TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ꜰɪᴠᴇ: ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

Crowley leads me down a spiral staircase I'd never noticed before—tucked behind an alcove, half-hidden behind crimson drapery. It descends far deeper than I imagined the palace went. The walls shift from polished obsidian to something older, rougher. The torches flicker green here, casting long, warping shadows that reach for me like claws.

I don't ask where we're going. He hasn't said. And I won't give him the satisfaction of asking.

"I didn't make that deal only to keep you here locked in a tower," he finally says, voice low and casual as his hand remains wrapped around mine. It is warm, too warm. His fingers almost burn mine. "You're not a songbird. You're a blade."

"And yet you disarmed me, wouldn't even let me keep that lamp,"

"Only because you were stubborn enough to swing at anything that moved."

"Oh, I still am."

He chuckles at that, but it's dark. Tired. Like something older than both of us is sitting just beneath his skin. "You remind me of someone," Crowley murmurs, more to himself than to me. "A woman who walked into Hell once and tried to kill me. Almost succeeded."

My voice is a careful whisper as I ask, "Did she survive?"

He looks at me sidelong. He tutts. "Depends on your definition."

Finally, we reach a door. It is thick, iron, and ancient. Runes thrum across its surface in slow pulses. I have never seen anything like it. Without waiting, Crowley presses a hand to it. It creaks open.

The room inside is not what I expected.

It's a forge.

Heat sears my face immediately. But it's not the oppressive kind that clings in Hell—it's pure. Honest. Dozens of weapons line the walls: daggers, short blades, whips threaded with silver and bone. An anvil rests in the center of the room, beside a smoldering hearth that seems to breathe.

Crowley lets go of my hand and steps forward. "You need better weapons," he says. "Ones that actually answer to you."

My stomach coils with unease. "What do you mean 'answer to me'?"

He gestures to the blades. "Hellsteel is fickle. It binds easiest to rage. To pain. To blood. But if you want something that won't betray you—"

I take a step back, frowning, "I don't want a cursed blade."

Crowley smiles faintly, his tone is teasing. "All the best ones are cursed, darling."

I cross my arms. "So what's this, then? A twisted little gift to make up for nearly letting me get gutted by one of your minions?"

His head tilts, mock offense ghosting his features. "That wasn't part of the plan," his gaze darkens as he clenches his jaw, "Malphas will be dealt with."

The words leave my mouth before I have time to roll them over my tongue. Perhaps it is the lingering adrenaline that has me admitting, "I'd like to be there when you do."

But Crowley's eyes gleam. "Would you?"

I breath out, "Yes, I would." I step forward, brushing past him, close enough that my shoulder grazes his chest. I stare at the weapons lining the wall. "I'll show you what happens to monsters who put their hands on me."

He's quiet. And then:

"You're starting to sound like one of us."

I turn my head, eyebrows pulled together at his tone, "That wasn't a compliment."

"No," the King agrees. "But it should be."

My eyes land on a dagger near the hearth—sleek, curved, black as shadow but veined with veins of copper light. It hums when I look at it. Like it knows me.

I reach out. My fingers wrap around the hilt. The heat doesn't burn, it melts deliciously into my skin.

Crowley watches with unreadable eyes. "That blade hasn't bonded in centuries."

"I don't care."

"You should. It drank the soul of its last wielder."

I hold it up. "Then we understand each other."

His expression flickers—something like admiration, like warning.

I find a sheath and place the blade into it, tight around my hips. The forge lights seem dimmer now. Or maybe it's the cold building behind my ribs. 

Crowley moves closer. I feel him before I see him—his presence a pressure, warm and coiled like velvet-wrapped wire. His breath stirs my hair. 

"You surprise me," he says softly. 

"Good."

"Dangerous."

"I don't belong to you."

That makes him smile. That smile that I am getting so used to seeing. Expecting. I find myself questioning if it is just reserved for me. 

"No. But you're mine," he says, "For as long as our deal lasts."

I look up sharply, baring my teeth. 

"To protect," he adds smoothly, though his tone doesn't soften. "To shape. You're in Hell now, darling, for as long as those Winchester's take. You can play the helpless guest or you can take your place at my side."

Shock hits me and I stumble backward. By his side? Fury overtakes the shock. 

"I didn't ask for a place," I snap. 

"But you've earned one."

My fingers clench. The blade hums. We stare at each other, unmoving, anger meeting anger. He acts like he knows me but he doesn't. 

"What about Malphas?" I ask, tearing my gaze away and back to the new dagger at my side. "Don't pretend that's done."

Crowley hums. "He broke the rules. You shed his blood. And now the others are watching—testing limits. That was the first."

I nod slowly. "And it won't be the last."

He meets my eyes. "No. But next time, they'll hesitate longer."

His hand lifts, thumb brushing a spot near my temple—a smudge of soot or blood, I'm not sure. The touch lingers longer than it should.

"You're more than just a mortal, a hunter," he says. "The question is... what will you become while your down here?"

I turn away from him, walking back toward the door, the weight of the new dagger already familiar at my hip.

"I'll become whatever survives in this forsaken place," I mutter.

Behind me, Crowley laughs quietly. And I can't tell if it's because he's pleased or because he knows what that will cost me.