Moira felt it before she opened her eyes—the stabbing, burning, ripping agony in her shoulders. She tried to move them, to reach for them, but something sharp and cold bit into her wrists with the slightest movement. Arms forcefully outstretched, she couldn’t feel her fingertips. The sandpaper lining of her throat held her groan in, keeping it down, and each hard swallow only made the sensation worse. Like knives. Knives running down her throat. Her stomach churning. Her eyelids heavy. They wouldn’t lift at first, but as the fog started to clear, she knew she needed to face the consequences of her actions.

Soft lighting greeted her when she finally managed to open her eyes. As she’d guessed, her hands were bound and pulled out in either direction—handcuffs leaving bloody marks on her wrists, connected to chains embedded in the stone walls, stretching her arms to their limits. Her prison cell was circular, made of limestone, the floor dirt. No windows, but there were dozens of small circular lights in the ceiling, emanating just enough brightness to let her see where she was—to make her queasy.

Directly in front of her was a door. Black. Metal. No window either. And to its side—a camera mounted on a tripod. She blinked at it, trying to make sense of it at first, her mind slow on the uptake. Had Frat Boy Junior drugged her? Kidnapped her? And was he now filming her?

All signs pointed to yes.

Moira’s lower lip quivered as she bowed her head to her chest. A tremor skittered through her, starting at her core and working its way out. With her knees slightly bent, all her weight had fallen to her arms, to her poor shoulders—they positively screamed when she finally found it within herself to stand up straight.

A sob slipped out before she could stop it, and while the intense pain hadn’t dissipated completely, it had lessened. Slightly. She rolled her shoulders, then tested the strength of the chains holding her there. They rattled with each tug, but didn’t budge. Not an inch, not even when she pulled with everything she had.

Trapped. Hopelessly, utterly trapped.

Was it worth it? Dropping off those fucking essays?

The voice sounded like Severus—a disappointed Severus at that. She closed her eyes again, tears gathering, falling, streaking down her cheeks.

No, she told him. It wasn’t worth it.

Moira waited, a tidal wave of feelings pounding at her. Foolish. That was the primary one. Moira felt foolish. Frightened. Angry. Panicked. But mostly foolish—for ignoring Severus, for thinking all demons would be like him.

She lifted her head with a sniffle at the sound of something clanking on the other side of the door—locks. Not wanting Frat Boy Junior to see her cry, she dried her face as best she could, lifting her stiff and achy shoulders to rub her cheeks.

When the door creaked open, its hinges in serious need of an oiling, Frat Boy Junior wasn’t standing on the other side. Moira’s eyebrows furrowed, squinting somewhat as the figure stepped out of the shadows and into the gentle light of the room. Dressed in white linens, from the baggy pants to the flowy long-sleeved shirt, he wore a mishmash of silver crucifixes, all varying in style, each one bedazzled with tiny pearls.

The demon who had attacked Severus at the bar. Diriel. Gaunt, with high cheekbones that looked especially sharp in this light. Black hair—wavy but short, styled perfectly around his head to distract from the fact that he looked like some strung-out hippie otherwise. And those eyes—black as a starless sky at midnight. Moira swallowed hard, straightening as best she could while her heart plummeted right down into her stomach.

“Oh, come on, why the long face?” The door swung shut behind him, slamming with a foreboding sense of finality that made her knees quiver. “No tears, Moira. We haven’t even started to have fun yet.”

If she’d thought her mouth had felt dry before, it was like a desert now. She lifted her chin, hoping to mask her fear, her panic, as Diriel strolled toward the mounted camera and checked its settings. With his hands clasped behind him, she couldn’t see what he was holding until he showed her his back—and when she spied the knife, long and serrated, she yanked at her restraints again, the panic slipping through.

“Right,” he said softly, turning on his toes—his feet bare—to face her again. “And we are going to have fun. I can promise you that.”

“I think our definitions of fun might vary,” she choked out, shrinking as far back as she could with every precise step he took forward. The chains only had so much give, however, and her knees threatened to buckle when he finally stopped directly in front of her, no more than a foot or so of space between them—knife hanging limply at his side.

“You know…” His hand moved so suddenly that she yelped when it clamped down on her chin, nails digging into her flesh. “I really ought to thank you.” Diriel tugged the gaping neckline of his flouncy white shirt to the side, revealing two severe burns, one on each shoulder, each about the size of her palm. “I never knew I could scar until I met you. So, thank you for teaching me something new. It’s been years since one of you upright mammals surprised me.”

Moira tried not to recoil, to even flinch as he bore down on her, all her concentration going to her hands. But nothing happened. No blinding flash of light. No warmth—no exquisite burn. It had made her feel powerful, the fire. She’d realized it days after the incident, lost in thought, moping about her situation. She had protected Severus from a monster—and it had made her feel strong. For once, she hadn’t completely loathed her new body.

Now, however, she couldn’t even get a spark going.

Pathetic.

“My father is an angel, you know,” she blurted when the demon dragged the tip of his knife along her side, the sharp point poking through her knit sweater here and there. “And when he finds out what you’ve done to me, there will be c-consequences—”

“I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there,” Diriel remarked, finally removing his clawlike hand, bony and sharp, from her chin—and holding the knife to her lips instead, “before you embarrass yourself.”

Moira flinched back, pressing her lips together when the blade’s jagged edge brushed against them.

“Simple girl,” Diriel cooed as he leaned closer, his breath hot and foul, “we all know your daddy’s an angel.” He licked her cheek, tongue rough as a cat’s. “Who d’you think hired me to do this to you?”

She exhaled sharply, the news knocking the wind out of her. Diriel pulled away, pressing the flat side of the knife to her cheek.

“It was Daddy dearest,” he whispered, then swiped a finger under her eyes, its frighteningly sharp nail catching her tears. “In case you’re a little slow on the uptake… One can never tell with half-breeds.”

Her dad had hired a demon to hurt her? If Diriel was telling the truth—and there was no guarantee of that, a little voice at the back of her head insisted—then that meant her dad knew who she was, where she was…and just wanted her out of the way. It could have all been lies, but what would that gain him? If he wanted to hurt her, clearly all the demon needed to do was tell the truth. The truth was bad enough. Had Diriel’s knife not been shoved up against her face, Moira would have let her head drop, using her hair to hide her tears.

“Oh, chin up, buttercup.” The demon patted her cheek twice before retracting the blade, tossing it back and forth between each hand. “There’s always a silver lining. Your da’ hired me to kill you, and I haven’t yet. Eh? Eh? Not so bad yet, is it?”

Moira’s eyes narrowed at him, though her glare lacked venom, as a soul-crushing sorrow slashed at her insides. She had spent her whole life preparing for the fact that her dad—well, the guy who had donated a bit of sperm—might not want her. She had given herself dozens of speeches. She had read books on the subject, joined chat forums as a teenager. Moira had thought she’d prepared enough to take the news and not flinch—to be able to run with it, roll with it, and keep going.

Her knees folded at last, her body sinking as far as the chains would allow.

Clearly, she hadn’t prepared enough.

Because this hollow feeling, this ever-expanding black hole in the pit of her soul, hurt far worse than anything Diriel had done to her.

“See, this is what the winged fuck gets for not adding the specifics to our contract,” Diriel continued, his unadulterated glee the cherry on top of this nightmare. “He said I had to kill you, and I will, of course, but he didn’t say when I needed to do it.”

She coughed, eyes widening, when his hand wrapped around her throat and hoisted her into a proper standing position.

“So,” soulless black eyes wandered up and down her figure, “let’s see what we’re working with here, shall we?”

He hooked a finger through a belt loop on her jeans, then slashed it open with the knife. Moira stiffened, a sick feeling creeping across her when she realized what he was about to do, and watched, every muscle tense, as he slipped the knife under the waistline, smooth-face down, then turned it upright and ripped. The jagged blade tore right through the fabric, and she tried to wriggle away, a squeal catching in her throat.

“Now, be a lamb and try not to move,” he said, crouching down and fingering the rip. “Don’t want you nick you…yet.”

He proceeded to slash through her clothes with near clinical precision. First went her jeans, cut along the side seams and tossed aside in two neat pieces. He needed to crouch to do it, and, biding her time, waiting with bated breath, Moira struck.

She managed to knee him right in the nose, sending the snarling demon toppling backward, the array of necklaces crashing down with him. Growling, he wiped the blood away on his precious white linens, and then returned to work with a far rougher hand.

Huh. That was less satisfying than she’d expected.

Her panties came next, cut open on either side. Moira crossed her legs instinctively, but Diriel assured her he wouldn’t be parting them; he took the longest of his pearl necklaces and looped it around and around her ankles, binding them—prettily constrained was his exact wording—seeming quite proud of himself when he was through.

Her sweater came next, hacked and slashed with less finesse, as though he was getting impatient. Last but not least, her bra; he undid the clasp with his teeth as Moira fought back a gag, then, with dramatic flair, slithered around her and ripped it off from the front, the straps snapping at her skin as they broke.

“Well, don’t you look…” He pursed his lips as he considered her, tossing her bra aside with a sigh. “Painfully ordinary. Not sure what I was expecting…”

Diriel did a lap around her as Moira shivered and fought back a fresh onslaught of tears, her skin burning with what felt like a head-to-toe blush.

“Does he fuck you?”

She twitched when he prodded the backs of her thighs—as a judge might when rating a show dog. Diriel stopped his circling after two loops around, mouth twisted in distaste. “Severus? Does he? Just ghastly creatures, incubi. They fuck anything with a pulse, and then there’s you, this…abomination. Human and angel. Worst combination of half-breed, in my opinion.” He held up his hands, smiling again. “But I suppose I’m not here to pass judgement. I’m here to decide if I’ll be slitting your throat now or later.” Diriel clapped his hands together, the sound of flesh colliding like thunder. “Let’s begin.”

Moira wanted to talk. She wanted to sneer something back at him—like heroines did in all the adventure books once the villain had them cornered. She wanted to be brave, to be snarky, to find a weakness in Diriel’s cavalier, sadistic armor and exploit it for everything she had.

But she couldn’t. She just stood there, shaking, unable to feel her arms, her toes, as her heart pounded between her ears. Any time she did part her lips, no words rolled off her tongue—no snippy retort, no nonchalant comment about how she was so totally fine and he didn’t frighten her one bit. Because he did. Diriel had her naked and chained up who knows where. Her angel light had decided to be shy, and her strength wasn’t enough to break her restraints.

She felt naive, small, and foolish in equal measures now, finally aware just how out of her depth she had been in this new world.

Unwanted, too. Unwanted by the man, the angel, who was responsible for what she had turned into.

With Diriel standing behind her now, she let her tears fall as silently as she could, trying desperately to stop her body from quivering. Two fingers jabbed at her back, walking up and settling between her shoulder blades. She inhaled sharply when he applied more pressure, pushing about, as if searching for something.

“Now, right about here…”

Moira screamed—the sound ripping her throat raw—when Diriel sliced into her with that serrated knife. The bite of each sharp tooth, tearing into her skin—agony. One hand gripped her shoulder as she thrashed about, but he continued to dig, continued to cut into her. Warmth rippled down her back, over her backside, down her thighs; she didn’t need to look to know it was blood.

Another scream as he started in on the other shoulder—and then another and another. Every inch of the blade, every poke, every gash. She felt it all. Moira had been searching to feel again. Severus made her feel in the best way possible—and Diriel the worst.

“W-what are you doing?” she cried, sagging when he finally stopped—when he finally seemed to step back, perhaps to admire his work. Moira needn’t ask; she knew what he was doing. Torturing her. Getting his jollies. Seeing if he could scar her just as she had him.

Diriel tsked at her, his hand on the back of her hip as his gaze burned across her shredded skin. “Stop complaining. You’ll heal. Now, let’s have a proper look…”

A voiceless scream tore from her this time, after the knife clattered to the ground and his fingers took its place. She squirmed and twisted, her nerves on fire, her head hazy, as Diriel dug into the fresh wounds. Moira kept waiting to pass out, to finally lose consciousness and wake up hours later, sore but alive.

Her new body endured. It met the pain—it felt every bit of it.

“Aha!” She heard him clap again behind her, fingers probing back into her seconds later. “There they are! So little. So precious.”

Her knees had given way completely now, and she hung there, head bowed, shaking, her entire body burning. “W-what?”

“Your wings, simple girl. Your wings!” Anchoring himself on the left chain, Diriel swung around in front of her, the motion making her wrist scream. He cupped her face with blood-soaked hands, the rest of it running down her back. It had reached her ankles now, the bright red liquid, hot and ever-present. Diriel forced her to look away from it when he gave her head a little shake, grinning, his laughter hyena-like. “You live another day, Moira Aurelia. You’ve got angel wings growing back there, just as I suspected you did the second you flambéed me at the Inferno. What luck!”

She blinked up at him, her sluggish mind failing to compute. “Wings?”

“From your dazed stupor, I take it you don’t know how powerful angel wings are?” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs—roughly, like an unwanted massage that grated her gums. “One feather can sell for millions, and you’re going to be my never-ending supply. Angels get their juice from their wings. Their brain and brawn, if you get my drift. Everybody wants them. Spells. Potions. Rituals. The raw, untapped power of a single feather… Well, it boggles the mind!”

He was spitting on her now, practically foaming at the mouth as he ranted on.

“Now, this can go one of two ways, half-breed,” Diriel told her, his voice dropping—suddenly too serious for her liking. “You and I can work together. I’ll put you up in style. You’ll grow me wings, and I’ll harvest for the highest bidder. We can be a team.”

The very idea made her want to retch, and this time she didn’t hide it.

“Or, you can continue to be petulant. I’ll keep you tied up…and still harvest them for the highest bidder. All that changes is your compliance, eh? I’ll have to kill you eventually, I signed a contract, but until then, who says we can’t make the most of it? Have a little fun?”

He had gone back to rubbing her face, blood smeared across her lips, and as he stood there, one eyebrow arched expectantly, Moira inhaled the metallic liquid in—and spat it back out at him as hard as she could. Spittle and blood dappled his pale cheek, his chin, and still those awful black eyes gave nothing away.

After a moment of tense staring from both parties, with Moira finally finding the nerve to really give it to him with her glare, Diriel let out a long sigh and brushed the blood away.

“You’re getting a bit predictable, Moira. A bit boring.”

He ducked behind her momentarily, then returned in a flash, the knife in hand again. She tried to keep her eyes open, but they blinked hard when he tapped the smooth side of the blade on her nose, blood droplets splattering across her face.

“I’m going to give you some time to think on it,” he told her as he strolled backward, casually, toward the door. “You know, weigh your options. And I’m going to be thinking too.” He gestured toward her with the knife, blood flying everywhere. “We’ll find a way to jazz up this very ordinary body—not to worry.”

And just like that, he was gone. Out the door, which slammed shut behind him. Moira listened to the locks clink back into place. She looked down at the blood pooling around her feet, still lashed together with pearls. The pain hadn’t gone away. It clung to her, the emotional and the physical—sank its hooks in and wouldn’t let go.

So, she bowed her head, strung up by limp arms and burning shoulders, and finally let the dams burst.