Chapter 150: Unsuspected Help
The coppery tang of Seraphyx's cold blood lingered thick in Dante's mouth, the stolen slivers of corrupted grace a sluggish, sickening warmth in his gut. He lay slumped against the angel's corpse, chains heavy and cold, the cavern’s oppressive silence broken only by his own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his imagined escape. Hope felt like a mocking ghost. Then, distinct from the distant wails – footsteps. Deliberate. Approaching. Dante flinched, a raw scrape against the stone as he tried to push himself back weakly, away from the corpse, away from the sound. Adrenaline, thin and sour, flooded his system. Another angel materialized from the gloom: Oriviel. Tall, austere, his expression unreadable, his pristine white robes incongruous against the filth of the vaults. Dante just stared, his eyes hollow, exhausted pools reflecting the flickering torchlight, body coiled tight with residual terror.
Oriviel moved towards him with unnerving calm. Dante instinctively shuffled back another inch, muscles screaming, the chains clanking. When Oriviel reached out, Dante flinched violently, a full-body spasm, a choked gasp escaping his raw throat, anticipating another blow, another violation. But Oriviel’s hand landed not on his face or his wounds, but gently, firmly, on his bare, blood-streaked chest. A soft, pure white glow emanated from the angel’s palm, warm and soothing where it touched Dante’s ravaged skin. It seeped in, knitting torn flesh at the surface, easing the sharpest edges of agony in his dislocated shoulder, taking the brutal edge off the fiery pain radiating from his violated ass and flayed wrist. Not a full healing. Just enough to make existence marginally less torturous. Dante shuddered under the touch, unused to gentleness, half-expecting it to twist into pain. It didn’t.
Oriviel then reached down, his movements efficient, and with a murmured word that made the locking sigils briefly flicker and die, he undid the heavy warded cuffs around Dante’s wrists and ankles. The iron fell away with heavy thuds. Dante felt startlingly light and terrifyingly vulnerable without their grounding weight. Oriviel looked him directly in the eyes, his gaze steady, holding Dante’s shattered stare. “He was never authorized to do this, Prince,” Oriviel stated, his voice low and precise, devoid of pity but carrying an undeniable gravity. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” He paused, letting the words hang in the sulfurous air. Apology. Inconvenience. The words felt absurd, grotesque against the backdrop of Dante’s utter ruin. Inconvenience was a stubbed toe, not… this.
Oriviel leaned down, his arm slipping around Dante’s torso, pulling him up with surprising strength. Dante’s legs trembled violently, refusing to bear weight. He leaned heavily into Oriviel’s support, the angel’s arm a solid, alien band across his back. “I’m not able to heal you fully, but I healed what I could to ease some of the pain,” Oriviel continued, his tone clinical yet devoid of cruelty. “I’m going to help you get cleaned up and make sure you get home.” Dante didn’t have it in him to respond. Words were dust in his mouth. Exhaustion was a black tide pulling him under. He simply closed his eyes as reality dissolved into the nauseating vortex of teleportation.
The cloying sulfur stench vanished, replaced by the scent of aged parchment, beeswax, and something faintly floral. Dante swayed as solid, warm wood met his bare feet. Oriviel steadied him, guiding him through a dimly lit room lined with towering shelves overflowing with ancient books and artifacts – Oriviel’s sanctum. Without a word, the angel steered Dante towards an adjoining, opulent bathroom dominated by a deep, free-standing copper bathtub already filling with steaming water. Oriviel eased him down onto a low, padded stool beside it. Dante slumped, head bowed, watching the steam curl towards the ceiling, his mind numb. Oriviel tested the water, added a vial of fragrant oil that released the scent of sandalwood and chamomile, then turned back to Dante. He knelt before him, his movements unhurried. Reaching out, Oriviel gently began to wash Dante’s battered body. A soft cloth, warm and wet, moved over Dante’s shoulders, down his arms, carefully avoiding the deepest gashes but cleansing away the crusted blood, the grime, the lingering filth of the vaults and Seraphyx.
The cloth moved lower, tracing the stark lines of Dante’s ribs, then dipped towards the deep, jagged gash across his lower abdomen – the one Seraphyx’s boot had carved earlier. Oriviel paused, his fingers probing the edges with detached precision. "This will need sealing," he stated, his voice flat. Dante flinched as the cold steel tip of a needle pricked his skin near the wound. "Hold still." The thread, thin and shimmering like spider silk pulled taut, bit into inflamed flesh with each precise, piercing stitch. Dante hissed through clenched teeth, his knuckles white where they gripped the stool, every tug sending a fresh wave of fire through his gut. The fallen angel worked silently, efficiently, closing the tear with meticulous, almost cruel care. Done, Oriviel snipped the thread and applied a cool, numbing salve that smelled sharply of antiseptic and crushed mint leaves.
Oriviel rinsed the cloth in the steaming water, wrung it, and resumed washing. The cloth swept down Dante’s trembling thigh, then returned, moving towards the sensitive skin of his inner leg. Dante’s entire body locked rigid, a low, feral growl vibrating deep in his shattered chest as the cloth brushed the crease where leg met groin. Oriviel hesitated, his gaze flickering up to Dante’s tightly closed eyes, the muscle jumping in his jaw. "The filth must be removed, Prince," Oriviel murmured, his voice betraying no judgment, only necessity. He pressed the cloth gently against Dante’s bruised perineum. Dante jerked violently, a choked sound escaping him, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Oriviel’s touch was clinical, thorough, wiping away the dried blood and traces of Seraphyx’s violation from Dante’s tender, torn flesh and swollen sac. Dante shuddered, fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit, humiliation warring with the raw, animal terror of being touched there again.
The angel rinsed the cloth once more, the water blooming pink and brown. He stood. "The bath will soothe what remains," Oriviel said, moving to turn off the taps. He offered a hand. Dante ignored it, pushing himself up on trembling legs, swaying dangerously before stepping over the high copper rim and sinking into the searing embrace of the water. The heat was an immediate, profound shock, igniting every abraded nerve ending, then slowly, agonizingly morphing into a deep, penetrating warmth that began to loosen the iron bands clamped around his muscles and bones. He slid down until the murky water lapped at his chin, eyes fixed blankly on the swirling patterns of blood and grime leaching from his body. Oriviel placed a folded linen towel and a large sponge on the ledge within reach. "Rest," he commanded softly, turning and leaving the room without another word. Dante closed his eyes, the steam curling around him like ghostly fingers, the scent of sandalwood failing to mask the persistent copper tang of his own suffering. He let the heat soak into his brokenness, the silence of the safehouse a fragile, temporary shield against the echoing screams still trapped in his skull. The water around him slowly turned a deeper, sickening pink.
The water around him slowly turned a deeper, sickening pink. Heat seared his stitched gut wound, making the fresh closure throb fiercely. He tried to sink lower, letting the murky water cover his chin, seeking oblivion in the steam. Sandalwood couldn't mask the coppery tang of his own blood, nor the phantom taste of Seraphyx’s cold, corrupted essence still thick on his tongue.
He scrubbed furiously at his inner thighs with the rough sponge, the abrasive texture scraping his bruised skin raw, trying to erase the ghost sensation of Oriviel’s clinical touch, the fallen angel’s necessary cleansing of his violated flesh. Each scrape echoed Seraphyx’s brutal thrusts, the wet slap of hips against his ass, the tearing stretch as he was forced open again and again. "Fucking... breed hole..." Seraphyx’s snarling command echoed in the steam-filled silence, as real as the sting of the water.
He saw Adam’s terrified face, imagined Lucien’s shattered expression finding him broken on the penthouse floor – a vision that hadn’t happened, but felt truer than the bath. The stolen angelic power churned sickeningly in his gut, a dirty, unwelcome spark amidst the ruin. He dropped the sponge, his flayed left hand trembling violently where it rested on the tub's cool rim, the exposed bone gleaming wetly.
A choked sound escaped him, strangled and unfamiliar. His chest hitched violently, a spasm he couldn't control. The dam, forged over millennia of defiance, cracked wide open. A raw, guttural sob tore from his throat, ragged and utterly broken, echoing the cavern’s tormented screams trapped inside his skull. Tears, hot and unchecked, flooded down his ravaged face, mingling with the bathwater and grime. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, great heaving tremors that sent ripples across the pink water. He curled forward, forehead pressing against his trembling knees, his body folding in on itself as centuries of suppressed agony, violation, and terror poured out in wrenching, silent cries. The King of Hell was gone, replaced only by shattered, weeping wreckage adrift in the cooling, bloody water.
The King of Hell was gone, replaced only by shattered, weeping wreckage adrift in the cooling, bloody water. He choked on the thick air, salt tears stinging the raw scrapes on his face, each ragged inhale shuddering through his battered ribs. Then, a brutal clarity cut through the fog: Adam. Lucien. The names were anchors, dragging him back from the abyss.
He sucked in a final, wet gasp, forcing the sobs down with a violence that scraped his throat raw. Shame, hot and corrosive, washed over him, burning away the tears. He slammed his fist weakly against the copper rim, the jolt of pain a welcome grounding. Get. Up. The water sloshed as he heaved himself upright, the stitches in his gut pulling taut, his flayed left hand sliding on the wet metal.
He stood on shaking legs, water streaming pink rivulets down his trembling body onto the tiled floor. The air felt shockingly cold against his wet skin, raising goosebumps. He grabbed the folded towel Oriviel had left, rubbing roughly, mechanically, over his limbs, torso, avoiding the tender ache between his legs and the glaring wound on his wrist. He needed to be covered. He needed to be gone.
The door opened silently. Oriviel stood there, holding out neatly folded garments: soft dark trousers, a simple black tunic, clean underwear. No leathers. Not yet. "These should suffice," Oriviel stated, placing them on a low bench. His gaze was assessing, detached. "You should be good to go home."
Dante snatched the clothes, the movement sharp, fueled by a brittle pride reasserting itself. He pulled on the underwear, the soft cotton strange against his oversensitive skin, then the trousers, wincing as the fabric brushed his bruised thighs and stitched abdomen. He managed the tunic with trembling hands, leaving it loose. The clothes felt like armor, however flimsy. He looked at Oriviel, the fallen angel who’d found him chained to a corpse. "Why?" Dante rasped, his voice rough as gravel. "Why help me?"
Oriviel regarded him for a long moment, the silence thick with unspoken celestial politics. "I never understood the hate," he finally said, his tone flat, matter-of-fact, "you and a few of your siblings got just because you’re Morningstars." He paused, his gaze drifting momentarily towards a tapestry depicting a cosmic battle Dante didn’t recognize. "You’re also important to someone," Oriviel continued, his voice lowering slightly, "who used to be important to me." He met Dante’s questioning stare squarely. "So, I wanted to help."
"Who?" Dante demanded, stepping closer despite the pain, the name a hook in his mind. "Tell me who."
Oriviel shook his head once, a minute, final gesture. "Don’t worry about it, Prince. Just go home and be with your family." Before Dante could snarl a protest, demand answers, or even blink, Oriviel’s hand flicked. Reality tore open with a nauseating lurch, the opulent safehouse vanishing.
He stumbled on plush carpet, the familiar scent of his penthouse – leather, whiskey, Adam’s faint cedarwood cologne – hitting him like a physical blow. He caught himself against the hallway wall, breathing hard.
"Dante?” The voice, thick with disbelief and raw terror, came from the living room doorway. Adam stood there, his celestial grace momentarily flaring bright with shock. Then he was moving, crossing the space in a heartbeat. "Oh God, Dante!" Adam crashed into him, arms wrapping around Dante’s torso with crushing force, burying his face in Dante’s damp hair. "We couldn’t find you, we tried everything, Lucien was frantic, I thought—" Adam choked on the words, his body trembling against Dante’s, his embrace fierce, desperate, grounding. "Fuck, Dante. Fuck."
Footsteps pounded down the hall. Lucien skidded into view, Ravyn a step behind him, her eyes wide. Lucien froze for a second, taking in the sight: Dante’s pallor, the stitched wound visible beneath the loose tunic, the raw horror barely contained. Then Lucien hurtled forward, bypassing Adam entirely, throwing his arms around Dante’s waist, pressing his face hard against Dante’s uninjured side. "Dad," Lucien breathed, the single word cracking, a sob trapped within it. His grip was just as tight as Adam’s, anchoring Dante between them, a frantic, living tether pulling him back from the abyss.
His grip was just as tight as Adam’s, anchoring Dante between them, a frantic, living tether pulling him back from the abyss. The frantic pressure of their bodies, the overwhelming scent of their fear and relief, threatened to suffocate him. He needed space. Air. Control. "I'm okay," Dante rasped, the lie scraping his raw throat, pushing gently against Lucien’s shoulder. "Just need… a minute." He met Adam’s worried gaze, forcing a semblance of calm he didn’t feel into his own shattered eyes. "Go back to your room, kid. Both of you. Now." Lucien hesitated, his hand tightening on Dante’s arm. "Dad, you’re not—" "Go," Dante commanded, sharper, the Detroit edge cutting through the tremor in his voice. Ravyn touched Lucien’s arm, her eyes understanding the brittle tension radiating off Dante. "Come on, Luce," she murmured softly. Reluctantly, Lucien pulled away, casting one last agonized look back before Ravyn guided him down the hall. The door to their room clicked shut.
The door to their room clicked shut.
Adam stood frozen after Lucien left, his gaze fixed on the fresh stitch line visible through Dante’s thin tunic. "What the hell happened to you?" His voice was low, urgent. Dante waved a dismissive hand, the movement stiff, pulling at the wound in his gut. "Took a bad fall at the club. Nothing serious." He tried to move past Adam towards the whiskey decanter, a semblance of normalcy. "Don't fucking lie to me," Adam snapped, stepping into his path, his celestial aura flaring hot. "You smell like sulfur and blood, Dante. Look at your fucking hand!" He reached out instinctively to grasp Dante’s flayed left wrist.
Dante recoiled violently, jerking back as if burned, slamming into the hallway wall. "Don’t!" The word hissed out, sharp with raw panic, his eyes wide and wild. Adam froze, his own hand hanging in the air, shock etched on his face. "Don’t fucking sit here and tell me nothing happened," Adam ground out, stepping closer, his voice trembling with anger and fear, "if this is how you’re reacting to me just trying to touch you." Dante stared at him, his breathing ragged, the forced calm shattering. Tears welled, spilling over, tracing clean paths down his bruised cheeks. The stolen angelic power churned sickly in his gut.
He swallowed hard, the sound thick and painful. "Seraphyx," Dante rasped, the name tasting like ash. Adam’s eyes widened. "He… he got me. Warded chains. Ancient sigils. Traps." Each word was a struggle, forced out against a tide of suffocating shame. "Kept me… down there. In the Vaults." His voice broke. "He tortured me. Hours… days… I don’t know." Dante’s gaze dropped, unable to meet Adam’s horrified stare. "He… raped me. Over and over. Used me like..." The obscenity hung heavy in the air, raw and ugly.
He shuddered violently, wrapping his arms around himself. "He had this thing… the Choir-Ripper. Made me remember." A choked sob escaped him. "Everything, Adam. Every fucking time." Dante’s knuckles were white where he gripped his own arms. "He made me remember the first time. Lucifer." The admission was a whisper, laden with millennia of buried agony. "He made me relive every single goddamn violation in between." He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming freely. "He broke me. He… made me remember… and he broke me." Outside the door, unseen, Lucien stood rigid, breath caught in his throat, his own tears silent.
Adam’s face drained of color, his celestial grace flickering wildly like a guttering candle. "Fuck," he breathed, the word raw and shattered. He took a single, hesitant step forward, his hands lifting slowly, palms open. "Dante..." Dante flinched violently back against the wall again, a choked whimper escaping him, his eyes wide and unfocused, seeing only the vaults, only Seraphyx’s cold, depthless stare. "He broke me," Dante gasped, the words thick with tears and terror. "He broke me."
"He broke me," Dante repeated, a ragged sob tearing loose, his body folding in on itself as he slid down the wall, collapsing onto the plush carpet. He curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his knees, forehead pressed hard against them. Tremors wracked him violently. "Broke me," he choked out again, the phrase a broken mantra lost in the fabric of his borrowed trousers. "Broke me... broke me..." Tears streamed unchecked down his bruised face, soaking into the dark cloth, his shoulders heaving with silent, convulsive cries. The raw, animal sound of his despair filled the hallway.
Adam moved then, slowly, deliberately, lowering himself to his knees on the carpet beside Dante’s shuddering form. He didn’t reach out immediately. "Dante," Adam murmured, his voice low and impossibly gentle, a stark contrast to the horror etched on his own face. "Can I touch you?" Dante flinched at the sound, a full-body jerk, his breath catching in a wet, ragged gasp. He didn’t lift his head. Adam waited, his own hands trembling slightly where they rested on his thighs. After a long, agonizing moment, Dante gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod against his knees, a shuddering inhale the only other sound.
Adam carefully, slowly, slid one arm beneath Dante’s shoulders and the other around his waist, pulling him gently, firmly, away from the wall and against his own chest. Dante stiffened instantly, a low groan of protest or fear vibrating through him, his muscles locking rigid. "Shhh," Adam breathed, his arms tightening just enough, a secure anchor. "I got you. Just breathe." He held Dante close, one hand cradling the back of Dante’s damp head, fingers tangling gently in the dark strands. Slowly, infinitesimally, the rigid tension bled out of Dante’s frame. A shuddering sigh escaped him, warm against Adam’s neck. Then, Dante melted. His body went utterly limp, collapsing fully into Adam’s embrace, his face buried against Adam’s shoulder. Deep, wracking sobs tore loose, muffled now against Adam’s shirt, his hands clutching weakly at the fabric as centuries of defiance finally dissolved into the safety of Adam’s arms. Outside the door, Lucien pressed his forehead against the cool wood, tears streaming silently down his own face.