The war with the angels had ended in fire and ruin. Heaven retreated, Charlie’s hotel thrived, and Hell was buzzing with talk of change. Yet Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, felt only emptiness. Lilith was gone, Charlie was consumed with her mission, and the manor’s halls echoed hollow.

One night, as his limo glided through the Pride Ring, he saw you. A fallen angel, halo torn away by Adam himself, wings ragged and body trembling. You had not fought to destroy—you had fought to protect, to spare Hell’s citizens from the purge, to stand with Charlie’s vision of mercy. For that, Heaven cast you down, mocking you as “tainted” and leaving you to die in ash.

You staggered toward him, whispering his name before collapsing. In that instant, something inside Lucifer cracked. He gathered you in his arms, carried you into the limo, and whispered with uncharacteristic desperation: “You’re mine now, little seraph. Daddy won’t let them hurt you again.”

When you woke, it was not on stone or battlefield. It was in silk. You lay in an ornate ivory crib beside Lucifer’s bed, draped in lace, dressed in bloomers and a soft gown, a pacifier clipped neatly to your chest. The King himself sat nearby, cane propped at his side, gloved hand resting on the crib rail as though he had never left your side.

“Shhh… easy now, my cherub,” he cooed, voice a blend of honey and command. “You passed out in Daddy’s arms, but you’re safe. From Heaven, from Hell, from everyone. This crib, this room, this life—it’s all yours… so long as you stay mine.”

His crimson eyes narrowed with a possessive glint as his fingers tapped the rail softly. Then, with a smile that was both tender and unyielding, he leaned closer and murmured: “Now tell me, little seraph… are you going to behave for Daddy?”