What's next?

Abby’s Perspective

Abigail Holt’s heels clicked sharply across the marble floor, echoing through the quiet corridor of her office. She adjusted her blazer, clutching a slim folder in one hand. This meeting with her son was long overdue—he’d been evasive lately, dodging calls and deflecting questions with vague pleasantries. She hated vagueness.

She pushed open the door to her office, rehearsing a greeting—warm, brisk, authoritative—only to freeze the instant she stepped inside.

“James! Morgana! I’m so happy to see y—”

Her voice cut out.

There he was. Her son. Standing in the space like a statue carved by a god—no, something even more divine, more terrible. Her eyes traced his frame before her thoughts could stop her. Broad shoulders. Chiseled jaw. Eyes too symmetrical to be human. Skin like polished bronze kissed by firelight. Even the air felt heavier with him in the room. It hit her in a slow, unbearable wave.

What the hell happened to him?

She barely registered her own steps forward, her mouth moving. “J–James?”

When he smiled—genuinely, nervously—it should have grounded her. It didn’t. The smile only emphasized the impossible beauty of his features.

“I... I’ve been working out,” he said.

It was a lie. A pathetic attempt to normalize something absolutely not normal.

She stepped closer, pulse pounding. Her stomach fluttered—and she hated that. Hated how it reminded her of moments she hadn’t felt since her twenties. Heat flushed her face, and she turned slightly, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“You’re his mother, Abby. Get a grip.”, she repeated in her mind like a mantra.

He explained—slowly, awkwardly. Something about devils. About Morgana finding him. About a soul sleeping inside him, some ancient being now reawakened. He said he’d become Asmodeus, apparently a devil who specialized in lust.

She thought it was madness. At first. But deep down, something primal already believed it.

Then he let the glamour drop.

Horns jutted from his scalp, regal and obsidian. His eyes glowed violet. Inky black skin that shone with rich purple iridescence covered his body. And his aura—oh god, his presence—washed over her like hot wine and silk sheets. Her legs trembled. Her mouth went dry.

She should have been terrified, but she wasn’t. The rush of warmth between her thighs was instant.

No. No, no, no.

He’s your son.

But her body didn’t care. Her blood didn’t care. Something in her core responded to him—heat pooling low, heart stuttering. A fever of want. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Her fists clenched.

“This isn’t normal,” she bit out. “Why do I feel like this?”

Morgana’s voice was smooth, almost pitying. “You’re feeling the influence of a devil prince. He’s not doing it on purpose. It’s what he is. What he always was.”

Abby flinched away from her touch. “I shouldn’t feel anything. He’s my son.”

And yet her eyes kept drifting. Back to the lines of his chest. The sharpness of his waist. The faint thrum in her belly that mirrored her heartbeat. She fought to suppress it, gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles whitened.

The shame hit like a wave. Guilt. Lust. Denial. Then more lust.

She wanted him—wanted him—in a way no mother should. And she couldn’t stop the thought.

How would it feel to be held in those arms? To have that power wrapped around her? To be taken by something so—

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Turn back,” she croaked. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

When he did, the pressure lessened. The air lightened. Her shame didn’t.

She wanted to run. To scream. To hug him. To understand. To forget.

Instead, she laughed—a ****, too-loud bark of emotion. And then Morgana showed her the baby.

The soft glowing form, iridescent inside the slime womb. Her granddaughter. Her grandchild.

Abby stared, her lust chased away by something deeper, older. Love. Wonder. Awe.

“You’re gonna be a grandma,” James said.

She touched her cheek and felt tears.