Page 27 of The Dark Lord Awakens
As Azrael settled the robe onto his shoulders, his fingers brushed against the nape of Lucien’s neck—a touch that could have been accidental but wasn’t. The contact sent a jolt through him, a sharp pleasure that bordered on pain.
“The shadow essence has enhanced your natural radiance,” he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the heat coursing through him. His gaze traveled over Lucien once more, noting the subtle glow that emanated from beneath his skin. “The citizens will be most impressed when you begin public appearances.”
“Let’s hope they’re too impressed to notice that I have no idea what I’m doing,” Lucien muttered, belting the robesecurely. “My entire qualification for this job is ‘died heroically and woke up here.’ Not exactly management material.”
The casual reference to death—to a life before awakening—sent a chill through Azrael. These strange comments continued to disturb him, hinting at something he couldn’t quite grasp. A transformation more profound than physical changes. But now was not the time to press for explanations.
“Your chambers have been prepared for dressing, my lord,” he said instead, gesturing toward the door. “I have selected attire appropriate for today’s activities.”
As they moved from the bathing chamber to the dressing room, Azrael permitted himself a moment of pure satisfaction. His lord was awake. Clean. Refreshed. Glowing with the essence Azrael had personally applied. Wrapped in garments Azrael had selected. Soon to be dressed in clothing Azrael would fasten with his own hands.
These intimacies, these small possessions, would have to suffice. For now.
The day stretched before them, filled with duties and obligations. Training sessions. Meetings with department heads. The slow, painstaking process of rebuilding a kingdom fallen into disrepair during Lucien’s long absence.
But for these precious morning hours, Lucien belonged to Azrael alone. His to serve. His to attend. His to touch under the guise of duty.
Mine.
If only in these small, stolen moments.
7
Lucien/Beau
Aweek had passed since my grand introduction to the demonic middle management team, and I was slowly developing what might generously be called a ‘routine,’ if routines typically involved waking up to find an unnervingly attractive demon butler standing at the foot of your bed like a model moonlighting as a Victorian ghost.
Well, standing at the foot of my bed alongside Mr. Snuggles, who had developed the stubborn habit of sleeping curled against my side despite Azrael’s repeated attempts to remove him. The tiny dragon’s clingy nature had become apparent on the fifth morning when he’d somehow materialized in the bathroom during my bath, apparently wanting to splash around in the water too. After the resulting chaos nearly flooded the entire chamber, Azrael now kept the door magically sealed during morning preparations, with Mr. Snuggles sulking outside it like a toddler denied their favorite swimming pool.
“Good morning, my lord,” Azrael would say every day at precisely seven a.m., his voice somehow both silky and crisp, like expensive hotel sheets. “I trust you slept well?”
The second morning, I’d screamed and nearly shadow-stepped myself through the wall. By day five, I’d graduated to a dignified yelp and only mild cardiac arrhythmia.
“Has anyone ever mentioned that watching someone sleep is generally considered creepy in most social circles?” I’d asked, clutching the sheets to my chest like a scandalized dowager.
“I do not watch you sleep, my lord,” Azrael had replied with perfect composure. “I merely arrive at the appropriate moment to begin your day.”
“So what, you just… materialize at the foot of my bed at seven a.m. sharp? Is there a butler alarm that goes off in your head?”
“Precisely six fifty-nine, my lord. I believe in being punctual.”
The bathing situation was another level of mortification entirely. Apparently, in Iferona, privacy was a concept as foreign as indoor plumbing and nonthreatening interior design. Every morning after breakfast, Azrael would prepare my bath—a massive obsidian tub that could comfortably fit a walrus family reunion—and then stand there expectantly, holding a towel and looking for all the world like he was waiting for me to disrobe.
“I can bathe myself,” I’d insisted on the sixth day. “Been doing it successfully for over two decades. Haven’t drowned in a bathtub yet.”
“It would be a dereliction of my duties to allow you to attend to such matters yourself, my lord,” he’d replied, his expression suggesting I’d just proposed something as absurd as a demon democracy or casual Fridays in the torture chambers.
“At least turn around!”
“As you wish, my lord.” He’d turned, but somehow still managed to assist with the washing process without directly looking at me, which was both impressive and mildly unsettling, like watching someone parallel park blindfolded.
Now I’d graduated to allowing him to wash my hair—partly because he was surprisingly good at it and partly because itwas easier than arguing with someone who had centuries of stubborn butler protocol hardwired into his DNA.
Dressing was another battle entirely. Azrael had strong opinions about appropriate Dark Lord attire, which apparently required at least seventeen pieces and enough buckles to secure a space shuttle during reentry. My attempts to dress myself resulted in what he delicately referred to as “creative interpretations of formal wear” that “might cause the nobles to question your sanity, my lord.”
After seeing his pained expression when I put a ceremonial sash on backward, I’d reluctantly surrendered to his expertise, standing with my arms out like a child as he efficiently wrapped me in enough layers of fancy fabric to survive an arctic expedition.
The rest of each day had been filled with an endless parade of meetings, briefings, and paperwork that made my previous job look like a vacation. Lord Taxman had delivered seventeen ledgers to my chambers, each one thicker than a fantasy novel finale and about half as exciting. General Smashington provided daily updates on the kingdom’s defenses, which mostly consisted of creative variations on “everything is terrible but we’re pretending it’s fine.”
