Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucifer made a beeline for his room the moment they arrived at the hotel. Downstairs, the din of chaos was deafening, somewhere between a victory party and a full-blown riot. Perfect, he thought. Aside from pounding in his skull like a drum, the noise was loud enough to smother the pained moans that escaped him.

He writhed on the bed, skin tingling with lingering static. It built slowly, sharpening into quick shocks just enough to remind him of the torment in that box before melting into numbness, only to surge back again. It was relentless and so, so painful. The last time he remembered suffering this much was during the burns he’d endured in his Fall.

A quiet dread rose inside him when he realized he hadn’t even sensed the familiar shadow sliding under his door. By the time it crept into the room, the next harsh shock cracked through his body, forcing him to turn away. The best he managed was strangling the grunt halfway down his throat.

“Oh my. Seems Carmilla’s technology is not to be underestimated if it can cause this much damage even to you.”

Carmilla… who? Was she one who designed the torture box he’d been thrown into? If so, that alone earned her a solid spot on his “do not invite to dinner” list.

“What’re you doing here?” It was a rare moment he didn’t feel like poking at Alastor. If anything, hearing that radio speak only made the sparks under his skin flare worse.

“Is Charlie—”

“There is no need to worry. She is happily celebrating downstairs, completely oblivious to her dear father suffering up here.”

Lucifer stiffened. The leftover energy in his limbs snapped like a whip.

“Don’t you dare.”

“It cannot be helped. Even back there, she was too caught up in her victory to notice you. Just like I predicted, that girl—”

Lucifer didn’t even register the moment he grabbed Alastor by the collar. One second he was lying down, the next he was upright and shaking. He definitely cut a pathetic figure, made even more ridiculous by their height difference. 

“Look at you,” Alastor taunted, making no move to slip free. “Even in agony, you are still Daddy of the Year.”

Lucifer’s eyes blazed, but the hand fisted in Alastor’s collar trembled uncontrollably, both from the aftershocks and the conditions of his punishment.

“How disappointing. Provoking you in your state is far less entertaining than I hoped.”

“You… what the fuck do you want?” Lucifer shouted a little too loudly.

He didn’t tense because Alastor hit a nerve; he tensed because he’d already been standing on that nerve all night. Charlie wasn’t to blame for not noticing—she was celebrating, as she should. He was the one who couldn’t seem to do anything right, always tripping over his own attempts to help, getting in her way instead of supporting her, gullible enough to waltz straight into that TV-headed man’s trap. Useless as a husband, useless as a father, useless as a king. Failing grades across the board.

“And here I thought you could not get any more pathetic. You are hardly amusing anymore. What a waste of a power that nearly obliterated Heaven,” Alastor mocked as he stepped back, slipping calmly out of Lucifer’s grasp. 

“Even without the ability to harm sinners, you could be so much more than this… pitiful display. Yet you choose to remain the laughingstock of both Heaven and Hell, all because of that damn pride of yours.”

Lucifer lost the strength to stand his ground and decided to answer anyway. “At least I have pride. Hell, I am pride! Something you deal-seeking walking radio ad wouldn’t understand!”

Alastor’s brow arched. Lucifer forced a shaky grin that quickly flatered as another shock tore through him. He stumbled forward, and Alastor caught him before he hit the ground, fingertips digging into his shoulders.

“My, my. How fragile the Morningstar has become,” Alastor ridiculed, voice amused and too smooth to trust. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Lucifer tried to retort with, “Fucking bitch—” but the words broke into a strangled cry as the shocks hit like lightning down his spine. His power lurched out of control, swirling inside him at a terrifying speed, refusing to regulate. His wings burst from his back, feathers shuddering violently before curling protectively around his trembling form. With Alastor still holding him, the wings wrapped partway around them both.

“Would you look at that.” Alastor’s fingers trailed over the feathers, his ever-present grin stretching wider. “Even more beautiful up close.” His gaze lingered on Lucifer, unsettling in its intensity. 

“Almost as pretty as you, Your Majesty.”

Pain and humiliation blurred together, along with a dizzying confusion. Another surge of unstable magic ripped through Lucifer before he could respond. Whatever that weapon had done, it left his power thrashing wildly, tearing at every nerve. His wings spasmed, his vision blurred, and he doubled over, clapping a hand over his mouth to strangle the scream threatening to escape. 

“Such admirable restraint,” Alastor remarked, right as Lucifer’s knees buckled. He caught him smoothly, an arm looping around his waist and pulling him upright before he could hit the floor. His hand avoided the base of the wings completely, as if Alastor knew exactly where the pain was worst.

Lucifer panted against him, trying and failing to steady any part of himself.

“You… what do you… want from me?” he managed, torn between the instinct to lean into the support and the desperate urge to get away.

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “All in good time, Lu. You might find that what I want is surprisingly beneficial to both of us.”

Lucifer blinked up at him, exhausted and hurting, bracing himself for the next spike of agony.

“But never mind that,” Alastor went on lightly. “We can discuss matters properly once you are feeling a bit more stable. Until then...”

His grip tightened just slightly, steadying, possessive, and mocking all at once.

Then his voice dipped, smooth and coaxing.

“I’m here, Your Majesty. Let it out.”

Lucifer didn’t know whether it was those sickeningly sweet words or the pain growing toward unbearable… but when it hit again, his scream tore free, raw and unrestrained, his body writhing against the grip that kept him from collapsing.

Chapter Text

Alastor couldn’t help but revel in the exquisite sight before him. The King of Hell was unraveling in his arms, all because of that weapon Vox, of all people, helped create alongside the engineering brilliance of Carmilla Carmine. He had to admit the damage was remarkable, but any admiration curdled instantly. His disdain for that TV grew heavier with every wavering breath the fallen angel took, fueled by the simple, infuriating fact that Vox was responsible for putting those sounds in Lucifer’s throat.

It was a strange feeling. As much as he savored the vulnerability someone like Lucifer was forced to show, displayed before him like a fine vintage, something inside him twisted in a way he had not anticipated. His sadistic nature refused to spark; there was no thrill in the violent spasms rippling through Lucifer’s body. Instead of delight, a raw and unfamiliar possessiveness rose in his chest.

He realized it was not Lucifer’s suffering that pleased him. It was the fact that he alone was privy to it. From the trembling wings to those dangerously ambiguous sounds, Alastor found himself captivated by the sight. And the weight of Lucifer’s nearly limp body pressed against him, a sinner he supposedly despised, felt far more intoxicating than he cared to admit.

The cheap, hollow thrill Vox had gotten from chaining him to a chair was nothing compared to the rush Alastor felt now, holding Hell’s strongest being barely conscious in his arms.

By the time the worst of the shocks finally faded, Lucifer was dead weight. Those beautiful wings still jerked every few seconds, little spasms of leftover pain that proved he wasn’t fully gone yet. Golden blood soaked through white clothes in heavy patches, warm and sticky against Alastor’s gloves.

Lucifer’s blood… Alastor was nearly salivating, fighting the scent that hit him the moment he stepped into the room. It didn’t smell metallic like a human’s. It was intoxicating, rich, something a single taste would turn into an instant addiction. And he knew himself well enough to be certain. Once he tasted it, he would not be able to stop. He could not allow himself that temptation. 

Not yet.

With a saint’s self-restraint, Alastor tore his gaze from the alluring gold and carefully made his way to the bed. Lucifer’s wings were still wrapped around them, making it difficult to lay him down. Alastor tried to pry them off, but the moment his fingers brushed against them, the wings unfurled on their own, as if sensing his intention. They hovered around him for a moment before retreating, a few soft feathers grazing his cheek on their way back.

He settled the angel onto his side, then took a seat on the edge of the bed as well, crossing one leg over the other. He looked down at the bloody ruin the King of Hell had been reduced to. Whatever the wounds beneath that once-pristine fabric looked like, though not enough to truly endanger someone of Lucifer’s caliber, they must have been excruciating.

Alastor considered helping. It would give him another favor to hold over Lucifer later. His gaze lingered on the fallen angel as he weighed the idea. Would the king take it as an act of goodwill despite the obvious ulterior motives? Or would the indignity of being undressed and tended to by him crush whatever pride he still clung to?

With a decisive move, Alastor reached for Lucifer’s clothes. He removed one of his gloves before slicing through the front of the vest with a claw. There was no way in Hell he’d get it off otherwise, not with those wings still out.

Before he could pull the torn fabric away, a hand closed firmly around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Lucifer breathed.

Alastor looked up.

Messy blond hair stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, breath shallow. His eyes remained closed, lashes brushing lightly against his skin. The lines of his face were impossibly clean, too precise to be accidental. Pain had softened his expression into something fragile, unguarded—yet the effect was devastating. There was no doubt he was God’s most beautiful creation.

Alastor had never cared for beauty. He only recognized it as a tool, a way people bent others to their will. In life, he had been handsome enough to use his looks when it suited him. In Hell, that charm meant nothing. 

But when Lucifer’s lashes fluttered open, revealing eyes like polished rubies shimmering with pain, Alastor understood more clearly than ever how dangerous true beauty could be.

Even half-awake, Lucifer still noticed the shift in his stare.

“You… what—” he muttered, brows pinched faintly.

“Do relax. I’m no deviant. I was merely about to check your wounds,” Alastor said, keeping his hands respectfully to himself. “Though my assistance does not seem welcome.”

Lucifer looked genuinely confused for a moment, as if he couldn’t comprehend the very simple idea of someone planning to check his injury. Then he exhaled sharply, using his arm as a makeshift pillow as he shifted to get more comfortable on the bed. “No need. That won’t kill me.”

“Never said it would, Your Majesty.”

A faint grimace flickered across Lucifer’s face. “Why’re you calling me that?”

“Someone has to,” Alastor replied smoothly. “If you intend to keep the title, that is. How long has it been since anyone besides the Sins addressed you as king?”

Lucifer gave a humorless laugh, attempting to shrug it off. “You can’t expect someone who’s lived as long as me to remember, right? Memory problems and the like… hahaha.”

The act faltered. He blinked slowly, curling tighter into himself. The silent answer was clear: no one. No one had ever called him king and meant it. Not out of fear, certainly not out of respect. Even before Vox’s public stunt, Lucifer was no king. Hell was never his kingdom. It was his punishment.

But soon, that would change, Alastor thought, quietly amused.

A beat of silence. Then, tired and resolute, Lucifer finally spoke, his voice drained of all pretense.

“You want a deal with me. Why?”

Alastor smiled, inwardly noting how easy it was. 

“As I said, Your Majesty, all in good time. For now, if you could just do me the favor of hating me a little less and… trusting me a little more.”

Lucifer huffed, something between a laugh and a cough. “I don’t hate you. And I don’t particularly distrust you either. Shocking, I know.” His words slurred slightly, exhaustion dragging at each syllable. “You want my power, take it. Happy to be useful to anyone these days. On the condition Charlie and her friends stay unharmed, and also…”

He glanced at Alastor, eyes unsteady, but painfully sincere.

“You don’t leave.”

Alastor tilted his head. “Leave?”

Lucifer swallowed, jaw tightening. “No matter what you want to stay as. A hotelier, a… whatever you are. A self‑serving bastard. Doesn’t matter. You stay with me until the deal’s off.”

Silence settled between them. Thick, uncertain, and strangely intimate.

Alastor wanted to laugh. Ridiculous. All Lucifer cared about was whether his daughter was safe—not what Alastor intended to do with the power he’d been offered. He had agreed so easily. Too easily.

He had even asked Alastor to stay. Just that. All it took was a small breach in his defenses, a single ounce of faux care, a warm touch, and suddenly Lucifer was willing to bind himself to a demon like him.

Was he really that… lonely? So desperate to find comfort in the first pair of hands that didn’t shove him away? Even if those hands were his?

Alastor stood up, straightening his coat before falling on one knee by Lucifer’s bed. He took the hand Lucifer had left dangling over the side, holding it near his lips.

“If your Majesty wants me by your side, that is exactly where I’ll be,” Alastor murmured, voice low and slick against the blackened skin.

He gently pressed his lips against it, eyes never leaving Lucifer’s burning ones threatening to pierce his very existence.

A single tear traced down the curve of that pale cheek, slow and quiet.

Alastor fought to hide his widening smile. He rose to his full height, tall and deliberate. Lucifer sat up immediately, watery gaze unconsciously following him.

How pitiful. How perfect.

Another tear glimmered in the dim light, gliding down silently. Alastor pressed his palm lightly to Lucifer’s jaw, tilting his face up so he could sweep it away.

“No need to be anxious, my king. Go on. Command me to stay.”

He waited for that pride to flare, for Lucifer to withdraw from his touch.

“Anxious? Me? Pfft! And what the hell are you wiping? I’m not some dainty little thing who swoons over pretty words!”

But it never came.

Instead, Lucifer subtly pressed into his hand, eyes blazing red and wet. The watery sheen made him look almost seductive, every flicker of his lashes begging Alastor to stay. He had never looked more like a demon.

“Stay.”

Alastor’s ears twitched, chest coiling with dark delight.

He leaned closer, letting his gloved hand cup Lucifer’s cheek, fingers brushing lightly across his temple. His thumb traced the line of his jaw, lingering near the corner of his lips.

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

Chapter Text

Lucifer stared numbly at his reflection, eyes tracing the faint scars scattered across his bare chest. Less than a day ago, he had been nearly zapped to unconsciousness. Now there were no wounds, no dried blood, and significantly less pain. Only a few light lines remained, already fading. It was almost impressive. He’d never been injured enough to notice how fast his body could recover.

The man in the mirror barely looked like him—cheeks drained of warmth, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, eyes dulled by the lingering buzz of power loss and a headache that wouldn’t quit. What a sorry sight. Utterly undignified. 

He exhaled, tired, and pulled a robe over his shoulders, tying it loosely at his waist.

At least Alastor had promised to keep Charlie away for a while. Lucifer had no idea how he intended to manage that and honestly did not want to know. He just needed to look a little more like himself and a little less like he had been reanimated; at the very least, he wanted the muscle spasms and nerve misfires to settle before facing his daughter.

A shadow appeared behind him in the mirror, followed by the soft crackle of static. Lucifer did not bother fixing his robe or smoothing his hair. 

Alastor had seen worse last night. 

“Awake and well, I see,” the Radio Demon chimed. He stood tall with one hand folded neatly behind his back, looking perfectly put together as always. The exact opposite of how Lucifer felt.

“If by well you mean not currently face-down in a pool of my own blood,” Lucifer muttered, “then sure. Doing absolutely fantastic.”

“You know,” Alastor said lightly, “it is quite intriguing how loud you are when awake, yet so very quiet when you sleep.”

“Staring at me while I’m unconscious? Creep.”

“You were the one who asked me to stay,” the Radio Demon replied. “Or should I remind you?”

Lucifer stiffened, heat crawling up his neck. He turned to face Alastor’s smug grin, hands lifting in a half-theatrical gesture meant to defend himself even as his pride shriveled.

“I was delirious.”

“Yet so very sincere,” Alastor purred.

Lucifer bit back a groan and looked away. Blood rushed back to his cheeks, refusing to be ignored. 

He couldn’t believe that was him last night.

All it took was an embrace, a steady voice, and the smallest scrap of kindness for him to crumble. 

Once, he had been confident. Proud. A dreamer. An angel who burned too fiercely for Heaven’s liking.

Now, all it took was someone reaching a hand toward him, and he folded into it like a touch-starved animal desperate for warmth.

Pathetic. And yet, if that hand reached out again, Lucifer knew he’d lean into it without hesitation.

If only to feel a little less unwanted.

Alastor’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, too perfectly timed to be a coincidence.

“You ask so little of me,” he said, tilting his head. “It is almost insulting. I had an entire speech prepared.”

Lucifer snorted tiredly. “Sorry for ruining your evil plan, I guess.”

“Not ruined,” Alastor corrected, stepping closer. “Merely… redirected.”

The static softened. He approached until Lucifer could feel the weight of that crimson gaze pressing against him.

“I had planned to offer myself as your blade, Your Majesty. Quite a lucrative bargain for you. Yet you went and devalued the entire negotiation by asking only for my company.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, suddenly paying attention. Alastor noticed the shift and continued smoothly.

“You asked me to stay, and I will. But is that all?”

“Angelic power cannot be that cheap.” 

“I could do so much more for you.”

Lucifer’s mind struggled through the fog, but the pieces finally fell together. Alastor’s offer, the way he insisted on “Your Majesty”. For reasons Lucifer could not yet fully grasp, Alastor needed him to step up, to claim the title he had spent centuries avoiding. He needed Lucifer to be a king with weight behind his name, not a half-present joke. Someone who could command. Someone Alastor could assist… or serve.

Funny. Lucifer had never truly considered claiming the crown Heaven forced on him. It was meant to humiliate him, to mock his Fall. He had played the role, yes, but never embraced it.

So why did Alastor’s words make his heart burn like this?

All his power, yet he had been unable to protect his daughter when she needed him, all because he couldn’t harm sinners. It was torture, had always been. Being so useless. 

If that TV-headed man had caused this much chaos, who knew what else lurked out there? How many threats had risen while Lucifer hid himself away? When Lilith was here, she kept order. When she left, that responsibility fell on him… and he had vanished.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoulder any of that weight. Not when his soul already felt crushed—buried under shattered dreams, foolish choices, and the sting of being cast out like a defective product.

He had been the Sin of Pride once.

Now… he wanted help. 

Alastor’s help.

Wanted it badly enough to choke down the last scraps of pride he had left.

Not just his deal.

Not just his strength.

“I could do so much more for you.”

Lucifer’s breath hitched.

He didn’t just want the help.

He wanted him.

Wanted Alastor to stay, to choose him, to fill the hollow space he pretended didn’t ache.

Dizziness hit like a wave at the realization. He shuddered, pinned under Alastor’s gaze, which only grew heavier by the second, as if the demon was savoring every flicker of turmoil crossing his face.

Suddenly they were too close, and Lucifer instinctively stepped back—only to crash into the tall mirror.

“Shit.”

He spun around, ignoring the heat simmering under his skin, fussing over the frame just to have something to focus on other than the pull in his chest. He muttered to himself, rambling in a desperate attempt to mask how unnervingly affected he was.

“Good thing I didn’t break it… It’s a pretty one, don’t you think? All gold and fancy. It has snakes curling around the edges…”

His voice trailed off, lost in thought, gaze falling to the floor. Silence stretched between them, each second drawing out the tension until it almost became unbearable.

“You’ll really help me?” he asked hesitantly, voice small and uncertain. Even as the words left his lips, part of him knew the answer wouldn’t quiet the gnawing doubt in his mind. When would his usefulness end? When would he be discarded like an afterthought? Agreeing to this… was it another chance to hand over a piece of himself, only to have it returned in fragments?

A hand curled around his jaw before his thoughts could spiral further, lifting his face. 

He looked at Alastor through the mirror. The reflection was closer than he expected, and those unflinching eyes bore into his own. 

“You cannot harm sinners. But I can.”

Alastor leaned forward, his chest brushing lightly against Lucifer’s back, thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

“All you need to do is point,” the demon said smoothly, almost casually.

Lucifer’s knees weakened imperceptibly.

Alastor’s hand shifted, guiding his head until their noses were nearly brushing. 

“—and I will strike.”

Lucifer inhaled sharply, his head spinning. He didn’t pull away, didn’t resist. He allowed himself, for the first time in a long while, to exist fully in the warmth and control of another’s presence.

“Whatever you need, you come to me.”

Alastor let his hand drop, the subtle enchantment of closeness fading. Lucifer blinked as though surfacing from underwater, breath rushing back into his lungs.

“Whatever I need? You sure you won’t regret that, Bambi?” he drawled, though his voice wavered.

“We’re in fucking Hell, dear. No one regrets anything here.” Alastor shrugged him off with more certainty than Lucifer had ever felt in his entire existence. “Even you, Lu.”

Lucifer didn’t comment on that—because what even was the truth? Did he regret breaking the rules back then? If he could turn back time, what would he do? The fact that he couldn’t say for sure planted a seed of unease in his chest.

With Alastor finally more than a meter away, Lucifer allowed himself a moment to gather his bearings. Now that his mind was clearer, he needed to focus on the matter at hand instead of spiraling into thoughts he wasn’t ready to confront.

“So… deal’s sealed? You’ll be my sword? Isn’t that too poetic? Hitman? Too grim. Enforcer? God, why is this so hard?”

He tsked, rubbing the back of his neck; it still felt uncomfortably warm.

“Scratch that, we have more important things to discuss,” he said, trying to sound casual despite his heart still thumping from their earlier proximity. “You want power, right? That’s easy. I’ll give you as much as you want. But first—”

A flicker of courage masked the heat inside him as he stepped forward and pressed his hand flat against Alastor’s chest, right over his heart. The beat was slow, far too slow compared to his own. And beneath the fabric lay a wound exactly as it had been on the day he received it, still leaking remnants of Adam’s angelic power, refusing to heal.

Alastor stiffened at the sudden touch, but only for a second before relaxing again. He didn’t ask how Lucifer knew or why he had never said anything. Lucifer silently sighed in relief and took that as permission to continue.

It was worse than he’d expected. Lucifer was honestly impressed that Alastor had been walking around like this. Regret lodged itself in his chest—he should have offered to help sooner. He had thought about it, perhaps since the night Alastor was injured, but with no one aware of the wound and Alastor clearly determined to keep it a secret, he had opted out.

Besides, they hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms back then. Alastor had tried to steal his daughter, after all, which did wonders for Lucifer’s pride and stubbornness, ultimately leading him to let Alastor suffer in silence.

But then they kept bickering. And every interaction became more entertaining, more strangely comforting, and Lucifer had definitely thought about offering help more than once. It had simply never seemed like the right moment.

“Contrary to what most of Hell believes by now, I’m not entirely useless,” he muttered sheepishly, staring at the glow emitting from his hand and sinking into Alastor’s chest. A faint hum of magic vibrated between them, warm and steady. Then Lucifer made the mistake of looking up, right into Alastor’s eyes.

No one had ever looked at him like that.

Not Charlie.

Not Lilith.

Not even God.

There was something in that gaze entirely fixed on him as though he were the only thing in existence.

A larger, gloved hand closed over Lucifer’s, cupping it firmly. The glow faded, leaving behind a fully healed wound and… a sudden wave of dizziness.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Alastor murmured as he gently pried Lucifer’s trembling hand away. Lucifer watched, dazed, as Alastor lifted his wrist and pressed a soft kiss to the inside. “Carrying that angelic souvenir around was getting rather tiresome.”

His signature smile didn’t widen. Instead, it softened with satisfaction, revealing more emotion than Lucifer had ever seen from him.

Lucifer held the hand Alastor had touched to his chest, as if unconsciously trying to preserve the warmth of that kiss. 

“It’s nothing, really. I can’t have my executioner walking around half-butchered. Oh, that’s the word! Sounds good, doesn’t it? Executioner. No, wait. Royal executioner. That sounds even cooler.”

“Surely does, Your Majesty.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m majestic and all, you can stop that. Please stop that. Just call me Lu, for fuck’s sake. Seriously, I’m not—”

Lucifer froze mid-sentence as a metallic taste hit his tongue. He touched his mouth, only to feel the blood trickling from the corner of his lips. Maybe he’d overestimated how much he’d recovered since yesterday. Dissolving Adam’s remaining angelic power had taken far more out of him than he realized. Wiping at it with the back of his hand, he tried to make light of it.

“Well… delightful side effect of being slightly drained, I suppose—”

Before he could finish, Alastor leaned in, cutting him off. 

The kiss was sharp and sudden, almost a bite, his jaw caught firmly in a gloved hand while Alastor licked at the blood as if he meant to devour him whole. The impact stole his breath before it shifted, smoothing into something terrifyingly controlled.

Every press of his lips, every slow sweep of his tongue following the faint sounds escaping Lucifer’s throat, every careful shift of angle carried purpose. Nothing about it was clumsy or impulsive. Alastor kissed with the precision of someone claiming exactly what he wanted, skillful and hungry and horribly effective.

Lucifer melted into him like gold under fire, unable to pull back, unable to do anything but take it. Pleasure drowned every warning. His mind fogged, body betraying him as that soft, warm mouth coaxed responses he couldn’t stop even if he tried. Finally, the hand at his jaw slid to the back of his neck, deceptively gentle, as if he were meant to be savored.

When the demon drew back just enough to smile, his tongue swept over his lips in lazy satisfaction. Power sparked in his eyes—Lucifer’s own—leaving him trembling, breath shallow, heat coiling low and helpless in his stomach.

“Marché conclu, mon cher,” Alastor murmured, voice low and nearly free of distortion. “From now on, I’m yours.”

“You will never be alone again.”