Lying powerless on the couch, with Amara still on top of him, Daemom placed his hand over his face and took a deep breath, even Amara's worried voice seemed distant at that moment.
He was the son of Lucifer!
He was the damned King of Hell's son!
He was the damn Prince of Hell!
What was he supposed to think when something like this was thrown into his mind? He practically felt like he was in a very crazy dream and wished it was just that. But the wings on his back and Amara's words were like a slap in the face, waking him up again to reality.
"Are you okay, Your Highness?" Amara asked, her body practically against his, her modest breasts pressing against his chest.
Daemom snorted at the way Amara addressed him, rolled his eyes, and embraced the body pressed against him. In the curve of her neck, he breathed in the scent of lavender, which inexplicably calmed him. One of his hands reached up to her crimson strands, where he gently stroked them.
"Don't call me Your Highness," he whispered in her ear, his voice slightly husky. "And let me stay like this for a while."
"Mmm," Amara simply nodded and rested her head on his shoulder, feeling his breath tickling her neck. At that moment, hearing his heartbeat, she just felt safer than ever.
It was strange; they had only known each other for two days, yet she trusted him. Whether it was because of the Blood Pact or just because of who he was, she really didn't know and didn't care.
Unbeknownst to her, they both fell asleep embracing each other, embracing the warmth and the feeling of serenity.
The next day, as the rays of sunlight pierced through the window and hit Daemom's face, his eyelashes trembled for a moment before opening, revealing a pair of celestial blue eyes.
Looking at the girl sleeping on his body, Daemom kissed her forehead tenderly and looked up at the dirty ceiling of the apartment, lost in thought. The idea of being Lucifer Morningstar's son was somewhat unreal in his mind, but he had already accepted it, or at least, a part of that legacy.
Knowing his possible father was missing and hell was in civil war, Daemom showed a helpless smile. He knew, whether he liked it or not, he was already involved and would possibly only dive deeper into this bloody storm.
"How troublesome," he murmured, but his smile didn't fade from his lips. Despite some bad twists and turns and events that would mark him forever, he was relieved. It was his choice, and he had to bear the consequences of his decisions and what they caused to the people around him.
"Dae~ praise be to Satan." Amara opened her eyes slightly and lazily greeted Daemom, her face gently rubbing against his chest. Her hands gripped his shirt a bit tightly, wrinkling it slightly.
Hearing Amara greet him so unusually, Daemom definitely felt he needed more time to process everything, especially since his father was the reason for all greetings in Hell. Though the idea of calling Lucifer father still felt strange in his mind.
Sitting up on the couch, Daemom held Amara against his chest and sighed in relief. He looked over his shoulder and there they were—his wings.
Resting her chin on Daemom's shoulder, Amara looked at his wings and showed a fascinated expression in her eyes.
"They're so beautiful," she murmured softly with still sleepy eyes.
She wasn't lying when she said that. Daemom's wings were simply a spectacle to behold. Formed by layer upon layer of soft, pure white feathers, they exuded a fascinating aura capable of making any ordinary mortal lose themselves just by seeing them. Both wings measured two meters in length and one meter in width. They appeared majestic and beautiful, enhancing Daemom's already handsome face to the point where someone could truly mistake him for an angel.
"They truly are beautiful, but I don't know how to control them." Agreeing with his words, Daemom murmured with a helpless expression. He thought using them would be easy, but the more he tried, the more incapable he felt of moving them.
"You're trying too hard. Don't try, just do it, like moving your arm or breathing." Leaning her cheek against his shoulder, she turned her face slightly and spoke with a smile on her lips, poking his left cheek with her finger.
"It's easier than talking."
With a dissatisfied murmur, his wings suddenly retracted.
Daemom blinked a few times, understanding the process, and his wings unfolded again.
"See, it's easy," Amara laughed and unfolded her own wings, but instead of the downy feathers like Daemom's, hers had a membrane connecting the wing bones. The outer parts of her wings were covered in pink scales.
Daemom looked curiously at her wings and couldn't resist trying to touch them.
"Hmm," a muffled moan escaped from Amara's lips; she seductively bit her lip.
"Be more gentle," she said, looking at Daemom reproachfully.
Daemom simply nodded and eased up on the caresses, continuing to satisfy his curiosity, causing Amara's body to tremble slightly now and then.
After a while, Daemom stopped, much to Amara's relief, who was about to show a less than elegant expression.
Finally looking around and seeing the precarious state of the room they were in, Daemom spoke with a hint of humor, "I presume we don't have breakfast."
The room smelled bad, and some empty syringes indicated that the previous owner was a drug user. The blood-red pentagrams also caught his attention.
"I stole some cheese and bread from some idiot walking on the street," Amara reluctantly left Daemom's embrace and crawled to the side of the bed where there was a bag. She took out a piece of cheese and a few pieces of bread.
Using her nails as makeshift knives to cut the cheese, Amara divided everything evenly and handed half to Daemom.
"You made someone hungry," he joked, but ate with sincerity, stuffing the cheese into the bread and taking big bites.
"Hehe~" Amara also laughed and stuck her tongue out at Daemom, eating gracefully beside him.
Both ate relatively quickly, and when they finished, Daemom asked, "Where exactly are we?"
"Portland, Oregon," Amara replied, pointing to the wall and then the ceiling.
"I wanted to go farther, maybe to another continent, but the chances of Belial's human subordinates tracking us were high, so I came to Portland, where I used my blood to create some mystical defenses on the walls and ceiling."
Daemom didn't like that Amara used her own blood, obviously hurting herself in the process, but understood it was a necessary measure given the critical moment.
"Just don't hurt yourself again for me," Daemom whispered loud enough for Amara to hear. Seeing his slightly displeased expression, her smile grew.
"Don't worry, next time I'll use yours," she replied with a teasing and playful tone, though her eyes reflected almost overwhelming tenderness.