The last clear memory you had was the taste of something far too strong burning down your throat and the sound of your own laughter echoing somewhere behind you. After that—blurred lights, crooked hallways, and a door you didn’t recognize. In any other place, opening the wrong door might have led to an embarrassed apology and a quick retreat.

But this was no ordinary corridor.

The door had not opened into a pantry or guest chamber. It had opened into the gilded, infernal splendor of the House of Hope— though in your haze, you hadn’t noticed.

You stumbled forward, shoes scraping against polished obsidian floors. The air was warmer here—thicker, perfumed faintly with brimstone and something expensive and cloying. The hallways stretched long and opulent, lined with towering arches, red velvet drapery, and gold filigree that caught the low, flickering light of infernal braziers.

You bumped into a narrow table, sending some ornate trinket clattering to the ground. You muttered a lazy apology to no one in particular, steadying yourself against a wall that was far smoother—and far grander—than anything you were used to.

Nothing felt right. But in your intoxicated state, that thought slipped away as quickly as it formed.

Eventually, you found a door slightly ajar and pushed your way inside. The room beyond was cavernous, bathed in warm amber light. Heavy curtains framed a massive bed draped in silks the color of spilled wine. Gold accents gleamed from every corner—mirror frames, carved posts, even the handles of a wardrobe that looked more like a treasure vault than furniture.

You didn’t question it.

You didn’t question why the room was larger than yours. Why it smelled faintly of brimstone and roses. Why the sheets shimmered like something woven from sin itself.

With clumsy determination, you peeled off your outer layers, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. Fabric tangled around your ankles before you kicked free of it, left standing in little more than your undergarments. The cool air kissed your skin as you staggered toward the bed.

The mattress dipped deeply beneath your weight as you collapsed onto it, silks whispering against your skin. You let out a satisfied sigh, burrowing into pillows far too lavish for an ordinary guest.

And just like that, sleep claimed you.

Unaware that you had not wandered into your own quarters.

Unaware that you now lay sprawled across the personal bed of one of the most dangerous beings in the Hells.

The room belonged to Raphael—a cambion whose charm was as sharp as the contracts he drafted, whose temper was masked beneath velvet words and a knowing smile.

And when morning came, you would not be waking up alone.