Page 29 of The Prospect's Succubus
She laughed, bitter. “That’s how it works. Lilith used to say you never come back whole. But she lied. You come back with interest.”
“I noticed,” I said.
Jasmine’s hand lingered. Her eyes met mine, and for a second, there was nothing between us but the hum of old wounds and new rules. The blood bond flared, tightening until I couldn’t breathe. Then the memories hit—hers, not mine, crashing through me like a car accident.
I was Jasmine, for a moment. Not the predator, not the weapon. I was alone in the Pit, surrounded by millions and still so isolated I could scream and nobody would hear. I felt the weight of expectation, the endless hunger, the way Lilith could break you with a look. I saw centuries of seduction, each one a little less satisfying than the last, a little more desperate. I felt the moment she realized she was more prisoner than queen, that every act of rebellion only made Lilith smile wider. I felt the sick, dizzy lurch of realizing she wanted out, and even more terrifying,wanted someone to want her out. Not to save her, not to fix her. Just to want her outside the leash.
It snapped back to me and I staggered, blinking hard. Jasmine pulled her hand away sharp, as if she’d been scalded.
“What did you see?” she whispered.
I breathed out slow, careful. “Enough.”
She wiped her hands on the jeans as if trying to get the touch off her skin, but I could tell it wasn’t about disgust. It was nerves, the kind that make your stomach fold in half and beg for mercy. I wanted to take her back, say something dumb like “It’s okay,” but she already knew better.
“What now?” she said, and it sounded almost normal.
I checked my pulse, felt it race under the scars. “Now we see if you can finish the job.”
Jasmine/Torch
The elevator let me off in the private vestibule, the kind that’s supposed to scream exclusivity, but tonight it only sounded like a choke. I stood for a second in the murk of my own reflection, seeing my hair matted, dress torn at the hip, mouth still wet from someone else’s teeth. I waited for the customary flush of pride, that little victory lap my brain ran after a hunt. But it wasn’t there. Just a heaviness in my chest and a faint, unscratchable itch on the back of my neck.
I slid my keycard and palmed the reinforced handle, pushing into my apartment. Instantly, I knew something was off. Even in the dark, I could feel it, a wrongness that vibrated through the hardwood, hummed behind the drywall, infested every inch of the place like radon. The usual notes—orange blossom, the memory of burned vodka, the sick-sweet trace of my own blood—were gone, replaced by the static thump of brimstone and a sharp, chemical heat that overpowered even the air-con.
All the hairs on my arms stood up. The urge to turn and run was strong, but that’s not how you get ahead in Hell’s org chart. So I took a step. Then another. Each click of my heel was absorbed by the carpet, but the silence roared. The darkness shuddered once, and then the living room lit up in seizure-bright pulses as the lights stuttered and then steadied. That’s when I saw her.
Lilith stood at the center of the room, one hand folded behind her back, the other holding a tumbler of what might have been bourbon, might have been blood. She’d raided my closet, or maybe just improved on it—her pantsuit looked painted on, matte black with the subtle shimmer of oil, and her flame-red hair spilled down her back in a way that should have been a cliché but instead made me want to crawl under the couch and die.
Her eyes were pits of perfect crimson. You know that shade of red you see in old stoplights, the kind that makes you want to run it anyway? That red. It pulsed in sync with the blood in my ears. Her skin was the color of fresh snow and as unmarked as a crime scene before the first body drops. When she looked at me, the glass in her hand didn’t so much as quiver, but the ceiling lights dimmed in fear.
I opened my mouth to offer something—an excuse, a greeting, a quick prayer—but she cut me off with a single flick of her chin.
“Sit,” she said.
I tried for nonchalance and collapsed onto the edge of the nearest couch, making sure the angle gave me two good escape routes and at least three blunt objects I could throw. Not that it would help.
Lilith smiled, slow. “Is that what you’re wearing now?” She glanced at the blood crusted across my thigh, the cinder-black singe at my shoulder where Torch’s bullet had grazed. “No wonder the assignment is taking so long.”
I smiled back, lips dry. “Comes with the territory. You wanted me?”
She tilted her head, a cat regarding a dead mouse. “Jasmine. I always want you, but rarely in this condition.”
I spread my hands, making a show of the burns and the torn fabric. “Occupational hazard. The man is more resilient than we thought.”
Lilith sipped her drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You mean, you underestimated him.”
My mouth wanted to say yes, but centuries of training said otherwise. “He’s not the problem. I’ve got him right where you want. He just likes to make it messy.”
“Does he?” Lilith took a step forward. The floor sizzled under her stiletto, a little puff of smoke curling from the groove left behind. “Funny, because what I’m seeing is that he’s making it… intimate.”
She let the word hang, heavy as wet velvet.
I tried not to blink. “I can assure you—”
Lilith closed the gap in one lazy stride, standing over me now, the heat from her skin enough to scorch my eyebrows. She leaned down until her mouth hovered just above my ear.
“You cannot assure me of anything,” she whispered, voice the texture of a knife’s edge. “You are nothing but a tool. A beautiful, exquisite tool. And you are breaking.”
