The Prince’s Pet[Ao3]: Diavolo x Reader
Summary: You knew that something was going to happen. You felt it deep in your chest. But nothing could have prepared you for the hand that clamped over your mouth. Branded with gold cuffs and paraded before a crowd of bidders, you catch the gaze of one powerful demon in particular. The future king has decided you belong to him, body and soul. A dark romance where love is just another word for ownership.
“There you are,” he said softly.
His gaze slid to Barbatos, then back to your face, taking in the green silk, the way your chest rose and fell too quickly.
He set the goblet down with deliberate care. The sound of crystal meeting wood echoed like a verdict.
You didn’t move. Your feet felt rooted to the marble threshold, every muscle locked in place as the weight of his command pressed down on you. You realized the room wasn’t empty. Glasses clinked, fabric rustled, and low voices murmured from shadowed corners. But all of it blurred at the edges, insignificant compared to him.
Diavolo’s demon form dominated the space as his golden eyes held yours, patient but unyielding. The flicker of danger sharpened into something almost disappointing.
Before you could force your legs to obey, or before the cuffs could decide for you, Barbatos cleared his throat softly. The sound was polite, but it carried the authority of someone who had just delivered a prisoner to judgment.
“My lord,” he said, voice even and precise, “I found her wandering the halls unattended. Several of the nobility witnessed her.”
The words echoed like a pin being dropped in a silent room. Diavolo’s smile faded, not vanishing entirely, but dimming at the edges until only a ghost of it remained. His eyes narrowed fractionally, amusement bleeding into something more calculated. He straightened in the chair, wings folding slightly as he glanced around the room. Not at you, but at the small gathering of figures.
You followed his gaze instinctively, heart pounding louder with every face that came into focus. Lucifer stood near the hearth, arms crossed over his chest, his expression as unreadable as ever. Beside him was a blonde demon with sharp, angular features and eyes that gleamed with quiet intellect. He leaned against a bookshelf, attention fully on you now, assessing and almost curious.
Further back, lounging on a velvet chaise with a glass of something dark and shimmering in his hand, was a pink haired demon whose beauty bordered on unreal. His lips curved in a playful smile, eyes sparkling with a cheerful, mischievous glint that didn’t quite match the tension in the room. He tilted his head, studying you like a new accessory he might want to try on.
A white haired man. No, not a demon. You knew it instinctively, the way prey recognizes its own kind amid predators. He wasn’t cuffed. No golden bands gleamed at his wrists or throat. He stood freely, chatting animatedly with the demon with pink hair, his posture relaxed and almost casual, as though this was just another gathering among friends. A human. Uncuffed. Free.
You stared at him in shock, your breath catching in your throat. How? Why? The questions swirled in your mind, sharp and desperate. Before you could process them, Lucifer’s gaze met yours. His expression was entirely unimpressed, smugness painted on his face as though your very presence proved some long held point.
“See?” he said, voice smooth and laced with quiet disdain. “Having a human will only reflect poorly on the crown. They’re impulsive. Unrefined. A liability in settings like this.”
The other human turned his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He raised his glass in a mock toast, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Excluding present company, of course. Right, Lucifer?”
Lucifer rolled his eyes, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re different, Solomon. But this one?” His eyes flicked back to you, dismissive. “She’s barely housebroken.”
The demon with Solomon leaned forward, his cheerful glint sharpening into something more predatory. “Oh, I don’t know. I think she’s adorable. Diavolo, darling, if you get bored with her, you know I’d be happy to take her off your hands.”
The blonde demon rolled his eyes. “As if you’d know anything about caring for a human, Asmo.”
Asmodeus gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse me? I know enough, thank you very much. And I’m sure she would love the privilege of my company. Wouldn’t you, sweetie?” He winked at you, but there was no warmth in it. Just hunger, veiled in playfulness.
Solomon laughed lightly, shaking his head. “You all are ridiculous. She’s a person, not a plaything. Though…” His gaze slid to you, thoughtful, almost sympathetic. “In this place, the lines do blur, don’t they?”
The demons continued their banter, voices overlapping in a casual rhythm that made the room feel almost normal, almost lively. But through it all, Diavolo’s eyes never left you. They burned into your skin, steady and unblinking, stripping away every layer of pretense until you felt bare under his scrutiny.
The sound was soft, almost theatrical. A slow, deliberate exhale that carried the weight of continuous disappointment, the kind reserved for a child who had finally pushed too far one too many times. The low murmur of conversation around the room faltered, then died entirely. Asmodeus’s teasing lilt cut off mid-syllable. Satan’s book lowered a fraction of an inch. Lucifer’s arms remained crossed, but his gaze sharpened, expectant. Even Solomon’s easy smile froze in place. They all watched now, the air thickening with the collective anticipation of onlookers at a public execution.
Diavolo shook his head once, slowly. The motion was small, but it carried the finality of a guillotine blade rising into position. When he spoke again, his voice was low velvet, laced with sorrow so perfectly performed it bordered on mockery.
“You know…” He let the word hang, drawing it out until it felt like a physical weight settling on your chest. “…I really hate to do this, little one.”
He tilted his head, studying you the way one might study a cracked porcelain doll. Precious, fragile, and utterly foolish for breaking itself.
“I’d much rather you behave. I’d much rather spoil you, drape you in silks that cost more than kingdoms, keep you warm while the rest of the Devildom freezes. I’d rather hear you sigh my name in pleasure than to ever hear it in pain.”
His lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something colder. Something that promised the opposite of comfort.
“But you leave me no choice, do you?” The question was quiet and soft, yet it sliced through you like wind chill. “You disobeyed me. In front of guests. You wandered where you were explicitly told to stay. You forced my hand, pet.”
Your heart plummeted, sudden and sickening. You knew what came next. You could feel it already, the phantom burn gathering beneath your skin, the cuffs tightening, waiting for permission to bite. Your lips parted on instinct, a desperate breath rushing in, ready to beg, to bargain, to offer anything that might delay the inevitable.
But he never gave you the chance.
Without breaking eye contact, without so much as a twitch of warning or mercy, the cuffs answered.
The pain came fast and total, a searing current that ignited every nerve at once. It wasn’t the sharp, warning sting of earlier corrections. This was devastating. Liquid fire poured from wrists to throat to spine in a blinding, merciless line, frying synapses, seizing muscle, stealing breath before the scream could even form in your throat. When it finally tore free, it came out cracked and shredded, swallowed almost instantly by the next wave. The pain grew higher, hotter, more complete.
Your knees gave out instantly. You collapsed forward, curling into yourself as though you could escape the fire inside your own skin. Tears flooded your vision instantly, hot and useless. You begged, wordless at first, then fractured syllables. “Please-Diavolo-stop-please, I’m sorry-I’m sorry-”
Your eyes lifted toward the only other human in the room.
He was watching you, brows drawn tight, mouth pressed into a thin line. For a moment, something flickered across his face. Pity, maybe. Then his gaze slid away, as though looking any longer would burn him too. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip, staring into the distance like your screams were background noise at a party he no longer wished to attend.
It didn’t ebb. It didn’t plateau. It built and built until your vision tunneled black at the edges and you could no longer scream or plead. This was true punishment; what they had been warning you about. This was what a prince of hell did when his pet embarrassed him in front of witnesses. This was demonic.
And then, after what felt like eternity, it stopped.
The cuffs went cold. Silent. You laid fully on the floor, cheek pressed to marble, chest heaving in ragged, sobbing gasps. Tears spilled freely, sliding sideways across your temple, soaking into your hair in dark threads. Every muscle in your body twitched and spasmed in cruel aftershocks, as though the current still ghosted beneath your skin. Your fingers curled weakly against the floor, nails scraping marble in tiny, helpless scratches. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. Everything hurt.
The room had gone deathly quiet. Your broken sobs were the only sound left. Small, wet, pitiful things that echoed faintly off the high ceiling and came back to you distorted, mocking.
Then slow, measured footsteps approached. Diavolo crouched in front of you.
One massive hand reached out.
You flinched instinctively, small and helpless. But he didn’t grab. Didn’t punish. Instead his fingers brushed damp strands of hair from your face with surprising gentleness, tucking them behind your ear as though you were something delicate he didn’t want to bruise further. His thumb followed the glistening track of a tear down your cheekbone, collecting the wetness on the pad before it could fall. He studied the tear for a moment, almost curiously, then lifted his thumb to his lips and tasted it.
The gesture was intimate. Possessive.
His eyes never left yours.
They were softer now. He tilted his head slightly, horns catching the dim light in cruel, gleaming curves.
“Shh,” he murmured, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. “Breathe for me.”
His thumb returned to your cheek, stroking in slow passes that felt like apology and claim all at once.
You couldn’t stop shaking.
You couldn’t stop crying.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the exhaustion and the terror and the lingering burn in your nerves, a small, traitorous part of you wanted to lean into that hand anyway, desperate for gentle contact.
“I missed you,” he murmured, voice soft now, almost loving. “All evening I thought of you. All evening I pictured coming back to find you waiting for me.” His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your tear streaked face up until you had no choice but to meet those burning eyes. “I hate that you make me hurt you like this, little one. Truly I do.”
You looked up at him with pure loathing. His expression shifted and the softness faded ever so slightly. His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Now now. Don’t give me that look,” he said quietly. “Not after you brought this on yourself. Not after parading yourself around the castle.” His thumb pressed against your lower lip, parting it slightly. “You will not look at me with hate when all I’ve ever done is keep you safe. When all I’ve ever done is choose you.”
He stared down at you, eyes narrowed, brows drawn together in something that might have passed for regret, if a demon were even capable of such emotion. The expression was soft around the edges, almost apologetic. He waited. Patient. Unmoving. The silence stretched thin and taut between you, heavy with expectation.
You said nothing. You couldn’t.
Your chest rose and fell in deep pulls, each breath scraping raw against the inside of your throat. Tears blurred the edges of everything. His face, the firelight, the shadowed faces of the others watching from their places around the room. The world swam behind a wet veil, and you let it. Speaking felt like swallowing broken glass, and silence was the only thing that still belonged to you.
Diavolo’s hand stayed where it was, cupped gently along the side of your face, thumb resting just beneath your eye, catching the next tear before it could fall.
He didn’t wipe it away. He simply let it pool against his skin, as though collecting proof of what he had done. Still, you didn’t speak. But he did.
“Go on. Tell me that you missed me as well, just as much as I had missed you.”
Your voice cracked on the first attempt. Nothing came out but a broken whimper. His grip on your chin firmed.
You swallowed bile and terror and the lingering taste of your own screams.
“I…” Your voice was hoarse, unstable. “…I missed you.”
The words tasted bitter. Diavolo studied your face for a long moment, searching for the lie. Then, slowly, the faintest trace of satisfaction curled the corner of his mouth.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl.”
The cuffs answered with the softest, warmest pulse. Almost apologetic, almost soothing. It spread gentle heat through your abused nerves like an afterthought. It was the cruelest part. The way they could burn you to ash one second and cradle you the next, as though the violence had never happened.
Your body still shook, traitorously leaning into the comfort even as your mind recoiled.
A small, delighted giggle floated across the room, breaking the silence.
Asmodeus pressed two manicured fingers to his lips, eyes glittering with unrestrained pleasure. “Ohhh, that was exquisite,” he purred, voice dripping honey and sin. “The way she screamed, the arch of her back, those broken little sobs… it was practically erotic. I could watch that on repeat for centuries.”
Diavolo’s eyes sharpened, but he didn’t acknowledge him. He simply released your face from his grasp and stepped back, wings folding neatly behind him as he returned to the massive chair. He settled with lazy grace, one leg crossed over the other, then gestured to a thick velvet cushion he had positioned at his feet.
“Come here,” he said quietly. No command in his tone this time. Just expectation.
Your body tried to obey instantly, but your legs betrayed you.
They shook violently the moment you tried to stand. Your knees buckled halfway up, sending a fresh spike of dull agony through muscles that still remembered being burned from the inside out. A choked sound escaped your throat, half sob, half gasp, as you crouched down in an attempt to stabilize yourself. Every nerve in your thighs and calves felt raw, overstimulated, like live wires scraped bare.
Diavolo watched. Simply waiting, golden eyes tracking every tremor, every faltering inch of progress with that same patient interest.
Your breath came in wet, uneven hitches. Sweat beaded along your hairline despite the cool air of the room. You stood again, and by the time you reached the cushion your legs were jelly. You dropped rather than sank, knees hitting velvet with a muffled thud that jarred your spine. The silk of your dress pooled around you in dark, crumpled waves.
Then his hand found your hair again. Gentle. Possessive.
Long fingers carded through the damp strands with slow, possessive strokes, as though petting something precious and fragile he had almost broken beyond repair. He tugged once, softly, guiding your head until your cheek rested against the heat of his thigh. The position forced you to feel how small you were next to him.
Tears slipped down your cheeks in steady, soundless tracks. You didn’t sob, couldn’t afford to draw more attention, but the quiet weeping rattled through your ribs anyway. His thumb brushed the shell of your ear once, almost tender, before returning to its rhythmic path along your scalp.
Lucifer exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp with disdain.
“You should have disciplined her in the center of the ballroom,” he said coolly, arms still folded across his chest. “Made an example of her. Let every demon who witnessed her wandering see that you have absolute control. A private correction is indulgent.”
Diavolo’s fingers paused for half a heartbeat in your hair. Then he smiled, edged with something darker.
“I considered it,” he admitted, voice low and thoughtful. “But I find I’ve become… possessive as of late. I don’t want prying eyes lusting after her as she suffers. That look in her eyes, the tears, the way her throat works around little broken sounds… that belongs to me. Only me. I despise that even those present got to witness such a thing.”
You felt the words sink into your skin like hot wax. Your gaze lifted instinctively, searching for anything that wasn’t him.
He was watching you again. His eyes held a deep emotion, something that might have been sympathy if sympathy were allowed here. His brows were drawn together, mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. When your eyes met his, he didn’t look away immediately. Instead he held your stare for one long, aching second, lips parting as though he wanted to speak. As though there were words he could offer that might matter.
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. But the knowing look he gave you said enough. I see you. I understand. Be strong. You stared back, helpless, until Diavolo’s hand tightened, just slightly, in your hair.
“Careful, little one,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “Stare too much and I may become jealous.”
Terror spiked fresh and bright through your chest. You imagined another punishment, another wave of fire, another scream you weren’t sure your shredded throat could survive. You squeezed your eyes shut instinctively, preparing for the worst.
Diavolo only sighed at your reaction, fond and amused.
Solomon broke the silence with a light, easy laugh, raising both hands in mock surrender.
“Apologies, Lord Diavolo. I meant no disrespect." His smile was charming, practiced, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She has very expressive eyes. Hard not to notice.”
Satan snorted, pushing off the bookshelf with lazy grace.
“Don’t get any funny ideas, sorcerer,” he said, tone dry. “I know how much you tend to sympathize with other demons' belongings.”
Solomon pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “You wound me. Do you trust me so little?”
Asmodeus giggled again, delighted. “Oh, we trust you exactly as little as we should, darling. That’s half the fun.”
His fingers simply continued their slow path through your hair, petting, soothing, claiming. You tried to disappear into the cushion. Into silence. Into the rhythmic drag of Diavolo’s fingers against your scalp, the heat of his thigh against your cheek, the weight of his gaze whenever it drifted back to you.
But your gaze kept sliding sideways. Just once. Then again.
Solomon was still standing near the chaise, glass dangling loosely from his fingers. No cuffs. No leash. He laughed at something Asmo said, head tipping back, throat exposed, utterly unafraid.
How was he here, laughing, breathing freely, while you knelt on velvet with golden shackles humming against your skin?
Your eyes flicked up again, quickly, before dropping back to the floor. Then up once more. You couldn’t stop. The confusion burned behind your ribs, hot and frantic.
A low hum rumbled through Diavolo’s chest. The sound vibrated straight into your spine. You froze.
“Curious little thing,” he murmured, amusement and annoyance curling through every syllable. “You keep staring.”
He leaned forward slightly, horns casting long shadows across your shoulders. His voice dropped, intimate, meant only for you even though the others could surely hear.
“Solomon,” he said, pronouncing the name like a title, “is the greatest sorcerer of mankind. A sorcerer so powerful he has forced even demons to bargain with him. Seventy-two pacts. Seventy-two demons bound to his will.” Diavolo’s thumb traced the side of your jaw. “He has earned privileges weaker humans could only dream of.”
He emphasized the word “weaker” intentionally and cruelly.
You felt smaller, if such a thing were even possible. Your gaze darted to Solomon again before you could stop yourself. He met your eyes this time. Just for a second.
Diavolo’s hand left your hair.
Then it closed around your upper arm.
You gasped, sharp and startled, as he yanked you upward in one effortless motion. Your feet left the cushion and before you could catch your balance he pulled you onto his lap, settling you across his thighs like you weighed nothing at all.
In his demon form the top of your head hardly reached his sternum. His bare skin radiated heat like a furnace, unnatural and consuming. You could feel every ridge of muscle beneath you, the slow, powerful rise and fall of his breathing. His wings shifted behind him with a soft rustle of leather, curling slightly inward until they framed you both in shadow.
You stared at the expanse of bronze skin in front of you. At the way his chest expanded with each inhale, eclipsing you entirely. Then your eyes drifted higher.
They were longer than you remembered. Sharp enough to tear through flesh. Through bone. One careless snap and your throat would be gone. One careless bite and you would bleed out in seconds.
He only pulled you closer against his chest until your cheek pressed to the scorching heat of his skin. His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, steady and immense.
His fingers never stopped moving through your hair.
The evening flowed on around you, voices rising and falling. Glasses clinked. Fire crackled. Someone poured more wine. You registered it all the way you registered a storm through thick glass. Muffled, unreal, happening to someone else.
Your body had stopped trembling, eventually. Not because the fear had left, but because it had nowhere left to go. It settled instead into something heavier. A bone deep exhaustion that made every breath feel like lifting stone. The memory of the pain lingered in your nerves like smoke after a fire. Phantom sparks flared whenever you shifted, reminding you exactly how fragile your skin was, how easily it could be made to scream again. You could still feel the echo of it in your wrists, your throat, the places where the cuffs had turned traitor and lit you up from the inside. Every swallow tasted like copper and salt. Every blink dragged against raw eyelids.
You kept waiting for the shaking to return, for the panic to crest again, but it didn’t. There was only this dull, throbbing weight, like your body had been hollowed out and filled back up with lead.
Satan’s voice cut through the haze.
“So,” he said, tone casual but edged with curiosity, “why exactly was she wandering the halls in the first place?”
The question cut through the air like a sudden blade. Silence followed, sharp and immediate. You felt Diavolo still behind you.
You stared up at him with wide eyes, throat too tight to form words. He tilted his head, studying your face with lazy interest.
“Well?” he prompted softly. “Answer him, y/n.”
You swallowed thickly. The motion hurt, as though the muscles in your throat still remembered the fire.
“I…” Your voice cracked, barely audible. You tried again. “I felt… a tug. From the cuffs.” The admission tasted shameful, like confessing a weakness you hadn’t asked for. “It started small. Then it got… uncomfortable. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had to follow it.”
Diavolo’s golden eyes sharpened with interest. He didn’t interrupt. He simply watched you, unblinking, as though you were finally saying something worth hearing.
“And where exactly,” he asked, voice dropping to something intimate and dangerous, “were they leading you to?”
You stared at the broad plane of his chest. At the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. At the place where your tears had left faint damp spots on his skin.
“Oh,” he murmured, almost disbelieving. “Is that so?”
Solomon, who had been listening with quiet attention from across the room, gave a small, thoughtful nod.
“I’ve read accounts of the golden brands used on humans,” he said evenly. “In some older grimoires, and a few sealed Devildom records, prolonged physical distance can cause… distress in the wearer. Anxiety. Compulsion. The bond demands proximity to the owner. It’s a failsafe, really. Keeps the pet from straying too far for too long.”
The words landed in your stomach like a stone. Disgust curled hot and immediate behind your ribs. You turned your head slightly, pressing your cheek harder against his chest as though you could hide your emotions.
He regarded you for a long moment, eyes tracing the tense line of your jaw, the way your lashes fluttered against damp cheeks. Then he laughed. Soft, delighted, the sound vibrating through his ribs and into yours.
“I’ll have to keep that in mind for the future,” he said lightly. “My poor pet has separation anxiety.” His tone turned teasing, almost fond. “Like a new puppy that whines when left alone too long. How sweet.”
Asmodeus leaned forward on his chaise with a dramatic little pout, eyes sparkling as he turned to his brothers and whined in that breathy, childlike tone he used when he really wanted something. He begged them to get him a human of his own, exactly the way a spoiled child might plead for a pet, voice lilting with exaggerated longing.
You kept your eyes closed. You didn’t want to see their faces. You didn’t want to see Diavolo’s smile.
For the first time, Diavolo lowered himself fully to your level, bending forward until his massive frame enveloped you completely. His breath brushed warm and intimate against your neck as he whispered, voice laced with light, dangerous amusement.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed, little one. I find it rather endear-”
Everything went quiet as he inhaled deeply, taking in your scent.
The low murmur of conversation died slowly. Glasses stopped clinking. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to hold its breath. You felt it before you understood it. A slow, thick wave of pheromones rolling off Diavolo’s skin. Not the honeyed sweetness that had lulled you to sleep nights past. Not the soft blanket that had coaxed your body to relax against your will.
Sharp. Metallic. Like blood on hot iron. It poured from him in heavy pulses, saturating the room until your lungs felt coated in it. Your heart slammed against your ribs frantically, answering the chemical threat before your mind could catch up. Anxiety clawed up your throat, cold and immediate. You couldn’t breathe around it.
Slowly, terrified to move and more terrified not to, you lifted your head.
Your breath hitched, sharp and audible.
He was already staring down at you with intensity.
Golden eyes glowed brightly as the world around him seemed to darken, pupils narrowed to vicious slits. The lazy amusement that usually softened his features was gone. What remained was something ancient, something predatory. Something evil.
“Who were you with?” he demanded.
The words were quiet, almost gentle. Venom dripped from every syllable.
You shook your head once, small and frantic. “N-no one.”
His arm around your waist tightened. Not painfully. Not yet. But like a snake coiling once, testing how much give there was before it crushed.
The pheromones surged, thicker, darker, bitter enough to make your eyes water. Even the other demons in the room reacted. Asmodeus’s playful smile froze and faltered. Satan’s shoulders tightened fractionally. Lucifer’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. Solomon’s easy posture stiffened, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.
The room felt smaller. The shadows deeper.
Then a voice spoke, calm and measured, cutting through the suffocating tension.
“I intended to report this to you privately once the event had ended, my lord,” Barbatos said quietly, stepping forward from his place near the doorway. “As to not cause a scene. However… I discovered Lord Astaroth with his hands on Y/N. He was attempting to persuade her, quite insistently, to accompany him. Several witnesses observed the exchange from the mezzanine. She neither consented nor encouraged him, and tried to withdraw from his grasp.”
Diavolo didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
The room went dark. Not just in mood, but physically as well. The fire dimmed to sullen red embers. The sconces guttered as though the air itself had been sucked away. Only his eyes remained illuminated, twin points of molten rage glowing in the sudden gloom.
“That won’t do.” His voice was smooth, almost honeyed. “Not at all.”
He stood abruptly. The motion lifted you with him effortlessly. Your stomach lurched as the world tilted, one massive hand steadying you before releasing.
Then he turned you gently, almost tenderly, and pushed you forward toward Barbatos.
“Take her to my chambers,” Diavolo said, voice flat and final. “Lock the door. Make certain she does not leave this time.”
Barbatos inclined his head once. “Of course, my lord.”
His gloved hand closed around your upper arm, firm, but not cruel. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else as he guided you toward the doorway.
Behind you, Diavolo spoke once more. “Astaroth,” he said, voice carrying through the shadowed room with the calm precision of a blade being drawn, “will learn that there are possessions in this castle which are not his to covet.”
The doors closed behind you with a soft, final click. Barbatos didn’t speak as he led you down the corridor. You didn’t either.
The only sound was the echo of your bare feet against marble and the slow, deliberate tread of his polished shoes.
And somewhere far behind you, the unmistakable, low growl of a prince who had just decided someone would pay in blood.
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