Chapter 4 – Alastor (Stiles) POV**
Her whispered "It's real" still hung in the air like a bad radio punchline, and it only made the static in my head screech louder. I traced a claw along her jaw, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse, watching those big innocent eyes flutter half-closed in what had to be practiced afterglow. The room reeked of sex and ozone, my release still leaking slowly from her swollen folds onto the ruined sheets. She looked thoroughly fucked—flushed skin, trembling thighs, marks from my tentacles blooming like dark roses across her throat and wrists. Any other man would have believed her little confession. But I wasn't any other man. I was Stiles wearing a dead demon's skin, and I knew a performance when I saw one.
"Real?" I laughed, the sound warping into a full brass band sting that rattled the broken light fixtures. My antlers shrank back to their usual dramatic flare as I pulled out of her with a wet slide that made her whimper. The sound went straight to my cock, which was already hardening again thanks to the power boost thrumming unchecked through every vein. No chains. No leash yanking me back. Just pure, roaring strength that made the air crackle and my shadow stretch like living ink across the walls. It should have felt liberating. Instead it left me raw, every sense dialed up to eleven, every moan and twitch from her body screaming *lie* even while her cunt had clenched like it never wanted me to leave.
I flipped her onto her stomach again before she could catch her breath, yanking her hips up so her ass presented like an offering. "If it's so real, darling, then you won't mind another verse." My voice dripped saccharine venom through the filter as I thrust back in to the hilt in one brutal stroke. She was soaked with both of us, the glide obscene and perfect, her walls still fluttering from the last round. A fresh burst of static exploded from my palms where they gripped her hips, leaving faint green brands that sizzled pleasantly against her skin.
She cried out—high, needy, *genuine*—and it pissed me off more. My hips snapped forward harder, the bed creaking dangerously as I set a punishing rhythm. One of my new tentacles coiled around her waist, another sliding down to pinch and vibrate against her clit with ruthless precision. The mimicry spark inside me glitched without warning; suddenly her own voice echoed back at us from the shadows, layered with Vaggie's clipped accent moaning my name. The accidental playback made my blood boil. Jealousy flared hot and ugly. *That* was what she really wanted. Not the Radio Demon. Not the hyperactive kid from Beacon Hills who had died bleeding out after the Alpha Pack's final ambush—Scott safe, the pack victorious, my Spark flaring one last desperate time before claws punched through my chest and everything went dark.
The flashback hit like a static bomb. Forest smells overlaid the brimstone and sex for half a second—pine, blood, Derek's distant shout—then vanished. I growled and slammed deeper, antlers lengthening again as power surged. The room's shadows multiplied, writhing like living things. I was at least thirty percent stronger now; a casual flex of will shorted every remaining electrical device in the suite and sent green sigils spinning wildly overhead.
"Tell me again how real it feels," I snarled, voice glitching between broadcast charm and raw Stiles rage. I reached under her, fingers finding her nipples and twisting just hard enough to make her back bow. Her next orgasm ripped through her almost instantly—walls clamping down like a vice, fresh slick gushing around my cock as she screamed into the pillow. The sight of her coming undone should have satisfied me. Instead it fed the anger. *She's still thinking about the moth.* The deal was supposed to bind her to me, but guilt kept slipping between us like mountain ash.
I rode her through it without mercy, static bursting in violet arcs that danced over her sweat-slicked back. My free hand cracked against her ass again, leaving a second glowing print that made her clench even tighter. The wet slap of skin filled the room, underscored by the constant low hum of my power. No cannibal urges tainted any of this—thank whatever twisted afterlife had ditched that part of the original Alastor. All I craved was her. Her smile. Her dream. Her body willingly arching into mine instead of enduring for the hotel's sake.
Another climax tore from her, smaller but shuddering, and I finally let myself follow. Release crashed through me like a lightning strike, cock pulsing as I flooded her again, the excess immediately leaking out around my thickness. The orgasm dragged on longer than it should have, amplified by the unbound magic, every spurt accompanied by crackling green energy that left both of us glowing faintly.
I collapsed over her, barely keeping my weight off her back, antlers shrinking as the immediate fury ebbed into something quieter. My radio filter settled into soft jazz. For a moment I let myself pretend her heavy breathing and the way her fingers weakly gripped the sheets meant something real. Then the hotel's lobby noise drifted up louder—glass breaking, Angel Dust yelling something about "unholy fuckery outside," followed by the distinct sound of exorcist steel meeting brick.
A threat. Perfect timing.
I pulled out slowly, watching my cum drip down her thighs with dark satisfaction, and stood. My coat materialized perfectly pressed despite everything, tailcoat flaring as I offered her a hand. "It seems our audience grows restless, my dear. Shall we give them a show worthy of the Radio Demon's new and improved broadcast?"
She took my hand, legs shaky, eyes still clouded with afterglow and that persistent guilt. I smiled wide, hiding the storm beneath. The chains were gone. My Spark lived again inside this body. And if Heaven or Hell thought they could interrupt what belonged to me, they were about to learn exactly how much stronger Stiles Stilinski made the Radio Demon.
Static crackled between my fingers as I led her toward the door, already calculating seventeen different ways to obliterate whatever fool waited downstairs while the memory of her whispered "It's real" looped mockingly in my head. The night wasn't over. The deal wasn't over.
Nothing was over.