Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

The fire from her last punishment had barely faded from her skin.

Even now, hours — or was it days? — later, the sensation lingered like a ghost. A phantom heat that tingled down her spine and made her flinch every time she thought of his touch. The Devil didn't just hurt her. He ignited her in ways she didn't have words for — and that terrified her far more than the flames.

She sat curled in the velvet chair by the arched window, staring out into the swirling, dark sky. It wasn't night — not exactly. The sky here was painted with muted purples and grays, clouds moving like shadows alive. No sun. No stars. Just the weight of the unknown pressing in.

The rules rang in her head.

Don't leave your room unless summoned. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't touch what isn't yours.

She had broken the third.

Out of pure curiosity — or defiance — she'd touched the black rose in the hallway. One brush of her finger and the thornless stem had come alive, snaking up her wrist, digging into her skin, as if punishing her for wanting something beautiful.

He had appeared instantly. No footsteps. No warning.

Only that voice.

"Did I not make myself clear, little mortal?"

And then — fire. Pain. And his eyes, glowing crimson as if lit from within.

But what shook her most wasn't the punishment. It was how close he had drawn to her after.

"I want you to remember this pain every time you think of disobeying me," he whispered, his breath warm against her jaw, his fingers tracing the line of her throat as if he owned it. "But I also want you to remember how alive you felt when I gave it to you."

Now, she sat in silence, trembling. Not from pain, but from the way her heart reacted to that voice.

What was happening to her?

The door creaked.

She jumped up instantly. Her body obeyed faster than her thoughts.

It was him.

He stepped into the room like he belonged there — and he did. Every inch of the mansion bent to him. Even the air stilled when he moved. Dressed in black, always — a long coat that brushed the floor, boots silent, hair dark as shadow, and those eyes... those cursed, captivating eyes.

"I trust you've had time to reflect," he said casually, glancing around her room like a man inspecting a caged bird.

"I didn't mean to break the rule," she whispered, voice cracking.

He tilted his head.

"No," he agreed. "You meant to test the limits. That's far more dangerous."

He walked toward her, and though her instincts screamed for distance, she stood her ground. Perhaps foolishly.

"You gave me no answers," she said, a sudden boldness taking root. "No explanations. Just rules and pain. Am I supposed to survive on fear alone?"

He stopped. Inches from her. The warmth of his presence rolled off him like heat from a fire.

"You mistake this place for a prison," he said softly. "But it's a forge. You're here to be transformed."

"I didn't ask for that."

He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting, cruel and amused.

"No one ever does."

Her breath caught as his hand rose — slow, deliberate — and stopped just near her cheek. He didn't touch her, but the threat of it made her skin burn.

"You're not the first human to wander into my domain," he said. "But you are the first I haven't destroyed immediately."

She swallowed. "Why?"

"Because the mark chose you."

That word again. The mark. That burning brand on her collarbone that hadn't faded. It glowed faintly sometimes, like it remembered him even when she tried not to.

"What is it?" she asked. "Why did it choose me?"

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Almost... regret. Or maybe it was anger.

"The mark is older than I am," he murmured. "It doesn't obey me. It only obeys desire. And death."

Her body stiffened.

"You mean... I'm going to die?"

"You already started dying the moment I touched you."

The words should have broken her. Should have made her collapse into panic. But strangely, they didn't.

Because somewhere beneath the horror... was understanding. As if part of her had always known this path wasn't one she could walk away from.

"You hate me," he said suddenly.

She blinked. "What?"

"You hate me," he repeated, stepping closer. "I can smell it on you. Rage. Resentment. You want to escape, to run, to scream. But there's something else under it. Something darker."

She backed away until her spine hit the wall. He followed, caging her with his presence without laying a finger.

"Say it," he whispered. "Say what else you feel."

She clenched her fists. "I feel—"

His hand slammed beside her head, the wall cracking under his palm.

"Lie to me, and I'll rip the truth out of you."

She trembled. "I feel... drawn to you."

There. The truth. Raw and ugly.

He didn't smile. He didn't gloat. For the first time, he simply looked at her. Like a man looking at something he couldn't have, but desperately wanted.

"You shouldn't," he said. "You really, really shouldn't."

He turned away from her.

"I should lock you back in this room and never return," he muttered. "Let the mark consume you slowly."

"Then why don't you?"

He paused at the doorway. Didn't look back.

"Because the moment I do, I'll want to rip open every door between us."

And then he was gone.

---

She didn't sleep that night. If it even was night.

The mansion seemed quieter than usual. The walls didn't whisper. The mirrors didn't breathe. It was as if the house itself held its breath.

She paced. Again and again. Until her body ached. Until her thoughts swirled into a storm of fear and craving.

What was she doing? Falling for her captor? For the Devil?

No. Not falling.

Being pulled.

Like a moth to a flame that didn't just burn — it devoured.

When the summons came — a low vibration from the mark on her skin — she didn't hesitate. She followed the pull down the long, endless corridor. Past doorways with no handles. Past paintings that changed as she walked.

At the end of the hall, a door opened by itself.

Inside: firelight, a long black table, a feast untouched, and him.

Waiting.

Seated at the head of the table like a dark king.

"You called?" she said, more bitter than she meant.

"I always call. You just never heard it before."

She sat across from him, eyes narrowed. "Why bring me here?"

He looked at her. And for once, the heat was gone from his stare. Replaced by something colder.

"You need to understand something, little mortal," he said. "This house will test you. Break you. Tempt you. And you will either be consumed, or reborn."

She didn't flinch. "And what about you?"

"I'm already damned."

Their eyes locked. And in that moment, something ancient passed between them. Not love. Not yet. But something crueler — connection built on power, fear, and fascination.

The dinner went uneaten.

When she stood to leave, he didn't stop her.

But as she stepped past him, he whispered without looking up:

"Tomorrow, we begin the trials."

She froze. "What trials?"

"To see if you can survive me."

---

She returned to her room, heart pounding.

Tomorrow wasn't a promise.

It was a warning.

And yet... part of her longed for it.

Longed to see what was truly beneath the Devil's gaze — and what he saw when he looked at her.

---

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