Page 26 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“The essence responds to your innate darkness,” Azrael explained, his voice remarkably steady as he approached with bathing cloths and oils. “It recognizes its master.”
Lucien opened one eye to peer at him. “Master of darkness, that’s me. Though lately it feels more like darkness is mastering me. Yesterday I accidentally turned a potted plant inside out. Poor thing looked like it had been run through a demonic garbage disposal.”
“Your control improves daily,” Azrael assured him, kneeling beside the tub. “May I assist with your hair, my lord?”
This was the moment he both dreaded and anticipated—the ritual that required touch, that demanded intimate service, that tested the boundaries of his control most severely.
“Sure,” Lucien agreed with a casual wave, apparently oblivious to the effect he had on his butler. “You’re weirdly good at it. Did you take a class in hair washing or something? ‘Advanced Shampooing for the Discerning Demon Butler’?”
“I have had centuries to perfect my technique, my lord,” Azrael replied, pouring shadow-infused oil into his palm. The scent rose between them—midnight blooms and void spices, with an undertone of something darkly sweet. “Your satisfaction is my highest priority.”
He moved behind Lucien, positioned at the head of the tub where he could work without… complications. Even so, the moment his fingers slid into that silver hair, Azrael had to suppress a shudder of pleasure. The silken strands wound around his fingers like living things, responding to his touch as if eager for it.
“That feels ridiculously good.” Lucien sighed, his head tilting back into Azrael’s hands. “Seriously, if the whole ‘intimidating demon butler’ thing doesn’t work out, you could make a fortune as a masseuse.”
Azrael’s fingers worked with practiced precision, applying pressure in patterns designed to both cleanse and stimulate magical pathways. Each touch was clinical, efficient—or would have been, if not for the way his pulse quickened when Lucienmade those small sounds of pleasure, if not for the heat that pooled low in his abdomen when his master leaned trustingly into his hands.
“The essence must be applied to key energy points for maximum efficacy,” Azrael explained, allowing his hands to move from Lucien’s hair to his shoulders. The contact with bare skin sent electricity through his fingertips, a sensation he masked with practiced indifference. “If I may?”
“Go for it,” Lucien agreed, eyes still closed. “At this point, my dignity is a ship that sailed so long ago it’s probably discovered new continents.”
Permission granted, Azrael allowed his hands to trace patterns across Lucien’s shoulder blades, spreading the essence with firm, confident strokes. Each touch was a privilege, a torment, a test of his resolve. His fingers mapped the contours of muscle and bone, committing every detail to memory while maintaining the facade of professional service.
“The essence purifies as it energizes,” he explained, his voice betraying nothing of the hunger that gnawed at him. “It removes impurities while restoring magical pathways.”
“It feels like my brain is getting a deep tissue massage,” Lucien murmured, his voice lower than usual, almost drowsy with pleasure. “Everything’s all… sparkly.”
Azrael’s hands moved lower down Lucien’s spine, tracing the elegant curve with reverent precision. The water’s darkness concealed his master’s body from view, but touch revealed everything—the subtle strength, the perfect proportions, the warmth that Azrael had preserved through centuries of careful maintenance.
“You’ve got good hands,” Lucien said suddenly, the casual compliment striking Azrael like a physical blow. Then, as if realizing the potential implications, his master added hastily,“I mean—for this. For hair. Hair washing. You’re good at hair washing. A real professional hair… washer. Person.”
The flustered clarification was unexpectedly charming. Azrael allowed himself a small smile, hidden from Lucien’s view. “I have had centuries to perfect my technique, my lord,” he replied, resuming his ministrations. “Your satisfaction is my highest priority.”
The double meaning in his words was intentional—a small indulgence, a private acknowledgment of the desire he kept so carefully contained. Lucien would hear only the dutiful butler’s response. Only Azrael would know the deeper truth behind it.
“Well, mission accomplished,” Lucien said, his voice slightly unsteady. “Hair officially clean. Gold star for you. A-plus bathing assistance.”
“The process is not yet complete, my lord,” Azrael informed him, his hands returning to Lucien’s shoulders. “The essence must be applied to key energy points for maximum efficacy.”
Before Lucien could object, Azrael’s fingers were tracing patterns across his shoulder blades again, spreading the essence with firm, confident strokes. Each touch sent fresh waves of energy cascading through Lucien, visible in the subtle glow that emanated from beneath his skin.
“That’s enough essence application,” Lucien said firmly, reaching for a nearby washcloth. “I’m feeling sufficiently… whatever this is supposed to do.”
Azrael withdrew his hands with what felt like physical pain, the loss of contact an acute deprivation. “As you wish, my lord. Though the full benefits of the treatment require more thorough application.”
“Maybe next time,” Lucien replied, submerging himself briefly to rinse his hair. “I think I’m glowing enough for one day.”
Azrael noted with satisfaction how the essence had already begun to enhance his master’s natural luminosity, the subtle glow beneath his skin that marked him as something beyond mere mortal. Each day, the treatments brought Lucien closer to his full glory—whether he realized it or not.
Lucien finished washing quickly, then stood and reached for a towel. Azrael turned away, providing the illusion of privacy while his peripheral vision—considerably more advanced than a human’s—cataloged every detail. The water streaming down pale skin. The elegant line of spine and shoulder. The subtle glow of shadow essence absorbed into flesh.
Mine.
The thought arose unbidden, possessive and primal. Azrael banished it immediately, focusing instead on retrieving the robe he had prepared. Black silk lined with silver, designed to complement Lucien’s coloring while providing comfort after the bath.
“Allow me, my lord,” he said, holding the robe open as Lucien secured a towel around his waist.
“Thanks,” Lucien murmured, slipping his arms into the sleeves.
