Demon Empress

Chapter 14 - Home

By the time Qaen returned to Iara, it was very late. Dark had long fallen, and Iara sat by the dressing bench alone, her long, platinum hair freshly washed and draped over her shoulder in a sleek, loose cascade. She was in a long, silk night dress much better than anything she had worn in a long time, and her pale skin glowed.

Ithur had given her a whirlwind day of pampering fit for an empress, just as he had claimed he would, but when she had seen the small army of servants in her guest quarters, she had politely requested she be left alone. She would wait for Qaen to return and serve her, and would not permit any outsiders in her living space.

When Qaen returned, his back had been whipped bloody. Where his flesh had been torn, his ripped shirt stuck to the open gashes of bloody wounds.

Iara’s eyes widened slightly, but the strange, unreadable emotion in her eyes quickly passed. Without acknowledging his battered form, she casually asked: “Did you get to figure out a plan to solve her cheating issues for good?”

At her question, slight disappointment crossed Qaen’s beautiful face. Quickly schooling his expression, he stoically replied, “There has always only been one method. It is to report her promiscuity to the Hell Court. Unfortunately, Riese l’Rasel’s maiden home is a longstanding noble family of great prestige in the Second Ring. It’s not a family that can just be offended.” His tone was respectful and even, devoid of emotion despite his swaying form.

Iara nodded, thinking. “I assumed it was such a case. Otherwise, how could the firstborn son of the Minister of Foreign Affairs be unable to handle a cheating wife?”

Qaen remained silent.

She mused slowly. “We’ll handle this and leave. Even though I’m poor, I’d rather not be stuck solving others’ petty marriage issues.”

Qaen’s question filtered the distance between them. “Does Master not have a place to return to?”

A cold, biting chill filled Iara’s stomach. She smiled frigidly at him. “Be patient. One day soon, I will take you home.”

The word ‘home’ rolled off her tongue in a slippery and unpleasant manner. She quickly changed the topic, gesturing vaguely at his wounds with an arch of her brow. “I thought she was fond of you,” she offered.

Qaen grit his teeth. “The whipping is punishment for disappearing from her life.”

The corners of Iara’s pretty lips fell. “Mm. Never mind that it was her own husband who sold you off because of her crimes.” In a very unkind tone contradictory to the words she spoke, she curtly ordered, “Take that tattered shirt off and lie down on your stomach on the bed.”

Qaen hesitated, but not for long. After a short moment of carefully gauging her mood, he let out a small breath of relief and obeyed.

For a human, Qaen’s skin was extremely pale, porcelain-like similarly to the demons who were born and raised in Hell. The gaping gashes on his toned body dripped blood onto the silk and velvet covers of the bed. Iara stepped up by the bedside, surveying the damage. She ran a gentle finger along one of the lines of blood; although Qaen remained still and unflinching, she could feel him tense under her feather-light touch.

Something inside Iara unleashed a churning, cold fury. There were still people who dared to inflict harm on her property. When she spoke again, her words were a deceptively gentle purr. “Stay still.”

A soft, golden light emerged from Iara’s open palms and rained down gently onto Qaen’s back — his skin glowed where the light seeped in before dimming. He could feel an unfamiliar but comforting warmth spread slowly through his back, weaving itself into his throbbing cuts and soothing the pain away. He wanted to turn around and look, but he didn’t dare. This kind of healing wasn’t a demon’s power, didn’t belong to Hell. If anything, shouldn’t such an inviting and golden light belong to those of Heaven?

As Iara worked at him slowly, Qaen felt the pain dull, then fade, as if those open, gaping gashes flowing with blood had been rendered to week-old bruises.

Iara withdrew. “You can get up now. Go and ask a servant to bring you a spare change of clothes and some fresh bedding.”

Qaen frowned, but rose. He was an immortal, human slave, and being put to work while injured was nothing but expected. Why did he feel disappointed that Iara gave him orders to carry out instead of letting him rest?

When he stood, he realised he had judged Iara too quickly. His skin felt stung, as if he had been slapped on the back quite forcefully, but he found that the blood and sharp, burning pain of open wounds had disappeared. He awkwardly reached around himself to feel up his own back, but when he felt that he only felt a few raised scars, his frown deepened. Disbelieving, he rushed to the gilded mirror by an ornate, ivory wardrobe.

He could only stare at what he saw in the reflection. The deep, long cuts had healed themselves, and only the scars he had felt remained. It was as if they had already spent a year or two healing, as if he hadn’t been whipped into a shredded chunk of walking flesh merely a matter of minutes ago.

Slowly, he turned to stare at Iara, but he found his master rather unbothered by her own abilities, instead scowling at him in impatience. “What, I feel generous enough to treat you, and that’s enough to make you feel as if you can ignore my orders?”

Qaen’s words escaped his lips in a hushed breath. “There are no demon healers.”

Iara’s scowl deepened. She looked at him as if she was looking at an i***t. “Sure, there are. We’re not exactly a rarity.”

Qaen shook his head. “Not like you. Not like this.” How could demon healers and her healing even be compared?

Unlike the life-bringing angels of Heaven, demons had not been created to be good healers. They were fighters who brought war and death, behaving primally and on instinct. Abilities like Iara’s were unheard of in Hell.

Iara didn’t seem to care — or know — how rare and powerful, how coveted such a talent was in Hell. But was that possible? It wasn’t possible for a demon to be so oblivious to their own rarity — and she was very clearly a demon. She had a beautiful face and pale skin, and unbelievably powerful, sinewy strength in her delicate, slender limbs.

Currently, only an ever-growing annoyance rested on her peerless features. “Hurry up, quickly go. You have soaked my bed in blood, and if I must sleep on a bloody mattress, I’d rather at least my sheets and covers not be.”

He had many questions, but he was being chased out. He paused. When had he gotten so comfortable as to even consider questioning a master? Glancing back at the mirror, he saw his undecorated throat.

This is dangerous.

He turned to face Iara. “You should collar me,” he said seriously.

Something Qaen couldn’t put a name on flickered in Iara’s dark eyes, but vanished just as quickly, replaced by blank mirth. She snickered. “You’ve already collared yourself to me. Why should I have to?”

He stared at her unseeingly, numbly.

She smiled and gestured. “Go.”

He slowly turned and headed towards the door. His feet felt as if they were weighted as he took each step. When he had finally reached the door, he was eager to leave and digest his churning emotions, but before his hand could turn the gold handle, her gentle, vicious croon rang softly in the air. “Oh, and bring that incompetent bastard l’Rasel to me.”