Chapter 15: Forbidden Self-Pleasure
The heavy oak door sealed behind Elara with a final, damp thud, cutting off Malkor’s voice like a blade. Silence, thick and cloying as the tomb-smell of old stone and damp, rushed in to fill the void. She was alone in the sacristy, a small, cluttered room lined with dark wooden cabinets holding chalices and vestments. A single stained-glass window high on the wall depicted a martyred saint, his eyes sorrowful in the weak, colored light.
Her heart was a trapped bird against her ribs. The sounds from the nave—the crackle of energy, the low, resonant growl that was unmistakably Azazel—were muffled but terrifyingly present. A crash echoed, the sound of stone splitting. Dust sifted from the ceiling, sparkling in the saint’s dim gaze.
Run, he’d said.
But where? The room had no other door.
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed up her throat. Her body, still humming from the violent, sacred coupling against the pillar, felt alien—sore, used, thrumming with a borrowed, golden energy that buzzed just beneath her skin. The memory of him, buried inside her, of the stolen power flooding into them both, was a live wire. It tangled with the terror of the moment, creating a feedback loop of desperation and sick, unwanted need.
She pressed her back against the cold stone wall beside the door, her ears straining. Another impact, closer this time. A snarl, cut short. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her fingers, acting on a frantic, instinctive need to ground herself, fumbled with the button of her jeans. The denim was still damp between her legs. She pushed them down just past her hips, the air cool on her overheated skin.
She slid her hand between her thighs. The flesh there was swollen, tender, gloriously abused. Her own touch was a shock. She was slick, the proof of him and their joining coating her fingers. A low, pathetic whimper escaped her lips as she traced her own sore folds. It was a desperate parody of comfort, a way to claim a sensation that was entirely her own amidst the chaos.
The sounds from the church intensified. A roar, full of pain and fury, shook the very foundations. It was Azazel. It was a sound of someone being cornered.
Her eyes squeezed shut. Her fingers, trembling, pushed deeper, two sliding into the aching, stretched heat he had just vacated. The memory wasn’t a memory; it was a physical imprint. She could feel the ghost of him, the brutal, perfect fullness. She fucked herself with her own fingers, fast and rough, trying to drown out the reality with the visceral echo.
She imagined it was his hand. His brutal, elegant fingers curling inside her, his thumb grinding against her clit. She imagined him pinning her against this very wall, his breath hot on her neck, his cock driving into her from behind with the same relentless pace he’d used on the pillar. “This cunt is my only sacrament,” he’d growl, and she’d believe him.
A particularly loud crash jerked her back. She bit down on the soft flesh of her own forearm, muffling a strangled cry as her hips jerked against her hand. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a release valve for pure, undiluted fear. A frantic, shameful pulse of adrenaline and leftover lust that crested in a sharp, silent clench around her fingers. Her knees buckled, and she slid a few inches down the wall, her jeans tangling around her thighs.
Shame washed over her, hot and immediate. What was she doing? He was out there, possibly being torn apart, and she was…
A soft, grinding sound came from across the room. One of the large, floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinets was shifting, swinging inward on silent, well-oiled hinges. A hidden door.
Azazel stood in the opening, framed by darkness. He was disheveled, a long, bleeding gash along his collarbone visible through his torn shirt. His eyes burned with that feral, golden light, but his face was pale, strained. He looked at her—at her hand still between her legs, at her jeans around her thighs, at the raw, desperate expression she knew was on her face.
There was no judgment in his gaze. Only a savage, understanding hunger.
“Up,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Now.”
She yanked her hand free, scrambling to pull her jeans up, fumbling with the button. He didn’t wait. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed her arm, and hauled her toward the hidden passage. His grip was iron, urgent.
“Malkor?” she gasped as he pulled her into the pitch-black corridor behind the cabinet.
“Delayed. Not stopped.” He shoved the hidden door closed behind them. The darkness was absolute, smelling of wet earth and ancient mortar. A faint, phosphorescent moss gave the barest definition to the rough-hewn walls. “The relic’s power was a surprise. Bought us minutes, no more.”
He pulled her along, his movements sure in the gloom. The passage was narrow, sloping downward. The sounds of the church faded, replaced by the drip of water and the scuttle of unseen things.
“Where are we?”
“The bones of the city,” he muttered. “Older than the church. They built their holiness on top of our highways.” He glanced back at her, his eyes glowing like banked coals in the dark. “Your mind. When I was fighting. It was… loud.”
She flushed, grateful for the darkness. “I was scared.”
A low, humorless laugh echoed off the stone. “You weren’t just scared. You were tasting it. The danger. The power I shoved into you. It fucks with your head, little anchor. Amplifies everything.” His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “Your little sacristy confession… I felt it. A sharp, bright pulse. It was a beacon.”
Horror chilled her. “They felt it too?”
“Malkor? No. His mind doesn’t work that way. But the auditors… their tools are subtler. It doesn’t matter now. Move.”
They descended for what felt like an hour, the passage twisting, branching, then merging again. They passed niches stacked with actual bones—old catacombs, long forgotten. Azazel’s pace never slowed. His breathing was the only sound besides their footfalls, a steady, measured rhythm she clung to.
Finally, he stopped before a section of wall that looked no different from any other. He placed his palm against it, whispering words that sounded like stone grinding against stone. A section of the wall slid aside, revealing a small, circular chamber. It was domed, lined with strange, geometric tiles that reflected Azazel’s faint glow. In the center was a dried-up well.
“A waypoint,” Azazel said, releasing her arm. He sagged against the wall, finally showing his exhaustion. The gash on his collarbone was still weeping a dark, sluggish fluid. “We rest here. For a moment.”
Elara’s own legs were trembling. She slid down the opposite wall, facing him. The eerie light played over his sharp features. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow, shaky fatigue. And beneath that, the weird, buzzing energy he’d spoken of still hummed.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing. Malkor plays with barbs. A petty little poison.” He peeled the torn fabric away from the wound. The edges were blackened, tiny, dark tendrils seeming to writhe beneath his skin. “Annoying.”
She watched him press his hand over the wound, his brow furrowed in concentration. A faint, gold-smoke light seeped from his fingers. The black tendrils recoiled, sizzling, before dissolving. The gash knit itself closed, leaving a fresh, pink scar. He let out a long, slow breath.
The chamber was silent. The danger felt momentarily distant, held at bay by layers of earth and stone and forgotten magic. The intimacy of the space—and the memory of what had just happened, both in the church and in the sacristy—curdled in the air between them.
Azazel’s eyes found hers in the gloom. The predatory hunger was still there, but softened by something else. A weary curiosity. “Why?” he asked, his voice low.
“Why what?”
“In the sacristy. When you thought I was being ripped apart. Why touch yourself? Why think of me?”
She looked away, tracing the patterns on the tiles. “I don’t know. I was… it was chaos. I needed to feel something I could control.”
“Liar.” The word was soft. He pushed off from the wall and crossed the small space, kneeling before her. He didn’t touch her. “The power from the relic… it binds us. It ties your nerves to mine, your hunger to my hunger. You felt my fight. You felt my rage. And it bled into you, twisted into that.” He reached out, his fingertips hovering just above her knee. “You weren’t thinking of me. You were thinking of my cock. Of being filled by it. Of being claimed by it while the world broke apart outside. That was the power talking. Our tether getting stronger, more… visceral.”
His words were a dark mirror, reflecting a truth she didn’t want to see. She met his gaze. “Is that all it is? Just magic?”
A slow smile touched his lips, devoid of mirth. “No.” His hand settled on her knee, warm and heavy. “The magic just strips everything else away. Shows you the root.” His fingers began to inch up her thigh. “What you did in that room… it called to me. Through the poison and the pain. It was a lifeline.”
His hand reached the seam of her jeans. He popped the button open with a deft flick. The sound was obscenely loud in the silent chamber. She didn’t stop him. The shame was gone, burned away by his blunt truth and the relentless buzz under her skin.
He pulled her jeans and underwear down her legs in one slow, deliberate motion. The air was cool on her exposed skin. He shifted, moving between her legs, spreading them with his shoulders. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his molten eyes taking in the sight of her, flushed and swollen and still gleaming from her own touch.
“See?” he murmured, almost to himself. He leaned forward, his breath warming her. “The tether is here. In this greedy, pretty cunt. It’s soaked in me. It wants me.”
He didn’t use his tongue. He lowered his head and pressed his open mouth against her, a hot, possessive brand. He breathed in, deeply, as if savoring her scent. “Mine,” he growled, the vibration against her sensitive flesh making her jolt.
Then his tongue was on her, a flat, demanding stroke that had her back arching off the cold tile floor. He licked her with a focused intensity, lapping up the evidence of her fear and her frenzy. He speared his tongue inside her, fucking her with it, his nose grinding against her clit. It was crude, animalistic. A reclamation.
“Azazel…” His name was a gasp.
He answered by hooking her legs over his shoulders, tilting her hips up to his mouth. He devoured her. There was no artistry, only a desperate, hungry consumption. His tongue worked her clit in hard, relentless circles while his fingers, two then three, plunged into her. He stretched her, scissoring his fingers, preparing her for what was to come. The sounds were wet, filthy, echoing off the domed ceiling.
She came with a choked cry, her hips bucking against his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. He rode her through it, his tongue never slowing, until the spasms subsided into shuddering aftershocks.
Before she could recover, he was on her. He yanked his own trousers open, freeing his erection, thick and impatient. He was already slick from her. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her tender flesh.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.
Her eyes flew open. His face was a mask of fierce possession, streaked with her wetness. The glowing golden light in his eyes was bleeding into the black, creating a swirling, infernal galaxy.
He pushed into her. The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that bordered on pain. She was still tight, sensitive from her climax, but her body opened for him, welcoming the invasion. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one deep, brutal thrust, burying himself inside her with a grunt of pure satisfaction.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. “Every time. Every time it’s like the first time. This perfect, clenching heat.”
He began to move, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was a declaration, pounding her into the unyielding tile floor. The chamber filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, of their ragged breaths, of his low, continuous growls.
“They want to take you,” he snarled, driving into her harder. “To use you to leash me. To break me.” He pulled her hips up, angling himself deeper, hitting a spot that made her see stars. “But this… this is the only leash. This is the only vow.”
His words were a dark catechism. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each thrust with a roll of her own hips. The connection was more than physical now. She could feel it—a thrumming cord of golden energy that tied her core to his, pulsing in time with their joining. It was the stolen sanctity, fused with their profane act.
He felt it too. His movements became frenzied, desperate. “You feel it?” he gasped, his pace becoming erratic, brutal. “The anchor… it’s rooting. Taking hold in the bedrock. They’ll never tear you out.”
His control shattered. He fucked her with a wild, abandon, his thrusts losing all rhythm, becoming a frantic, driving need for release. She clung to him, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, her own second climax building, a slow, deep wave cresting from that place where their energies merged.
He came with a roar that seemed to shake the ancient stones, pouring himself into her in hot, endless pulses. The force of his release triggered hers, a silent, shattering convulsion that wrung her dry. The golden cord between them blazed white-hot for an instant, binding them in a searing feedback loop of power and pleasure, before fading to a dull, steady glow.
He collapsed atop her, his weight crushing but familiar. His head rested between her breasts, his breath cooling on her damp skin. In the silence that followed, broken only by their slowing heartbeats, a new sound reached them.
Faint. Distant. The skittering of many small, hard things on stone.
Azazel went rigid. He lifted his head, his eyes narrowed. “Fuck,” he whispered, the word dripping with cold venom.
“What is it?”
He was already moving, pulling out of her, tucking himself away, helping her to her feet with a terrifying urgency. “The auditors. They’ve sent sniffers. Not for a scent. For a resonance.” He nodded to the fresh scar on his collarbone. “For the poison.”
He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the dried well in the center of the room. “The well isn’t dry,” he said. “It’s a door.”
Below, the skittering grew louder. Closer. It sounded like beetles. Or bones.
Azazel didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Elara and stepped off the edge, pulling them both into the dark, waiting mouth of the well.