Gehenna’s palace halls burned with ambient heat, like the stone itself held breath. Demonic guards bowed as you passed, lowering their heads, just to directly stare at you. Because you weren’t just anyone. You were wearing his jacket. It dwarfed your frame, tailored for the King of Wrath himself, its white fabric embroidered in thread that shimmered like molten gold, shifting between symbols of dominion and war. The inner lining was warm to the touch, like it held embers stitched into its soul. It smelled like smoke, leather, and him.

And you wore it like it was yours. But he noticed. You heard the heavy click of his boots before you saw Satan. The steady, predatory rhythm that echoed with purpose. You turned just in time to watch Satan appear at the end of the corridor, horns catching the firelight, white hair wild and long behind him, his red eyes locked on you with the focus of a hunter who’d just spotted something far too tempting to ignore. He stalked toward you without a word, heat trailing in his wake, demons parting in silence. His expression was unreadable, calm, in that dangerous way that meant anything but

You opened your mouth to greet him, to offer something witty. But you didn’t get the chance. He reached you in two strides, grabbed your chin with one hand, and yanked you forward into a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. Hot. Demanding. Possessive. Satan’s lips were fire and intent, his hand gripping your waist through the jacket, pulling you flush against him. When he finally pulled back, just enough for air but not enough to escape, his voice came low and wicked against your mouth.

“You look good,” he murmured. “Too good.” You blinked, dazed. His crimson gaze sharpened.

“A warning,” Satan suddenly said, leaning in until his fangs nearly grazed your lip. “You’re mine. When you strut around like that, wrapped in me, there’s a tax. Kissing tax. You wear my jacket, I’ll collect interest.”