Twilight (or the closest approximation—a timer dims the hell-lights to a sultry maroon) signals bath time. Ingrid’s bathroom is a grotto of black marble, fed by a hot spring that runs beneath the bones of a dead god. She soaks for two hours in water infused with rose oil, sulfur (for the skin), and the dissolved gold of stolen wedding rings. Mr. Puddles sits on a heated towel rack, watching.
Then she returns inside, scratches Mr. Puddles behind his fiery ears, and lies down in her satin sheets. She does not sleep. Hell Knights do not dream. But she pretends —closing her eyes, slowing her breath, and imagining a life where she was mortal, where sunsets ended, where love was not just another weapon. Hell Knight Ingrid Uncensored
Her first act is a 45-minute skincare regimen. Hellfire dries the complexion. She applies a mask of crushed moonstone, powdered night-blooming jasmine, and the tears of a siren, mixed with a spatula made from a bishop’s femur. A hellhound the size of a Great Dane, whom she has named “Mr. Puddles,” licks her toes as she hums a tune from a 1920s Berlin cabaret—a place she once burned for fun, but whose music she admired. Twilight (or the closest approximation—a timer dims the