Page 3 of Demon's Cruel Desire
From the shadows, I mutter to myself, my voice a low rumble swallowed by the market's incessant noise. "This woman," I start, my gaze fixed on her elusive form, "is a fucking enigma, cloaked in the deceptive simplicity of human flesh." Curiosity strikes me. "What secrets do you harbor? What dark strength fuels your fearless heart?"
As I linger in the shadows, a part of me yearns to get closer to her, to step into the light and confront her. I wrestle with consuming intrigue, my curiosity driving me to watch this woman as she masters the streets of Galmoleth with a boldness that holds my attention while making me irate. Who the fuck does she think she is?
With each calculated move she makes, the allure of her only grows stronger. She is an enigma, drawing me deeper to her, this dark-haired woman with stormy violet eyes unknowingly commands my attention.
Emerging from the shadows, I finally decide to confront her, the allure of her presence too potent to ignore any longer. As I step into the light, other demons, recognizing my fearsomely earned reputation, hastily make way, their whispers fading into a respectful hush.
I block her path, and her violet eyes immediately narrow, her irritation palpable and unmasked. Her apparent disdain ignites something within me, a dark thrill.
"Why did you run off like that?" I snarl, berating her for slipping away as she did the night before, igniting a heated exchange between us. The air is thick with tension, and I relish the sense that she might truly despise me. Good. Let her fucking hate me. There's a ferocity in her that demands an outlet, and I've decided I am it.
She whirls around, her eyes blazing with fury. "Are you fucking serious?" she spits back, her voice trembling with anger. Her words slice through the charged atmosphere, every syllable dripping with contempt. She stands defiant, her words sharp as she matches my fury with her own. “What the fuck gives you the right to track me down like some animal?” she snaps, her voice a fiery lance.
“I’ll show you who.” Driven by a sudden flicker of rage, I reach out and grasp her slender neck—not tight enough to choke, but sufficient enough to cut off her heated protests. "You're coming with me. I'm taking you," I declare with cold impulsivity, the icy tone of my voice leaving no room for negotiation.
Her reaction is swift and fiery, her cheeks turning a deep shade of violet as she claws desperately at my hand. "I'm not your fucking property! I don’t even know you!" she screeches with fierce indignation, her struggle against my grip underlining each word.
“Yes, you do,” I say, flexing my fingers along the fragility of her neck. Her eyes widen. “It’s Dagon, since you seem to misunderstand who you’re talking to.”
“Dagon,” she mutters, her tone holding none of the respect I’m accustomed to.
“Your place. Now,” I sneer, releasing my hands from her neck and moving it wrap around her arm as I push her forward.
She walks with petulance, leading us to a filthy shack.
I maintain my hold, unyielding, as I force her to collect her meager belongings. Her vehement protests fill the air, sharp and incessant, but they are merely background noise to me. I am utterly captivated by her fearless spirit.
Through the tense journey back to my mansion, she continues to fight every step of the way. Her spirit does not falter. If anything, it seems to strengthen with each passing moment. "This doesn’t end here," she vows, her voice thick with fury and resolve. "I will not let you chain me down."
Once we arrive, I show her the space she'll occupy. It's far from a prison, elegantly furnished, yet the luxury does nothing to soften her stance. She surveys her new surroundings with a critical eye, her mind undoubtedly racing through every possible escape route. It's bigger in size than that shitty shack she called home. I’m doing her a fucking favor.
"It's temporary," she asserts yet again, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a storm of emotions. "I'll find a way out of here, and when I do, you'll regret ever bringing me here."
I smirk, intrigued and provoked by her spirit. "We'll fucking see about that," I retort casually, my own challenge laid bare. Her courage and refusal to cower before me only serve to fuel my interest further. There's something about her resilience, her fierce independence, that draws me in.
The violence in me that grows darker with every forsaken flashback I’m forced to endure, latches on to my interest in her.
“What’s your name,” I ask as I step to her, backing her into a wall.
She juts out her chin with defiance, her gaze never breaking mine.
“I asked you a fucking question. What is your name?” I ask again, this time with my hand encircling her neck. She swallows and I’m drawn to the way her golden skin stands out against the gray of mine.
“Callista,” she finally says, giving in, but I’m not foolish enough to think I’ve won.
4
CALLISTA
My dreams are filled with images of Dagon’s chiseled body. Each morning, I wake flushed and flustered, scolding myself for having such thoughts, fueling my growing disdain for him. I throw myself into chores, sweeping and dusting, and hoping to escape Dagon’s every call.
Despite my efforts to remain invisible, our paths intersect more often than I'd like. One afternoon, as I’m trimming a particularly sinister-looking plant, Dagon appears at the garden entrance, his figure casting a long shadow across the overgrown path.
“You’re taking to the comforts of your cage quite well Callista,” he remarks coldly, his voice echoing slightly in the open air.
I straighten up, shears in hand, and meet his gaze with a glare. “Comfort is the last thing I feel in this damn prison. You may control where I sleep, but don’t flatter yourself thinking you control my thoughts or my will.”
He steps closer, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Yet here you are, my unwilling guest, pruning my gardens as if they were your own.”