the wall, “pretentious paintings, feel free. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going home tonight. As soon as we’re packed, we’re gone.”

Home. The word, spoken in his gravelly baritone, plucked at her heartstrings in a way so real, so primal, that Moira found herself blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears. She quickly swiped her finger under each eye, unable to stop herself from smiling.

“Home?”

“Mhmm.” His mouth was back on her skin, like he just couldn’t stay away. “Now that we have your father’s name, our business in Hell is complete. I have no desire to stay here longer than necessary, and I’m sure Ella is positively beside herself in your absence. I think we should go home.”

Home. He thought of Farrow’s Hollow as home. She swallowed hard. Of course he would. He had lived there for years, much longer than she had always imagined, but the way he said it—we should go home. Together. They should go back to their home—and Moira realized in that moment that home was wherever they were together. It wasn’t a place—it was a feeling.

Lower lip caught between her teeth, she turned in Severus’s arms, sliding her hands up his chest and cupping his chin. His jawline was sharper here, his entire being more angular, and still he was the most handsome man she had ever known. Demon. Not man. The word didn’t bother her anymore; she should get used to thinking it. His hands threaded together, resting on the small of her back.

“I’m home with you,” she whispered, then pushed up onto her toes and kissed him. He didn’t respond right away, and before her eyes fluttered closed, she caught him staring straight down at her—maybe in shock. Maybe he was too surprised to kiss her back, and maybe he was just cherishing the moment. Whatever the reason, it brought a smile to her lips, and she wrapped her arms around him and nipped at his lower lip—again and again, tugging at it and letting it snap back into place before he finally growled and descended upon her.

Moira took the harshness of his reciprocation with a squeal, desire unfurling deep within as he marched her toward the wall. Her back collided with a portrait as the kiss deepened, their mouths parted, tongues tangled—a flash of teeth to keep things interesting. She arched up into him, a hot rush of need slicing across her as his hands explored her. Each one blazed a firm, purposeful trail down her body, starting at her breasts and ending at the curve of her backside. She gasped when he lifted her leg, quickly settling between her thighs like he had always belonged there.

His cock dug into her harshly, her thin dress doing nothing to soften the blow. Severus was hard where she was soft; hard and firm in muscle and want, his insistent hips grinding against her as he hoisted her up. Their mouths hovered over one another, hers parted and gasping, his parted and taking—drinking her in, taking what little mewls she made for himself.

As he hoisted her up, however, the portrait behind her lifted off its hook, and it came crashing down when he carried her ever so slightly away from the wall. Moira yelped at the commotion, clinging to him, blushing furiously as he chuckled.

“Don’t laugh,” she said, half whining, half admonishing. Still grinning, Severus set her legs down, and she looked back, worried the fall had damaged the frame.

Worried, irrationally, that the two new limbs growing out of her shoulder blades had, what, cut the painting?

She tucked her loose white hair behind her ears, embarrassed at the thought.

“Maybe we should be careful—”

“Fuck ’em,” Severus growled, kicking the portrait aside. Then, with a gleeful smile, he knocked several more down in a single, fluid movement. He tossed them aside and plucked their hooks out of the smooth alabaster wall. When he was through, he’d cleared about ten feet of space for them, family members discarded—but not Malachi. His brother stayed right where he’d been hung; Severus appeared to ignore him. Smoothing a hand over each horn, he faced Moira and bowed low, gesturing to the opening amongst the portraits. “My lady.”

“My lord,” she purred back, striding dramatically past him and snagging the collar of his shirt with a giggle. Moira pressed herself up against the wall and dragged him to her, their mouths colliding like the interruption had never happened—like they’d never broken apart in the first place.

And maybe they never would again.

As his mouth plundered hers, Severus’s hands dropped down, and she moaned at the sound of his belt unbuckling. With his tongue thrust between her lips, their frantic breaths reached a crescendo as she helped him shove his pants down, briefs too, and his shaft fell against her like a lead weight. Her hands closed around the thickness, stroking the silky skin with fervor, eyes open so she could take in the expression on his face—the furrowing of his brow, the tremor behind his eyelids, the twitch in his cheek as she worked him over.

Something told her that Severus hadn’t ever had a partner who catered to him before. Sure, he had clients—but sleeping with a client and sleeping with a lover wasn’t the same. Moira refused to believe that. She wanted to cater to him—she wanted to spoil him, to take just one night where it was all about Severus and his pleasure. However, as he gathered the flowy material of her dress and hitched it up, grinding himself against her, she knew tonight wasn’t going to be that night.

But soon. She’d make it happen, even if she had to tie him down to do it.

The thought of turning the tables on him, a little torturous pleasure where he couldn’t do a thing to stop it, only added to the slickness between her thighs—a slickness Severus found himself faced with once he had her dress up.

“You tawdry harlot,” he growled, fighting a smile as he pinned her to the wall, a hand on her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make her pulse race. “Wherever are your panties?”

Their eyes met, and she replied with what she hoped was a demure but bratty pout, followed by a shrug. She had a whole line raring to go—don’t you like your surprise?—but he had already slammed his mouth back to hers, teeth catching her bottom lip as a snarl revved in his chest.

His name tumbled from her lips as he skimmed those teeth along her jaw and down her throat, hoisting her up so that she could wrap her legs around him. Ankles locked behind his back, Moira gripped him by the curve of his horns, excitement coursing through her at the dark look in his eye. She held firmer, wrenching his head back a little, remembering how hard he’d taken her last night on the balcony when she’d done the exact same thing. He liked it—and Moira liked that he liked it. Maybe a little too much. When she tugged this time, he responded by biting the crook of her neck.

“Oh!” She tipped her head back, mouth open as one hand threaded through his coarse hair instead—but the other refused to give up the horn. Hadn’t he learned by now? He couldn’t scare her away that easily.

Her second exclamation echoed throughout the room, maybe beyond, when Severus steered his cock to her wet heat, testing her with just the head. Even without the usual foreplay, she was desperate for him. Moira tugged at his horn again, but it would be a mistake to think that she could control him—that she alone held the reins here. Without warning, he thrust into her, not stopping even when their bodies collided soundly. He ground up against her as pain and pleasure wove together into a dangerous thread, twisting, coursing, through her veins.

She whimpered his name, her hand tightening in his hair, and he responded by bucking against her. While she had kissed him out of affection, out of love, this wasn’t lovemaking—not by a mile. He took her hard and fast, relentlessly driving into her over and over again. No mercy. No rest for the wicked. Severus fucked her like this was the last time he ever would, until her body spasmed around him, awash with a climax that had her seeing stars.

“Thank you,” she whimpered, whispering it again and again in his ear as she rode the pleasurable high, the pain completely overtaken by bliss. As her hand smoothed around his neck and up to his face, cupping it, she realized she’d yanked out more than a few of his hairs in the moment she had come undone, when everything shattered and she was purely a physical being of lust—and love.

Love had to amplify the pleasure—it had to.

“Moira…” He spoke her name breathlessly, their foreheads resting together as she tried to wiggle the bits of hair off her fingers behind his back. His pace had slowed just enough to prolong the ecstasy, and her body trembled through the longest orgasm she’d had so far.

“Y-yes?”

“I…” He closed his eyes for a moment, stilling inside her. “Moira, I…”

She grasped his chin, her other hand still on his horn, and forced him to meet her eyes again. His lips parted, and she could hazard a guess, maybe, at what might be dangling on the tip of his tongue. He loved her too. She broke out into a smile, her eyes watery as he struggled.

“I know,” she whispered. He didn’t need to say it—not right now, not if he couldn’t find the right words. She’d wait. Moira could wait for him. So, she nodded and stole a quick kiss. “I know.”

He captured her mouth again, the savagery back against her lips and between her thighs. She clung to him with everything she had, riding it out, the gentle tide of pleasure slowly giving way to something else—something closer to pain. Soundlessly, she drove her heels into his lower back, and suddenly he stilled against her once more, his expression strained as his cock pulsed inside her.

Slowly, the quiet settled around them again. Severus relaxed against her, his breath evened out. Moira stroked his back absently, drawing shapes with her almost too-sharp nails. She had come down here looking for a distraction, but Severus had proved, as always, to be the very best kind.

“Severus?” She lifted his head, which had been resting heavily on her shoulder, cradling it in her hands. The poor guy looked exhausted, and not just because they’d had fantastic sex, sex that had probably been even more cathartic for him than it was for her. But his skin appeared sallower than she remembered, the bags under his eyes noticeable. How selfish not to think about it—about what today had taken out of him. Incubi needed the touch of humanity to revive themselves, to make up for all the energy they spent. Without it, they would fade; Severus had told her that.

In that moment, she desperately wished she could give him what he needed, that the caress of her skin would fuel him, would invigorate him. Moira wanted, needed, to be the one who did that for him, so much so that it hurt her. The physical ache in her heart—it was overwhelming.

And cruel.

“How are you feeling?” she murmured, gently stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

“Perfect,” he whispered back, the look in his eye drawing another blush out of her. “With you, darling, I am perfect.”

She swallowed hard, nodding—nodding but not entirely believing—and glanced toward the door of the expansive hall, no longer feeling the judgmental glares of his relatives boring down on her. Instead, Moira stole a quick, shameless kiss.

“Good. Then let’s get the hell out of Hell,” she said, her smile blossoming as he grinned back. “Severus, take me home…”

* * *

Exiting a hell-gate was nothing like entering one. When Severus had first led his little hybrid into the muck, she had been rightly disgusted with the whole thing. No one, demons included, enjoyed trudging into whatever disgusting bog the designer of said hell-gate had come up with. It was wet, uncomfortable, and there was some odor. Leaving a hell-gate was a breeze by comparison.

All one needed to do was step on the ascending escalator, luggage and intrusive brother in tow, and ride it all the way to the top. By then, the hard part was over; the magic would take you where you needed to go.

The departures terminal had a much more tedious process for citizens of Hell than visitors. Moira had merely needed to sign another form, give a drop of blood, and she was finished. He and Malachi, on the other hand, needed proof that they had permission to leave Hell; they needed to hand over a ridiculous amount of paperwork; and the departure agents hated their jobs just as much as those working the arrivals hall.

The whole process took about an hour, which for the departures terminal was quick work; since the summer festivities were officially underway in Hell, most demons were arriving, not departing. The lines were short and the clerks bored. While it had been frustrating for all parties involved, they got through it.

Same as the arrivals hall, at the very top of the departures escalators sat a thick grey cloud—the actual magic that would transport demons to appropriate hell-gates around Earth. Moira had been much calmer this time around, only clutching at his arm as the smog approached. Behind them, fucking Malachi wouldn’t shut up, yammering on about his excitement to come face-to-face with modern human technology, tossing a thousand questions Moira’s way before the hell-gate took them.

When the trio finally broke free of the cloud, Severus wrapped an arm around Moira’s waist and helped her out of the gate, through the fog. The top step of the escalator was the soggy grass surrounding the bog they’d once descended into—she hadn’t been expecting it, and he didn’t want her to fall on her face. She had already been mildly annoyed at the fact that Malachi was accompanying them back to Earth, a little nugget of information Severus hadn’t seen fit to share, not wanting to spoil their intimate evening together, until Malachi showed up at the carriage with a huge bag, positively brimming with excitement.

“Watch your step, here we go,” he murmured, helping her onto the grass, both of their bags thrown over his shoulder.

“Oh, wow…” Moira still stumbled a little, but he managed to steady her just fine. “That was easy.”

“Told you.” He grinned to counter the sidelong look she shot him, one paired with an annoyed huff. Traveling. Always a treat for everyone.

“The air is so fresh,” Malachi boomed, looming over them with his enormous suitcase, which he promptly tossed aside before strutting forth and stretching every one of his long limbs. The hell-gate’s magic had removed their horns, their claws, their red-pupiled eyes—any demonic feature would be masked. Malachi, however, was still a broad, muscular giant, in desperate need of a haircut. And a beard trim. The two were so long, so wild, that he looked more yeti than man, the golden locks nearly blotting out his face entirely.

A honk sounded from across the clearing, and Severus released his little hybrid when he spotted a frantic Ella racing out of Alaric’s SUV, sprinting straight for Moira. With the time difference between Hell and Earth, he suspected they’d been gone half a day, maybe a little more. The sun told him it was roughly two o’clock in the afternoon, and after Hell’s heat, the early days of summer in Farrow’s Hollow were very pleasant.

No longer in his grasp, Moira zipped across the clearing and straight into her best friend’s arms, the two colliding so firmly that it nearly knocked Ella off her feet.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked, half sobbing, half laughing, clinging to Moira like she’d been gone a century. Severus tried not to roll his eyes; this was all still very new—for both of them.

“I’m fine,” Moira assured her, over and over and over again, the pair slowly morphing into a single entity the longer they held one another. Along with that, their conversation had devolved into high-pitched squeals and incoherent nonsense. Severus stood back, both bags thrown over his shoulder, utterly lost. Shaking his head, he headed toward Alaric as his best friend crossed the clearing, hands in his pocket and a warm smile on his face.

“That’s all I get?” Severus drawled with a nod toward Moira and Ella. “Where’s my overly enthusiastic hug? Don’t I deserve your tears?”

“You’ve been gone ten hours at the most,” Alaric told him, smirking. “I’m afraid I didn’t exactly miss you all that much.”

“Ahh, but you did miss me.” He nudged the hybrid’s arm, more pleased to see him than he let on. A gentle breeze, warm and thick with humidity, ruffled the man’s copper waves.

“New topic.” Alaric looked pointedly at Malachi, who stood some distance away in one of his better suits, arms limp at his side and face turned up toward the afternoon sun. “What is he doing here?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “He assisted me in finding Diriel and getting the answers Moira needed. He wanted to come topside to continue to help—” as much as he hated using them, Severus added air quotes for effect “—but mark my words, he’ll be gone by nightfall.”

“What a load of bollocks.” Alaric shook his head, casting Malachi one last look before turning his attention back to Severus. “I’m so glad you’re back. That one is a talker when she’s nervous. She hasn’t shut up since you left, even while I was napping—just gabbed away to Gibson the whole time. Drove me mad.”

“I’m glad to be back too.” Severus studied Moira with a little smile of his own. She held her friend by the shoulders now, the two of them about a foot apart, tears streaming down their faces—but her eyes were happy. They shone in Ella’s presence, back to their regular ethereal blue selves, and the sight made his heart sing. “I didn’t want to keep Moira down there longer than necessary. We’ve discovered the information we need.”

“Fill me in later?”

“Of course.” At the sound of Ella gagging, Severus motioned toward the car. “We should get her out of here.”

The smell of the hell-gate must have been getting too overwhelming; the human stood closer than she had last time, and already her face had blanched three shades whiter. With a hand on her stomach and the other over her mouth, Ella gagged again, this time more noticeably. Definitely time to get moving. Severus snapped his fingers at Malachi, not waiting to see if his brother got the message, and strode toward Moira.

“We should get her—”

“And who is this fetching creature?” True to form, his brother burst into the conversation, seemingly out of nowhere. He barreled through, knocking into the bags on Severus’s shoulder in the process, throwing him off-balance, and dragged Ella away. He held her at an arm’s length, one giant hand on her delicate, hunched shoulders, and Moira exhaled indignantly, her eyes ablaze, as he perused the human’s figure. “Utterly exquisite. A vision of modern—”

Mercifully, Ella was the one to cut off whatever ranting monologue his brother had up his sleeve—by promptly vomiting all over his shoes. Wrenching her away from Moira as he had, Malachi had inadvertently put her even closer to the hell-gate. Nose wrinkled, the chaos demon took one large step back as another wave of puke spilled out of her, and Moira rushed in to take his place.

Steering her friend away, she shot Malachi a positively scathing look—then pinned one with only slightly less venom on Severus too. He stood there, utterly confused, because how the fuck was this his problem?

“I need a nap,” Severus grumbled, readjusting their bags over his shoulder. Alaric had the SUV running by now, with his daytime demon handler Gibson waiting to load everyone’s luggage in the back. Malachi had already toddled after the girls, seeming utterly bewitched by Ella, vomit and all, and not doing a thing to disguise it. Exhausted, no longer able to ignore the crushing weariness in his bones, Severus trudged after everyone, his mood improving slightly when Moira slammed the car door in Malachi’s face before he could climb in after her.

Where the fuck were they going to put him? The SUV only had three seats in the middle section, and the back had been dismantled to accommodate for the bags. Severus had a lifelong shotgun in place—they’d just have to put Malachi with the luggage. The only other option was the roof.

At the sound of his brother’s booming voice carrying across the clearing, shouting something to Alaric despite the fact that the hybrid was already in the car, his door closed, Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. With Hell’s protection gone, his aches and pains no longer instantly healed, a tension headache had started to develop behind his right eye, and Malachi’s voice was only making it worse.

“Hey,” he snapped, shoving his and Moira’s bags at Gibson before dragging his brother aside. “You’re here to help, not cause a scene. Behave yourself. Ella is Moira’s best friend—”

“How delicious.” Malachi practically rubbed his hands together in glee, all the while wiping his shoes off on the grass. “I’ll have her by tonight, brother. You’ll see.”

“The vomit didn’t deter you?” And the fact that he was nearly double Ella’s size.

“I’m made of tougher stuff,” his brother mused before clapping him hard on shoulder. “Now, is this the transport vehicle I’ve heard so much about? A car? They were mere whispers the last time I was topside.”

Eyes twinkling with delight, Malachi shouldered past Severus and wrenched open the front passenger door, nearly ripping the damn thing off its hinges in the process. He climbed in with an exultant, “Spectacular! Not a horse in sight!” and slammed the door much harder than necessary. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose again, eyes closed and a string of Latin curses raining from his lips.

Mercifully, after he’d grabbed Malachi’s forgotten suitcase too, Gibson volunteered to sit amongst the luggage, which put Severus next to Moira—but the second he settled in, Malachi’s seat slammed right back into his knees.

“Brother, for fuck’s sake—”

“Right, right, right, just trying to fit in this infernal contraption,” Malachi muttered, the seat easing about two inches forward and nothing more. Severus shot Moira a pitiful look as Alaric started a three-point turn to get them back toward the dirt path through the nearby forest.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not switching seats with you.” She grinned, then returned to fussing over Ella. Exhaling sharply, Severus pressed his forehead against the blessedly cool window, demanding Alaric crank the air-conditioning immediately—and lusting over the thought of climbing into his own bed soon.