The cursor blinked against the CAD model on my left monitor. I’d been staring at the same junction detail for twenty minutes without actually seeing it.

  Two weeks.

  I closed the file without saving. The changes were minor anyway, optimizations that could wait until tomorrow. Or next week. The project deadline wasn’t for another month, but staying late gave me something to focus on besides the circular thoughts that had been eating at me since Faith ended things.

  It’s not you, she’d said. I promise, Liam, it’s not your fault.

  Which was exactly what someone said when it absolutely was your fault but they were too kind to specify how.

  I pulled up the schematic for the Thames barrier modification project instead. Complex hydraulics always required full attention, the kind of mental engagement that drowned out everything else. Numbers, flow rates, structural load calculations—clean problems with definitive solutions.

  Unlike whatever I’d done wrong.

  My fingers moved across the keyboard, adjusting parameters, but my mind kept circling back to that day a month ago. The date had been going well. We’d been walking through Covent Garden, arguing about whether multi-classing in D&D was strategically sound or narrative self-sabotage. Faith had been laughing, animated in that way she got when defending her opinions about game mechanics.

  Then her phone rang.

  The shift was immediate. Her face went tight, professional. She’d stepped away, spoken in clipped sentences I couldn’t quite hear. When she came back, she was already making excuses.

  “Something came up at work. I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  “Do you need—”

  “No. Stay. Finish your coffee. I’ll text you later.”

  She’d kissed my cheek and left before I could respond.

  When we met that evening, something had changed. She was distracted, distant. Kept checking her phone. I’d asked if everything was alright.

  “Fine. Just work stress.”

  I knew it wasn’t fine. Could read it in the way she held herself, the tension in her shoulders, the careful neutrality of her expression. But I also knew pushing would accomplish nothing. Faith shared things on her own timeline, and pressing only made her retreat further.

  So I’d waited.

  She never told me.

  Two weeks later, she ended it. Clean, gentle, final. It’s not you.

  I rubbed my eyes. The schematic had gone blurry.

  Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe I should have pushed harder, demanded answers instead of giving her space. But that had never been how Faith worked, and forcing the issue would have been—

  The dizziness hit without warning.

  The monitors swam. My hands gripped the desk edge, knuckles white. The entire office tilted fifteen degrees left, then overcorrected right. My stomach lurched.

  I closed my eyes, waited for it to pass. Probably stayed too late, forgot to eat again. The last thing I’d had was coffee around three.

  The vertigo eased after a few seconds. I pushed back from the desk carefully, testing my balance. Stable enough. I needed to go home, eat something, sleep.

  I shut down both monitors and grabbed my bag from under the desk. Phone, wallet, keys—all accounted for. The office was empty except for me, the overhead lights harsh and clinical in the silence.

  The keycard reader beeped as I swiped out. The elevator dropped smoothly, and I focused on that—the numbers counting down, the slight deceleration before each floor, the hydraulic hiss of the doors opening to the lobby.

  The night air hit me as I stepped outside. Cold, damp, the particular chill of London in late autumn. I pulled my jacket tighter and headed toward the tube station.

  My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I could text Daniel, ask if he wanted to meet up this weekend. Actually talk about Faith instead of just replaying everything in my head on an endless loop.

  Daniel would listen. Daniel always listened, even when I was being an analytical bastard about emotional situations. He’d known me since we were kids.

  The tube entrance loomed ahead, stairs descending into artificial light.

  Tomorrow. I’d message him tomorrow.

  Tonight I just needed to get home, eat something, and stop thinking about phone calls and careful excuses and it’s not your fault delivered with eyes that wouldn’t quite meet mine.

  * * *

  The microwave hummed for three minutes. I leaned against the counter, watching the plate rotate through the scratched window. Leftover pasta from two days ago. Maybe three.

  The beep pulled me back. I ate standing up, fork scraping ceramic, not really tasting anything. My body needed fuel. That was enough.

  The bedroom was dark except for streetlight bleeding through the blinds. I dropped my trousers on the floor, left my shirt on. Too tired to bother with anything else. The mattress accepted my weight without complaint.

  Sleep came fast.

  The dreams started normal. Work. The office. Daniel saying something I couldn’t quite hear, his voice muffled like he was speaking underwater. Faith’s apartment, familiar clutter and art supplies scattered across every surface.

  Then the scene shifted.

  Stone walls stretched upward into darkness. Torches burned with light that threw wrong shadows, angles that didn’t match the flame. A line of people—humans, naked, chained at the wrists—stretched down a corridor that curved out of sight.

  A creature moved along the line. Horns curled from its skull, skin mottled red and black. It stopped at a man near the front, grabbed his jaw, forced his mouth open. Examined his teeth like a buyer checking livestock.

  Another scream echoed from somewhere deeper in the structure. The chained people flinched. No one spoke.

  The horned creature made a mark on parchment, moved to the next in line. This one was younger, a woman who kept her eyes fixed on the floor. The creature’s clawed hand traced her shoulder, her collarbone. Appraising.

  I watched from nowhere, everywhere. No body, just perspective.

  Further down, a different demon—this one skeletal, flesh hanging loose—pressed a brand against a man’s chest. The sizzle of burning meat. The man’s scream cut off abruptly as the demon backhanded him across the face.

  “Quiet. You’re merchandise now.”

  What the hell had I watched before bed?

  The scene dissolved, reformed. A marketplace. Cages lined the perimeter, humans crammed inside. A tall figure in dark robes pointed at one cage, and two smaller demons dragged a woman out. She fought. They struck her until she went limp, then hauled her toward a raised platform.

  An auction block.

  I’d had dreams like this before. Not often, but enough to recognize the pattern. Last year—or was it two years ago?—I’d dreamed of a massive hall filled with demons rutting, an orgy of writhing bodies and sounds that made my stomach turn when I woke.

  Once I’d been the one holding the knife. Human skin peeling back under the blade, precise cuts, methodical. I’d felt nothing in the dream. Just cold efficiency.

  Anyone else would think I was losing it. Daniel would probably drag me to a therapist if I ever mentioned it.

  But I wasn’t violent. Didn’t enjoy pain, didn’t fantasize about hurting people. These dreams were just, neuron misfiring or whatever psychological explanation fit.

  Except they were happening more often.

  This was the second one this week. Before, I got maybe one a year. Now they came with increasing frequency, vivid and detailed in ways normal dreams weren’t.

  The marketplace continued around me. A demon with wings folded against its back examined a child in a cage. Made an offer. Gold coins exchanged hands.

  I tried to wake up. Couldn’t. The dream held me, forced me to watch as the transaction completed and the child was led away on a leash.

  If this kept escalating, I’d end up in a psych ward trying to explain why I kept dreaming about demon slave markets.

  The scene started to fracture. Stone walls cracking, torchlight bleeding into darkness.

  Finally.

  I surfaced toward consciousness, the images fading. The ceiling came into focus. Grey morning light filtered through the blinds, painting bars across the opposite wall.

  I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 7:42 AM. Thursday. Work in an hour.

  My fingers moved across the screen.

  Liam: Free this Saturday? Pub?

  Daniel’s reply came thirty seconds later.

  Daniel: Yeah mate. Usual spot? 2pm?

  Liam: Works for me.

  I rolled out of bed, yanked my shirt over my head, and headed for the shower.

  * * *

  Friday passed without incident. No dreams. Saturday morning dragged until I left the flat at half past one.

  The pub sat on a corner two blocks from King’s Cross, the kind of place that survived on regulars rather than tourists. I spotted Daniel through the window, already at our usual table with two pints waiting.

  “Started without me?” I dropped into the chair across from him.

  “Just got here.” He pushed one glass toward me. “You look like shit, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seriously though. You sleeping?”

  I took a long drink. “Mostly.”

  Daniel’s brow furrowed. “Faith?”

  There it was. I set the glass down, watched condensation run down the side. “It’s been a month. I still don’t understand what happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were fine. Better than fine. Then one phone call during dinner and everything changed.” The words came faster now. “She ended it two days later. Wouldn’t explain. Just said it wasn’t my fault and she needed to do this.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “I’ve been replaying every conversation, every interaction. Looking for what I missed.” I leaned back. “Nothing fits. My ability to read people is usually spot on. But with her? Complete blind spot.”

  Daniel was quiet for a moment. He rotated his glass between his palms. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “What?”

  “You’re trying to logic your way through an emotional situation.” He met my eyes. “Sometimes people don’t make sense because feelings don’t follow patterns you can analyse.”

  “So what, I just accept not knowing?”

  “No.” He straightened. “You call her. Actually talk to her. Get the real answer instead of theorising yourself into circles.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. He was right. Sitting here constructing scenarios in my head wasn’t getting me anywhere.

  “Yeah.” I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ll call her. At least then I’ll know.”

  “There you go.” Daniel raised his glass. “To not overthinking things.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We finished our pints, ordered another round, talked about Daniel’s disaster of a date last weekend, his supervisor who couldn’t plan a project timeline to save his life. Normal things. The kind of conversation that didn’t require dissecting motivations or reading between lines.

  Two hours later we stumbled out into afternoon sunlight.

  “Right.” Daniel checked his phone. “Your place or mine?”

  “For what?”

  “Gaming. Unless you’ve got other plans?”

  I didn’t. “Mine. I’ve got that new co-op game installed.”

  “The space one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Perfect. I’ll grab snacks on the way.”

  We headed toward the tube station, Daniel already arguing about which character class he wanted to play. The knot in my chest had loosened. Not gone, but manageable.

  I’d call Faith tomorrow. Clear this up. No more circling the same questions.

  Whatever her answer was, at least I’d finally know.

  * * *

  Sunday morning. I stared at Faith’s contact in my phone.

  Call her. Simple.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  My thumb hovered over the screen, then pressed.

  It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Voicemail.

  Her voice—recorded weeks ago, professional and distant—invited me to leave a message. I hung up.

  Fine. I’d try again later. If that didn’t work, one text message. That was it. I wasn’t going to become that guy who couldn’t take a hint, who turned into some creep badgering his ex for answers she clearly didn’t want to give.

  I could get over this. I just wanted actual closure instead of this void where an explanation should be.

  I set the phone face-down on the kitchen counter and headed for the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, clean and dressed in joggers and a t-shirt, I heard knocking at the door.

  The courier held a rectangular box. “Delivery for Dawnstar?”

  “That’s me.”

  He handed it over without asking for a signature. “Cheers.”

  “Thanks.”

  I closed the door and checked the label. Right—the protein supplements and vitamins I’d ordered Thursday night. I tossed the box on the counter and booted up my PC.

  Balder’s Passage 3 sat in my recently played list. I’d finished it once, months ago. But the first and second acts? I’d restarted those dozens of times, trying different builds, different choices, different party compositions. Never got tired of the early game.

  New playthrough or continue the save?

  The main menu loaded. My cursor drifted between options.

  The vertigo hit without warning.

  The room tilted sideways. My hands gripped the desk edge but the wood felt wrong, like it existed at the wrong angle to reality.

  This wasn’t overwork. I’d felt fine ten seconds ago. Slept well last night. Ate breakfast. This was something else.

  Something wrong.

  I needed to call someone. A doctor. Emergency services. Something.

  I pushed back from the desk. The chair wheels caught on the carpet and I half-stood, half-stumbled toward the bed. My phone was in the kitchen but getting there felt impossible when the floor wouldn’t stay level beneath me.

  The bedroom door frame passed on my right. Three more steps to the bed.

  I didn’t make it.

  My knee buckled. I reached for the nightstand but my hand found empty air. The carpet rushed up and my shoulder hit first, then my head.

  The ceiling spun. Faster. Too fast.

  Images slammed through my vision like a slideshow set to strobe. Hell—not the dream marketplace but something vast and vertical, nine layers stacked like a cosmic tower. Laughter. Screaming. Music. Joy and agony bleeding together until they became the same sensation.

  Then a face.

  Blonde hair caught light that shouldn’t exist. Golden eyes blazed in skin too perfect, too smooth, like porcelain sculpted by hands that understood beauty at a level human artists never would. He smiled. Reached toward me with fingers that left afterimages in the air.

  I tried to move. Tried to speak.

  Darkness closed in from the edges, eating the impossible vision from the outside in. The blonde man’s hand stretched closer.

  Then nothing.

  * * *

  I woke.

  Wrong room. Wrong ceiling. Wrong bed.

  A canopy hung above me—dark crimson fabric gathered at four posts carved from black wood. The ceiling beyond stretched too high, decorated with patterns that hurt to follow.

  This wasn’t my flat.

  Humming drifted from somewhere to my left. Quiet. Melodic.

  My eyes tracked the sound.

  A small figure floated three feet off the ground near a wardrobe, back turned. Child-sized. Crimson skin. Black wings folded against her spine, membrane thin enough to catch the light. A pointed tail swayed in time with her humming.

  She arranged clothing on hangers—telekinetically. Dresses drifted through the air and settled onto their hooks without her touching them.

  Another dream. Had to be.

  Except the dreams never felt like this. In those, I watched. Observed. A passenger in someone else’s nightmare.

  Now I moved.

  I pushed myself upright. The mattress shifted beneath me—too soft, too large. Hair cascaded across my vision, white strands spilling over my shoulders and chest.

  I brushed it back.

  My hand froze mid-motion.

  The fingers were wrong. Too slender. Delicate bone structure beneath flawless skin. Nails shaped and perfect, catching light like they’d been polished.

  Not my hand.

  The hair kept falling. I grabbed a strand and pulled it in front of my face. White. Pure white, like fresh snow. Long enough to reach past my waist. Silky smooth between fingers that didn’t belong to me.

  Not. My. Hair.

  My breath caught. The sound came out wrong—pitched higher, softer.

  “Ah—”

  The creature spun mid-air. Yellow eyes, wide in a face that might have passed for human teenage if not for the solid black sclera and the small horns curving from her temples.

  She stared.

  I stared back.

  Her mouth opened. She screamed—no words, just sound—and bolted for the door.

  “Princess is awake! The Princess is awake!”

  The words hit my ears as language. Not English. Something older, harsher in its consonants but flowing in its vowels. I understood it the way I understood breathing.

  And worse—far worse—my first instinct had been to respond in the same tongue.

  What’s happening? I thought, forcing the words into English inside my skull. What the fuck is happening?

  The door slammed open. The creature—the imp?—vanished into the hallway beyond, still screaming.

  I looked down at myself.

  Curves. Everywhere. A body that had no right existing outside of fantasy art. Pale skin, flawless and luminous in the dim light filtering through curtains I hadn’t noticed. I wore something silk, a nightgown that clung and draped in ways that made my brain short-circuit.

  I lifted my hands. Both of them. Turned them over. Studied the wrists, the forearms, the way muscle moved beneath skin.

  Female. Unmistakably, completely female.

  My chest rose and fell, and I felt the weight shift with each breath.

  This wasn’t a dream.

  This was something else entirely.

  Footsteps thundered in the distance. Multiple sets. Coming closer.

  I pushed the hair out of my face again and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My feet touched cold stone. The floor stretched too far. Everything in this room existed at the wrong scale—built for someone important, someone who commanded space just by existing in it.

  The wardrobe. The vanity across the room with its massive mirror. The door—double doors, actually, dark wood reinforced with metal that gleamed red in the low light.

  Think. I gripped the edge of the mattress. You collapsed. You saw… something. That man. Then nothing. Now this.

  Now a body that wasn’t mine, in a room that belonged in a palace, with a demon screaming about a princess.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  * * *

  The door burst open.

  A woman swept through—raven-black hair streaming behind her, pale skin, curves wrapped in crimson and black. She crossed the room in three strides, arms wrapping around me before I could step back.

  The embrace crushed me against her. Too tight. Too sudden. Her scent flooded my nose—roses and something sharp, metallic.

  “Lily.” Her voice cracked. “My daughter. You’re finally awake.”

  That language again. Harsh consonants, flowing vowels. I understood every word.

  She pulled back, hands gripping my shoulders. Red eyes—the same shade as the ones I’d seen in the mirror—searched my face. Horns curved from her forehead, black and elegant.

  Not human.

  Neither was I. Not anymore.

  “I—” The word caught in my throat.

  “Your father will be here soon.” She released one shoulder to touch my cheek. “He’s been waiting so long.”

  Father. Mother. Daughter.

  I wasn’t this person. Wasn’t Lily, whoever she was.

  But telling her that seemed like an excellent way to die.

  My pulse hammered in my ears, louder than it should be. Every detail of her face stood out with crystal clarity—the slight crease between her brows, the wetness gathering at the corners of her eyes, the way her lips pressed together.

  Too much information. Too sharp.

  I needed to think. Analyse the situation. Figure out what to say.

  But thinking required distance, and distance required calm, and calm was impossible when fury and fear crashed through my chest in waves I couldn’t control.

  Not my emotions. Too big. Too loud.

  “Lilith.” A man’s voice from the doorway.

  She turned. I looked past her.

  Blonde hair. Sharp features. Blue eyes instead of gold, but the bone structure matched—close enough to the man I’d seen before collapsing that they had to be related.

  He moved like he owned the space he walked through. Every step deliberate.

  His gaze locked onto me. Something in those eyes made my skin prickle, made me want to look away and hold his stare at the same time.

  “Lily.” He stopped beside the woman—Lilith. His hand found hers. “It’s good to see you standing.”

  The words should have been warm. They weren’t. Too controlled. Too measured.

  They both watched me. Waiting.

  I opened my mouth. Closed it.

  What was I supposed to say? What would Lily say?

  “Who are you?” The language rose in my throat without effort. Flowed out like I’d spoken it my entire life.

  Lilith’s expression fractured. The man’s jaw tightened.

  “Lily?” Lilith stepped forward. “Darling, it’s us. Your—”

  “No.” I cut her off. My heart slammed against my ribs. “I mean… I don’t…” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “Who am I?”

  Silence dropped like a weight.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you remember?”

  “Nothing.” The lie tasted bitter. “I woke up here. I don’t remember anything.”

  Lilith’s hand flew to her mouth. The man’s expression went cold—colder than before, ice settling over his features.

  “That bastard.” Lilith’s voice dropped to something between a hiss and a growl. “Michael. That sanctimonious—”

  “Lilith.” The man’s tone cracked like a whip.

  She stopped. Turned to him. Something passed between them without words.

  Michael. The name meant nothing to me.

  The man looked back at me. “I am your father. She is your mother.” No emotion. Just facts. “You are Lilithiel Morningstar. You have been in a coma for thirty years.”

  Thirty years.

  The floor tilted. I locked my knees to stay upright.

  “A coma.” My voice didn’t sound like mine. Couldn’t sound like mine because it wasn’t. “Caused by… Michael?”

  “Yes.” One word. Final as a blade.

  I searched his face for something—deception, uncertainty, anything I could read and understand. Nothing. Just controlled fury barely leashed beneath perfect features.

  Same with Lilith. I looked at her and saw grief, rage, relief all tangled together, but underneath? Nothing I could parse. Nothing that made sense.

  Everyone made sense. Always had. I could look at a person and know what they wanted, what they feared, how to move them.

  Not these two.

  “I’m sorry.” I forced the words out. “I don’t remember you. Either of you.”

  Lilith’s eyes blazed crimson. “That angel will pay for this. I will personally—”

  “Later.” The man—my father, apparently—raised one hand. His gaze never left me. “She needs time. Space. Answers, when she’s ready.”

  He said it like he cared.

  He said it like I was a possession he’d nearly lost.

  I couldn’t tell which was true.

  * * *

  I stopped in front of the mirror again. Third time in the past hour.

  The face staring back hadn’t changed. Crimson eyes. White hair cascading past my waist. Curves that belonged on a sculpture, not a person who’d been a six-foot man this morning.

  This morning.

  Was it still Sunday in London? Had time passed differently? My body could be lying on that apartment floor right now. Days old. Weeks old.

  No.

  I pressed my palms against the dresser. The wood grain stood out in perfect detail, every whorl and knot distinct. My hearing picked up distant sounds—screaming, faint enough it had to be miles away. Reminders of where I was.

  Hell. Actually Hell.

  Lucifer and Lilith. The Devil and his Queen.

  This body’s parents. Not mine.

  They’d been… warm. Concerned. Lilith had touched my face like I mattered. Lucifer had spoken with controlled fury about someone named Michael, like he actually gave a damn that I’d been hurt.

  Perfect parental performance.

  Or genuine.

  Couldn’t tell. That was the problem. I’d always been able to read people—their wants, their fears, the pressure points that moved them. Essential skill for surviving group homes and corporate offices.

  Useless here.

  I shook my head and turned from the mirror. Pacing helped. Movement gave my mind something to do besides spiral.

  Did I swap bodies with the real Lily? Was she waking up in my flat right now, just as confused? Or had I simply died—brain aneurysm, stroke, something sudden—and my consciousness latched onto this vacant body like a parasite?

  If I died, there was no going back. My body would decompose in that apartment for weeks before anyone checked. I lived alone. Worked from home half the time. Daniel wouldn’t worry until next weekend.

  “Stop.”

  I said it aloud. My voice—higher, smoother than Liam’s—echoed in the room.

  There had to be a way back. Some explanation. Magic existed. Hell existed. That meant rules. Systems. Something I could analyse and reverse-engineer.

  I just needed information.

  My tail flicked behind me, nearly tripping me for the fourth time. I grabbed it, held it still. The sensation shot up my spine—not pain, just awareness, like holding my own arm at a wrong angle.

  It moved on its own when I let go. Swaying gently.

  I gritted my teeth and resumed searching.

  The nightstand drawers held nothing. No journal. No letters. No convenient “diary of Princess Lily” explaining who she was and what had happened.

  The desk in the sitting room—empty except for blank parchment and writing supplies.

  The bookshelves held texts on demonic hierarchies and Abyssal theory. Academic. Impersonal.

  Nothing about her. Nothing about me.

  I moved to the wardrobe. Opened it.

  Rows of clothing stretched into the expanded space. Dozens of outfits, maybe more.

  Most looked like they’d been designed by someone with a very specific idea of what “succubus princess” should wear. Leather that covered almost nothing. Silk that left even less to imagination. Dresses with strategic cutouts. One outfit was just straps.

  Did Lily actually wear these?

  My face heated. The nightgown I wore was practically conservative by comparison, even if I could see skin through the fabric when I moved wrong.

  I shut the wardrobe. Backed away.

  Changing clothes in this body seemed like an excellent way to lose what little control I had. Looking at my reflection had already triggered ideas—images that felt foreign and intrusive but came with a rush of interest my body very much approved of.

  Not thinking about that.

  I crossed to the window instead. The gardens outside were dark, lit by sources I couldn’t identify. Beautiful in an alien way. Nothing like the London I knew.

  The screaming came again. Distant. Barely audible.

  I didn’t want to know the source. Didn’t want to see what created sounds like that. Some images would scar deeper than others, and I needed to think clearly.

  For now, this room was safe. This body’s parents had left me alone after an hour of careful questions I’d deflected with “I don’t remember” and strategic silence.

  The memory loss excuse had worked.

  They believed their daughter had forgotten them.

  Or they were humouring me and already figured out I wasn’t her.

  My chest tightened. Breathing came harder.

  No. Focus.

  I returned to the desk. Pulled out every drawer again, checking for hidden compartments. Nothing.

  There had to be something. Some clue about what happened to Lily. About how to fix this.

  I just had to keep looking.

  * * *

  Eight days of maintaining the fiction that I belonged in this body.

  The palace staff had accepted my presence without question. Anastasia treated me with an enthusiasm that bordered on worship, attending to every minor need before I voiced it. She’d been my caretaker during the coma—thirty years, from what this body’s parent’s said. Another detail to catalogue and investigate later.

  I’d mapped most of the palace. The throne room. The ballroom. Gardens that stretched impossibly far given the structure’s exterior dimensions. The kitchen staff worked with hellfire like it was a conventional oven. Normal. Everything treated as completely normal.

  Except the screaming.

  Occasionally, faint sounds drifted up from the dungeons. Other times from beyond the palace walls. I’d avoided both areas. Some knowledge would cost more than it was worth, and I needed to focus on finding answers.

  Lucifer and Lilith spent their free time with me.

  Hours of it. Breakfasts that stretched into lunch. Dinners where they asked gentle questions about how I felt, what I remembered, whether anything seemed familiar. I’d perfected the art of deflection—answering questions with careful vagueness, letting my body’s instincts guide my tone when Liam’s mind had no framework for appropriate responses.

  They watched me. Not with suspicion. With concern that felt genuine.

  That was the problem. They acted like parents who loved their daughter. If they suspected I wasn’t her, they hid it perfectly.

  And I had no baseline to judge what “perfect” looked like for demons.

  Vex, the head butler, seemed less pleased with the arrangement. I’d caught him twice reviewing stacks of parchment that reached his waist, his expression tight. The backlog of work accumulated while the King and Queen devoted attention to their recently awakened daughter.

  Guilt tried to surface. I pushed it down. Not my problem. Couldn’t afford to care about a demon’s workload when I was trying to find a way back to my own body.

  If it still existed.

  I’d found the Library on day three.

  “Library” was generous. The space violated physics in ways that made my engineering training scream. Shelves grew from ceilings at angles that shouldn’t support weight. Gravity shifted mid-step. Walking on walls felt as natural as walking on floors until I thought about it too hard and nearly fell.

  The librarians moved through the chaos like it was structured and sensible. After an hour of watching them, I’d learned to let my body lead. Stop thinking. Just move.

  It worked. The same way everything worked when I stopped trying to impose Liam’s logic on demonic reality.

  I’d found books. Carefully chosen titles that wouldn’t reveal my ignorance. Demonic hierarchies. Succubus biology. Abyssal theory.

  Learning about the body I inhabited seemed prudent.

  Pureblood succubus. Lilim specifically—the highest caste, descended directly from Lilith herself. That explained the white hair and the immediate deference from lower-ranking demons.

  But that wasn’t what made my chest tight every time I thought about it.

  The book had been clinical. Factual. Succubi fed on vital essence. Required it. Without regular consumption, cognitive function degraded. Feral behaviour manifested within weeks.

  The primary method of extraction was explicitly detailed.

  I’d read that section three times, hoping I’d misunderstood.

  I hadn’t.

  My tail lashed behind me. I grabbed it, held it still. The nervous movement would give me away if anyone saw.

  There had to be another way. Some alternative the book hadn’t mentioned. Lilith was ancient, powerful—she’d know. She had to know.

  Asking felt like admitting weakness. Revealing ignorance about something fundamental to succubus existence.

  But going feral seemed worse.

  I found Anastasia in the sitting room, organizing books I’d left scattered across the desk.

  “Do you know where L—Mother is?”

  She straightened immediately, wings fluttering. “The Queen is in the Leisure Wing, Princess. She prefers not to be disturbed during her private time, but she left explicit instructions to bring you whenever you wished.”

  The Leisure Wing. I’d avoided that area. The name alone suggested activities I didn’t want to contemplate.

  “Take me there.”

  “Of course, Princess.” Anastasia moved toward the door, then paused. Her tail curled tight. “Should I… inform her you’re coming? Or would you prefer—”

  “Just take me.”

  Better not to give myself time to reconsider. I needed answers. Whatever Lilith was doing, she could pause it for a conversation with her daughter.

  The daughter whose body I’d stolen.

  I followed Anastasia into the corridor, my wings tucked tight against my back. The motion felt natural now. Automatic. One more instinct I’d stopped questioning.

  Eight days of lying. Eight days of performance.

  And now I had to ask this body’s mother how to feed a need I didn’t want to acknowledge.