The hot water was a pathetic shield. It sluiced over Cici’s shoulders, across the stiff set of her back, and did nothing to warm the cold knot of anxiety coiled in her gut. She stood trembling in the center of Diavolo’s lavish ensuite, the steam rising around her like ghosts. The black marble was sleek, impersonal, reflecting blurred fragments of a woman she barely recognized—pale skin marked with faint red impressions from the edge of the kitchen counter, wild white hair plastered to her neck.

She’d fled here, a coward’s retreat. The look on Diavolo’s face in the kitchen doorway hadn’t been anger. It had been a kind of devastated comprehension, a puzzle finally solved with all the wrong pieces. He hadn’t spoken. He’d simply turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall with a terrible finality.

Barbatos had flinched as if struck. He’d released her, stepped back, and with mechanical precision, began straightening his waistcoat, his eyes flat and empty. The butler mask slammed down with an almost audible thud. He’d gestured wordlessly toward the lord’s quarters, a clear, silent command for her to go, to clean up, to make herself presentable for whatever came next.

The main bedchamber was silent. Eerily so. Then, the low murmur of voices seeped through the thick door, vibrations felt more than heard. She turned off the shower. The drip of the tap was suddenly deafening. She crept closer, a towel wrapped tightly around her, and pressed her ear to the cool, veined marble.

“…unacceptable. Profoundly so.” The voice was Lucifer’s. A blade wrapped in silk, cold and sharp.

“The situation evolved beyond initial parameters.” Barbatos. Calm. Clinical. And utterly infuriating in its detachment.

A fist struck a surface—the heavy thud of wood. “Parameters? You fucked her in the kitchen! The kitchen, Barbatos. While the bond was in open distress. That’s not evolution. That’s a catastrophic breach of decorum and duty.” Lucifer’s fury was a living thing, swirling in the air beyond the door.

“She was distressed. The connection was causing her physical pain after my… withdrawal. My intervention was intended to stabilize.”

“Your intervention?” Lucifer’s laugh was short, harsh. “Don’t dress your hunger in clinical robes. I felt it. We all felt it. That wasn’t stabilization. That was a claiming. You dare claim what belongs to us all?”

Cici’s breath hitched. Belongs to us all. The words, so possessively archaic, sent a shocking jolt straight to her core. Her fingers dug into the towel.

“She is not a territory to be divided,” Barbatos retorted, but his icy composure had a crack in it. A faint strain. “She chose this. She came to me. She pressed.”

“And you, the pinnacle of self-control, just happened to be there with your cock out? You expect me to believe that? You, who plans the trajectory of realms five centuries hence, didn’t foresee this?”

A beat of silence. Then, Barbatos, quieter, deadlier. “Foresight is not omnipotence. Some variables are… overwhelmingly visceral.”

“She is a variable now? Is that all?”

“You know that is not all.” A new voice. Diavolo. He sounded tired. So tired. “Do not bait him, Lucifer. The bond is a fact. Her pull on him is a fact. What happened is a fact. Arguing the semantics of blame is a decorative waste of time.”

“Was inevitable,” Diavolo cut him off. “We’ve been dancing around it for weeks. The kitchen was just the stage. The play was written the moment the bond snapped into place for him, too.”

Cici’s legs felt weak. She sank slowly to the damp floor, her back against the door. The marble was cold through the towel.

“So what is the new protocol?” Lucifer asked, the pragmatic soldier cutting through the emotional morass. “We share her on a schedule? Draw straws for who gets her on which night? This is a political disaster waiting to happen. The court whispers already. A witch, tied to the crown and his right hand? It reeks of instability. Of a king who cannot control his own household.”

“The court does not feel what we feel,” Diavolo said, his voice dropping low. “That emptiness, Lucifer. That cold space you keep so carefully locked down. Tell me you don’t feel it thaw when she’s near. Tell me you haven’t calculated the strategic advantage of a union that ties her power, irrevocably, to us.”

Another long silence. Cici could imagine Lucifer’s face, that proud, closed-off expression warring with the truth.

“My personal feelings are irrelevant,” Lucifer said finally, but the bite was gone from his words. “The perception of strength is everything. This… menage… looks like weakness. It looks like a king indulging his servants.”

“She is not an indulgence.” Barbatos’s voice was a whip crack. “She is the resonance.”

The word hung in the air, potent and strange.

“For centuries, my existence has been a series of perfectly executed steps. A path seen to its end. She is… a discordant note. One I cannot predict. One that changes the melody of everything around her. When I am near her, the future is not a clear line. It is a static. A beautiful, terrifying static. She is not a variable. She is the anomaly that makes all other variables rearrange.”

The raw honesty in his tone, so unlike the butler, stole the air from Cici’s lungs. Her hand slipped from clutching the towel. It pooled at her waist. The cool air raised goosebumps on her wet skin.

“Poetic,” Lucifer drawled, but the sarcasm was hollow. “My point stands. How do we manage this?”

“We don’t.” Diavolo’s declaration was absolute. “We stop managing. We stop negotiating with the bond as if it is a treaty. It is a living thing. We either accept it, all three of us, in full. Or we tear it out by the roots and live with the scar. But we cannot continue this pantomime. It is killing her. It is making fools of us.”

Her heart thundered against her ribs. Accept it, in full. The image rose, unbidden and potent: not a schedule, not a rotation. A tangle of limbs in the blood-red sheets. Lucifer’s calculating crimson eyes darkened with a different kind of fire. Barbatos’s controlled hands losing their direction. Diavolo’s golden gaze watching, claiming, allowing.

A heat, sudden and fierce, bloomed low in her belly. It was shameful, this arousal sparked by their arguing, by their possessive, furious voices debating her like a disputed treasure. Her hand moved of its own accord, sliding over the damp skin of her stomach, lower.

Her fingers slipped through the curls between her thighs. She was already sensitive, sore from the night’s relentless attentions, but wet anew. The visceral memory of Barbatos taking her over the counter, of Diavolo’s claiming in the bed, twisted together with the sound of Lucifer’s furious, jealous growl just beyond the door.

She rubbed a slow, firm circle over her clit, her head falling back against the wood with a soft thud. The voices outside continued, their argument a dark, thrilling soundtrack.

“…cannot simply accept chaos into the heart of power!”

“It is already here! She is already here!”

Her breathing shallowed. She pressed two fingers inside herself, encountering the slick evidence of Barbatos’s earlier possession. A moan caught in her throat. She bit her lip, swallowing the sound.

“She is in the bathroom,” Diavolo said, his voice changing timbre, becoming more alert. “Listening.”

“Of course she is,” Lucifer sighed, exasperated. Then, lower, a speculative note entering his voice. “And what do you suppose she’s doing in there, while we debate her fate?”

Her face flamed. She increased the pressure, her hips lifting off the floor to meet her own hand. The rough texture of the marble against her bare backside was a shocking contrast to the building pleasure.

“I imagine,” Barbatos said, his voice dropping to a velvety, intimate register that she felt in the base of her spine, “she is overwhelmed. Confused. And… profoundly responsive to heightened emotion. The bond thrums with it.”

They knew. They could feel it. The spike of her own arousal, mingling with their conflict, feeding back into the connection. It was a feedback loop of tension and need. Her climax built, fast and devastating, spurred by humiliation and a dark, desperate excitement. Their voices became a blur—Lucifer’s aristocratic outrage, Diavolo’s weary authority, Barbatos’s heated precision—all weaving together into the trigger.

She came silently, her body seizing, back arching against the unyielding door. Pleasure, white-hot and shameful, ripped through her, melting the cold knot of anxiety into a pool of liquid heat. She shook through it, teeth clamped on her knuckle to stay quiet.

As the waves subsided, leaving her boneless and panting on the floor, the voices in the other room had stopped.

A new silence descended. Heavy. Expectant.

Then, the sound of a single pair of footsteps approaching the bathroom door. They stopped on the other side. She could feel a presence there, radiating a focused, predatory intensity.

It wasn’t Diavolo’s commanding pound. It wasn’t Barbatos’s polite rap.

“Celeste,” his voice came through the wood, smooth and dangerously calm. “We know you’re in there. The debate is adjourned. Come out now.”

He didn’t say “please.” It wasn’t a request. It was a summons from the Avatar of Pride, and it brooked no defiance. The momentum of the night, of the shattered bond and the raw confessions, had shifted. The theoretical was over. The consequences, in the form of a raven-haired demon with eyes like cooled blood, were waiting for her on the other side of the door.

The knock seemed to vibrate through the marble into her bones. Cici scrambled up, fumbling with the towel. Her fingers, still slick from herself, slipped on the fabric. She managed to wrap it around her torso, clutching the edges in white-knuckled fists. The mirrored walls showed a frightened creature, skin flushed, eyes too wide.

She turned the handle. The door opened with a sigh of well-oiled hinges.

Lucifer filled the doorway. He hadn’t changed from his formal attire, the sharp lines of his black jacket emphasizing his rigid posture. His crimson eyes scanned her: the damp hair, the towel, the freshly come-scent that even steam couldn’t hide. His expression was unreadable, a masterpiece of aristocratic control. Behind him, the bedchamber was empty. Diavolo and Barbatos were gone.

“They’re discussing perimeter security,” he said, answering her unasked question. His voice was flat. “A tangible problem. Something with a solution.”

He stepped forward. She stepped back. He entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. The space, so large moments before, shrank to the few charged feet between them. The air felt thick with amber-scent and unresolved conflict.

She trembled, still ashamed of her needy actions. The memory of her own touch, spurred by their arguing voices, burned in her cheeks.

‘Are you angry with me?’ Her voice was soft, still shaky. ‘You are… I can feel it… Do you wish I never came to Devildom?… Maybe… I should never have…’

Lucifer didn’t answer immediately. He studied her face as if reading a complex text. His gaze traveled over the faint mark on her shoulder from Barbatos’s grip, the lingering pink on her skin from the shower’s heat. A muscle in his jaw feathered.

“Anger is inefficient,” he stated, his tone cool, analytical. “It’s a waste of energy. What I am is… profoundly inconvenienced.”

He took another step. Her back met the cold sink.

“You are a disruption. A wild spell in a carefully curated grimoire.” He lifted a hand, not to touch her, but to gesture at the space between them. “You have unspooled centuries of discipline in Barbatos. You have my prince questioning foundational protocols. And now you have me, standing in a bathroom, having a conversation I have no blueprint for.”

His fingers finally made contact, not with her skin, but with a strand of her wet white hair. He pushed it behind her ear, the gesture oddly tender, at odds with his words. “Do I wish you never came? The logical part of me screams yes. It would be cleaner. Neater.”

His thumb brushed the curve of her ear. A shiver, unrelated to cold, raced down her spine.

“But that part is currently being shouted down,” he admitted, his voice dropping, becoming almost confidential. “By something much older. And much less polite.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her temple. He didn’t smell of fire and parchment like Diavolo, or sugar and starch like Barbatos. He smelled of cold night air, old books, and a sharp, clean cologne. “I felt it, you know. In my study. Your little… crisis. The shockwave when Barbatos severed the thread. It was like a death knell. And then the…” he paused, his nose drifting near her hair, “…the resurgence. The frantic, physical response. It was deeply unprofessional.”

He said the last word against her skin. His lips hovered near her pulse point, not kissing, just feeling its frantic rhythm.

“I am not a creature of kitchens or midnight confessions,” he murmured. “I am a creature of order. Of terms and conditions.”

Of terms and conditions.” His lips finally touched her skin, a whisper of contact that burned. “And yet, here I am. In a bathroom. Discussing my….inconvenience.”

He drew back just enough to look at her. The control in his eyes was a thin veneer over a geyser of something hot and resentful. “Do you know what the most inconvenient part is?”

“It’s that I want to be angrier.” His confession was gritted out, low and harsh. “I want to find this whole situation beneath me. A messy, emotional tangle for lesser beings. A strategic liability of the highest order.”

His hand came up, his knuckles tracing her jawline. The touch was clinical, assessing. “But I can’t. Because when he cut the bond, and you screamed, it felt like my own spine was severed. And when you… Reconnected with him, in that vulgar, needy way, I felt the echo. I felt the heat.” His thumb pressed against her bottom lip. “And it wasn’t disgust I felt. It was envy. A pure, pathetic envy that this disciplined, timeless servant could lose himself in you, while I, the strategist, was left to calculate the fallout.”

A hot tear runs down my cheek. His words hit like a severe blow. He never said a word about rejecting me, but the idea of me being here, being this involved with them… He feels disgusted that his pride is overwritten by need due to the bond.

The tear traced a hot path to her chin. It wasn’t sadness. It was the shock of hearing her deepest fear articulated in his cool, precise tone. He didn’t reject her. He rejected his own reaction to her. She was the catalyst for his beautiful, ordered mind to betray him. She was the flaw in his logic.

"I need to go..." Her weak voice froze him in place.

The words were just air, but they stopped his hand completely. The analytical light in his crimson eyes flickered, replaced by stark surprise. She saw the calculations halt. She saw him, for just a fraction of a second, without any plan at all.

She slipped past him. Her shoulder brushed his chest, and he didn’t move to stop her. He was a statue of conflicted pride. She walked through the silent bedchamber, the ghosts of earlier passions clinging to the air. She didn’t look for her clothes. She pulled on the first thing she found—one of Diavolo’s large, soft sweaters tossed over a chair. It swam on her, smelling of embers and him.

In the grand hallway, she raised a hand. Magic, the old, deep kind she usually kept leashed, crackled at her fingertips. It wasn’t the melodic weaving tied to her music. This was raw, a tear in the world’s fabric. She clawed the air open, and a silent, shimmering portal yawned, showing the familiar, gloomy chic of her assigned room in the House of Lamentation.

She stepped through without a backward glance. The portal sealed behind her with a soft pop, leaving no trace.

Her room was cold, untouched. She flicked a finger towards the door. Ancient, guttural words fell from her lips. The air solidified around the frame, shimmering with opaque, violet energy. Unbreakable wards. Not to keep others out, but to make the very idea of her inside this room forgettable, unreachable.

She pulled her phone from the tangled sheets where she’d left it. The screen lit up with a few missed messages. She didn’t read them. She held the power button until the device went dark.

Then, she crawled into the bed, still wearing Diavolo’s sweater. She pulled the covers over her head, constructing a dark, silent cave. The bond in her chest was a tangled, sore knot—a screaming line to Diavolo, a raw, fresh scar leading to Barbatos, and a new, thin, icy thread humming with Lucifer’s conflicted resonance.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breath to slow. Sleep was an escape, a temporary annihilation. She willed it to come, and within minutes, the exhaustive emotional torrent pulled her under into a deep, dreamless void.

Lucifer remained in the bathroom for a long time. He stared at the space where she had stood, at the discarded towel on the floor. The ghost of her tear’s warmth seemed to linger on his thumb. He heard the soft, foreign sound of her portal, a magic that tasted of old forests and clear, high notes.

He finally walked out. Diavolo and Barbatos had returned, standing in the middle of the room. The prince’s expression was grim. The butler’s was impeccably blank, but his eyes tracked to the empty spot where Cici had been.

“She left,” Lucifer said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

“We felt the portal,” Diavolo said. “The House of Lamentation.”

“She’s warded her room.” Barbatos’s tone was flat, informational. “Thoroughly. The kind of magic that suggests a desire for profound absence.”

Diavolo ran a hand through his crimson hair, a rare gesture of pure frustration. “So. We’ve managed to achieve the exact opposite of ‘accepting the bond in full.’ We’ve chased her into a fortress.”

Lucifer walked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of amber liquor. He drank it in one swallow. The burn was clarifying. “I spoke my truth. It was… inelegant.”

“Your truth disgusted her,” Barbatos stated, not looking at him.

“My truth wounded her,” Lucifer corrected, the liquor fueling a sharper honesty. “There is a difference. Disgust would imply she believed she’d done wrong. The wound came from understanding that her mere presence here is seen as a destabilizing force. To a woman who values her independence, that is a fate worse than rejection.”

He set the glass down with a sharp click. “We are three ancient, powerful beings. And we have just collectively broken the one thing we all seem to need. Brilliant.”

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The bond in each of them ached, a dull throb pointing toward the empty student house across the grounds.

Out in the garden again, but this time going for the roses :)

Katelyn G

Destined Harmonies

By: Inkmose

Chapter 6



The hot water was a pathetic shield. It sluiced over Cici’s shoulders, across the stiff set of her back, and did nothing to warm the cold knot of anxiety coiled in her gut. She stood trembling in the center of Diavolo’s lavish ensuite, the steam rising around her like ghosts. The black marble was sleek, impersonal, reflecting blurred fragments of a woman she barely recognized—pale skin marked with faint red impressions from the edge of the kitchen counter, wild white hair plastered to her neck.



Destined Harmonies

By: Inkmose

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The Valentine’s Card That Predicted My Death

Destined Harmonies

By: Inkmose

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}V-Ink Stories

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The Valentine’s Card That Predicted My Death

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of V-Ink Stories