Chapter Nineteen: Worship

Chapter nineteen - Worship

Levistus stepped from the shadows of an alcove the moment Benzosia reached the garden door. Her head was a maelstrom of rage and fear, the implications of Asmodeus’s proclamation a toxic storm. She needed an anchor, and Levistus had proven to be a ruthlessly effective one, his logic a blade that could cut through the tangled mess of her emotions.

“Can you believe–” she started, the words raw, but snapped her mouth shut as he raised a single finger to his lips. His eyes, dark and sharp, darted to the obsidian mirrors lining the hall. Right. Discretion.

It took her three attempts to get the key into the lock, her hands shaking with a fury so profound it felt like a physical illness. Entrapping mortal souls. The sheer, blasphemous arrogance of it. Would their heavenly Father finally be moved to act? She could feel the tension radiating from Levistus, a low, dangerous hum of controlled power. Neither of them spoke until the heavy door was sealed behind them, shutting out the oppressive scrutiny of the Malsheem.

He spun her then, his movement swift and sure, pressing her back against the ancient wood and cradling her face in his palms. “Benzosia, I… I’m sorry.”

She blinked, the apology so unexpected it momentarily silenced the storm within her. “For what? Kissing me? I thought–”

A faint, humorless grin touched his lips before vanishing. “No. Never that. The influx. I fear my actions gave him this glut of souls to experiment with.”

“You blame yourself for the actions of… a madman,” she whispered, the word a terrible, freeing truth. Her trembling hand rose, pushing back a lock of dark hair from his brow.

“Without the holy wars, he never would have had the souls…” His confession was a raw, guttural thing, but the words died on his tongue as his gaze locked with hers. She watched the apology stall, saw his own breath catch as he truly saw her. The storm of fury in his eyes faltered, eclipsed by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as a new fire ignited in their depths, something dark and molten that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with her. 

His voice dropped to a low, rough warning. “Benzosia. Don’t look at me like that.”

Her breath hitched. He saw it. He saw the fury, yes, but beneath it, the molten thrum of desire that was pouring through her veins, a treacherous heat that intensified with every second he held her. Pressed up against him as she was, it was difficult not to notice the hard lines of his body, the warrior’s strength in the arms surrounding her, the solid wall of his chest beneath her hands. He licked his lips, and her eyes followed the movement, a primal awareness overriding every rational thought.

He let out a sharp, frustrated breath, as if fighting a war within himself. His hands tightened on her shoulders, his grip grounding. “You’re right,” he bit out, the words strained, forced. “There’s no sense in taking on blame.”

Had she said that?

“We need to stop him.” He straightened with the proclamation. “Not eventually. Immediately. Heavens only know what he’s truly after, if this is merely a diversion or if it indeed factors into his long-term plan, but nothing good will come of the Hells hoarding mortal souls.”

“It’s retaliation,” she murmured. “For me giving up my grace. He–”

“What did I just say about blame?” Levistus smiled, showing off straight, gleaming white teeth – upending her center of gravity. It changed his appearance, she’d noticed before – but the intimacy of him smiling at her… because of her… it unraveled and reworked something indefinable inside of her.

“Walk with me?” he was still smiling as he held out his hand for her to take. Stunned silent, trying to process her thoughts, she took his hand.

“Outright confrontation is, of course, out of the question,” Levistus said. They walked down a winding path, not of stone, but of soft, springy moss that seemed to hum with a faint energy beneath her feet. The air didn't just feel clean; it felt alive, tasting of cool water and the sweet, green scent of new growth. Strange flowers pulsed with a soft, internal light, casting shifting patterns of silver and blue across his sharp, aristocratic features. The only sounds were their footsteps and the gentle, melodic trickle of unseen water, a stark, peaceful contrast to the echoing screams and groans that were the constant ambient music of Hell.

She tried to keep her thoughts on the situation in discussion, but all she could focus on was the casual ‘we’. Like she was included in his decisions – like her opinion mattered.

“We’ll need to start with subtle inquiries, find out where the regents of Hell all stand, and work from there,” he continued, unaware of her inner turmoil.

“Is that where Azadiel went? To begin reconnaissance?” she looked up at him when he went silent, noticing the barely perceptible tightening of his hand around hers.

He cleared his throat. “Azadiel… is following up on a lead on Lucifer.”

“Oh.” Her heart thundered at that. If he could find him, they wouldn’t need to stir up a war. Lucifer could take up his rightful throne, unseat Asmodeus…

“It’s an old lead, Benzosia. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” He squeezed her hand, then brought it up to his chest, holding it there firmly.

Too late. Her hopes had been raised and dashed from one breath to the next. It was a wonder that she had the capacity for optimism left, but she couldn’t keep her damned heart from yearning.

“I suppose… that would’ve been too much to ask for,” she said with a sigh. “I know Lucifer’s out there, though I’m beginning to doubt it would be as easy as him showing his face to get Asmodeus to give up the throne.”

Levistus stopped, turning to face her fully. The faint light from the glowing flora seemed to sharpen the hard lines of his face. "Finding Lucifer is the goal, Benzosia, but it is no longer the immediate priority." His voice was low, devoid of emotion, which was somehow more chilling than anger. "Asmodeus is consolidating power. Every soul he traps in those gems, every alliance he forges through fear and brutal force, makes Lucifer's return less of a solution and more of a catalyst for open war. He is no longer 'keeping the throne warm.' He is fortifying it. He has ambitions that extend far beyond Hell's borders."

His words landed with the brutal finality of a coffin lid slamming shut. Her mind accepted the cold logic, but her heart—that traitorous fool—still ached with the betrayal. A bitter laugh escaped her. “Perhaps a dose of poison in his morning tea would temper his ambitions.”

Levistus stopped walking, his hand tightening on hers with bruising force. “Benzosia. Don’t even jest about such things.” His voice was a low, urgent warning that cut through the tranquil air. “Basileus is a viper in the king’s ear, and his eyes miss nothing. He’s not the fool Gadreel was. Do not give him an ounce of suspicion to carry back to his master.”

She felt the truth of his words, a cold weight in her gut. The darkness of their plotting felt suddenly suffocating. Then, through a break in the trees, she saw it—the deep, impossible blue of the pond, shimmering with a light that promised purity. A visceral need to wash away the filth of their conversation seized her. 

“Look,” she whispered, her voice tight with a sudden, desperate yearning. “The pond.” She tugged him along, her pace quickening, as if fleeing the very shadows their words had conjured.

She kicked off her shoes, the soft moss caressing the soles of her feet. Shaking off Levistus’s grip, she dipped her toes into the pond. The water was not just cool, but felt vibrant, almost alive, swirling around her ankles in a gentle, welcoming caress. The bottom wasn't sand or stone, but a bed of impossibly smooth, silt-like moss that felt like stroking velvet. 

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed, turning back to him. The air was thick with the heady perfume of night-blooming moon-lilies, a scent so pure and intoxicating it made her feel light-headed. Levistus watched her, his dark eyes no longer unreadable, but filled with a raw, profound hunger that was both terrifying and thrilling.

“Benzosia,” he finally breathed, his voice a low, rough sound, as if the word itself was a physical effort. "You’re going to be the ruin of me."

"Is that a complaint, my lord?" she whispered, a new, dangerous confidence blooming within her. She took a step closer, closing the distance until the heat from his body was a tangible caress against her skin. "Or a promise?"

A thrill, sharp and dangerous, lanced through her. It was the thrill of a choice made entirely for herself. She met his dark, unreadable gaze across the water, and a reckless challenge bloomed in her chest. Slowly, deliberately, her fingers found the laces of her gown. She watched his eyes track the movement, saw the subtle clench in his jaw as she tugged the first knot free. One by one, she loosened the ties, the silk whispering as it fell away from her skin, a deliberate, defiant unveiling. When the gown finally pooled at her feet, a silken puddle on the mossy earth, she stood before him, naked and proud. The cool air of Eden kissed her skin, a stark contrast to the inferno of his gaze. She didn't move, her stillness a dare, her very demeanor a question she was terrified for him to answer.

She watched the movement of his throat, the ticking of his jaw – the flash in his eyes and the decision in the set of his lips. His fingers worked his buttons free as he unashamedly looked her up and down, the bulge in his pants drying her mouth and filling her with pride simultaneously. Every inch of skin he bared kicked up the beat of her heart until it thrummed like a hummingbird’s wing against her ribs.

Lean, cut muscles and gleaming white skin were revealed as he shrugged off his shirt, a trail of fine black hair disappearing into his pants that he was busily working free. He was rougher than Asmodeus, shoulders bulkier, chest larger, more warrior than the scholar she’d thought of him as. His long brown hair hung down his face, hiding his eyes so she couldn’t tell his thoughts as he pushed down his pants, freeing himself.

She swallowed hard as she got an eyeful of his blatant erection before his hand shielded it, her eyes widening and jumping back up to his. He met her stare directly, her daring met head-on with his unabashed challenge. His chin notched, the liquid heat in his eyes turning her insides molten, her thoughts to sludge. She wanted to kiss him. Everywhere. To know what he tasted like, how he felt inside of her…

He closed the distance between them, the heat from his body tingling against her skin. She licked her lips, his breath cooling them in the aftermath. The heat of his mouth softened hers as his fingers trailed across her jaw, tangling in the back of her hair, yanking her up to meet him. All of her senses were screaming for him, for this, his mouth on hers, kissing her as though he’d been reprieved from an eternity of deprivation.

His mouth was a revelation. First, a soft exploration, a question asked against her lips. Then, as she answered with a sigh, the kiss deepened, becoming invasive, demanding. It was nothing like Asmodeus’s cold claiming, a kiss that tasted of ownership and ash. This was a raw, desperate collision, a shared starvation. The thought of her husband, of her vows, surfaced—a phantom whisper of guilt. She didn't just ignore it; she actively, viciously, annihilated it. This moment was hers. This choice was hers. 

Her hands came up to settle on his bare chest, and a groan ripped from him, a raw, unguarded sound that vibrated through her palms and into her very soul. It was the sound of a fortress crumbling. He pulled back, just an inch, his eyes blazing with a reverence that stole her breath. His hands slid down her back, not just scorching a path, but mapping her, learning her, claiming her as territory he intended to worship. When his mouth crashed down on hers again, it was with a frantic urgency that made the world go white at the edges. He wasn't just kissing her; he was breathing her in, as if she were the only air in a universe starved of it.

His hands slid up her front, their heat a stark promise against her skin. They paused, hovering just over her breasts, a deliberate, agonizing tease that made a soft, frustrated whine escape her lips. She saw the question in his eyes, a dark, burning inquiry. Instead of answering with words, she arched her back, a silent, desperate plea, pressing herself into his palms. Her own hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head down towards her aching flesh.

A dark, knowing smile touched his lips before his head dipped. He didn’t claim her at once, but began a slow, torturous pilgrimage, his lips tracing the curve of her breast, followed by soft, open-mouthed kisses that mapped the sensitive skin. He was teasing her with promises of pleasure until she thought she might scream with frustration. 

When he finally closed his mouth over her nipple, a shock of pure, unadulterated pleasure ripped through her, so intense it was almost pain. This wasn't the cold claiming of Asmodeus; this was worship. He was tasting her as if she were a sacred thing, and the reverence of it shattered her. Her hands tightened in his hair, not just pulling him closer, but anchoring herself to this impossible reality. She didn't just want more of the feeling; she wanted to be consumed by it, to be unmade and remade by him. He moved on to the other, his hands a wicked, knowing distraction as they slid down to the tops of her thighs, his fingers tracing the seam where they met, so close to her center.

“Yes,” she moaned, her voice thick with need. “There. Please…”

He hummed against her skin, a low, guttural sound of approval that vibrated through her. He kissed his way down her belly, each touch a brand of heat, before falling to his knees in the cool, shallow water. He pressed his face between her thighs, inhaling deeply as if she were the most intoxicating scent in all of creation.

She parted her legs, her world tilting on its axis. When his hot tongue finally touched her, a slick, knowing caress against her throbbing inner folds, her knees buckled. He caught her with an arm around her waist, easing her down not onto cold stone or dead earth, but onto the living, breathing moss of the shore. The ground was soft and cool beneath her bare back, a bed of life itself, a universe away from the dead, polished marble of Asmodeus’s harem.

“Lay back. Let me taste you,” he whispered, the words a reverent, almost desperate prayer against her skin. He hooked his arms behind her knees, pushing them up to her chest, opening her completely to his worship.

And then he began. It wasn't just licking; it was a devastating, meticulous exploration. Long, sweeping strokes that painted her with heat, followed by a focused, circling attention on her clit that drove her to near insanity. His tongue was hot, his lips firm, and with every movement, he seemed to be erasing the memory of every cold, violating touch she had ever endured. Her hands, no longer cautious, buried themselves in his hair, not to steer him, but to cling to him as the world dissolved into pure sensation. He was a master of this dark art, his fingers finding her nipples again, rolling them, strumming them until she was a symphony of competing pleasures.

“There… please… by all that’s holy,” she keened, her hips arching off the moss, chasing the feeling. He answered her plea, his tongue finally pressing hard against her clit, lashing at it with a relentless, focused intent that shattered her control.

Her body didn't just detonate; it was reborn in fire. A blinding, white-hot bliss ripped through her, not in waves, but as a single, sustained supernova that burned away the shame, the fear, the hollowness. It was a reclaiming. In the heart of this impossible garden, he was giving her back her own soul, one agonizingly exquisite sensation at a time. She screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated release.

He stayed with her through the aftershocks, his mouth a soothing balm against her pulsing core until her frantic tremors subsided into a boneless, sated delirium.

“Fuck, Benzosia,” he finally groaned, his voice thick and ragged. He sat up on his knees, his magnificent cock wrapped in his fist, his face a mask of torment and raw ecstasy. “To taste you like that… Blessed hells, you’re divine.”

She hummed with pleasure, watching him stroke himself, the expression on his face a combination of torment and ecstasy. She rose up on her elbows, reaching for him. Her fingertips brushed against the weeping head of his erection, and with a guttural, anguished groan, he exploded. Hot lashes of his release painted her belly and thighs, and he collapsed over her, bracing his weight on his arms, his chest heaving.

They lay tangled together, their breaths mingling with the sweet scent of moon-lilies. She waited for the familiar sting of guilt, the humiliation that always followed her nights with Asmodeus. It never came. In its place was a profound, quiet peace. He hadn't just taken her pleasure; he had shared in it, reveled in it. He hadn't emptied her; he had made her feel more powerfully, vividly herself than she had in centuries. He made her feel whole.

“We should wash,” he whispered against her neck, his voice still rough with spent passion.

She turned her head, her lips finding his in a soft, lingering kiss—not of frantic desire, but of quiet confirmation. She laced her fingers through his, a silent vow passing between them in the secret heart of Eden. This was not the cold, calculated treason she plotted against a king. This was a different kind of rebellion, a glorious, reckless heresy of the heart.