The devil's bride
1214 Words
Chapter 5
Yasmine's POV
Safe delivery, Yasmine... in hell," he said and shoved.
The world spun around me, and the railing disappeared beneath me.
The air tore past my ears; my screams were ripped away by the wind as I fell.
Time fractured—shattered like the glass of our living room table, I saw everything in pieces.
The ceiling, the stars, Francis' twisted face above, Aileen, watching with a cruel, satisfied smirk.
And then—Darkness. But not death.
Pain. White-hot and agonizing. My body hit something hard—then another—bones splintered, the sound muffled in my ears. The world swam red. Breath escaped me. I couldn’t scream anymore.
I lay there. Crumpled. Cold.
Blood pooled beneath me, warm and sticky. My fingers twitched. My vision blurred as my eyes were wide open, staring at them watching me die satisfactorily.
Someone… anyone… please help me," I muttered, the voice in my head muffled.
Tears trickled from my eyes, mixing with the blood oozing from every end of my body, including the middle of my thighs.
I—I—I can't afford to die now, I really cannot die now," I pleaded, my mind filled with nothing but the devil from yesterday.
Please save me… again," I begged, too weak to even break into a sob.
The world around me was slipping into a quiet I didn’t recognize. Not peaceful. Just… hollow. Like even the wind had turned its back on me.
Then something changed; the silence grew dense like the air itself was holding its breath.
And then—I felt him.
Not in some magical way. Just… a shift. Like gravity bent for him. Like the night recognized him before I could.
Footsteps, slow and steady, echoed somewhere behind the haze of blood and ringing in my ears. Not rushed, not panicked, it was—calm, confident.
He was close now—I could feel warmth in the cold. Not comforting warmth, but something that burned without flame.
The first thing I saw was his boots—black, clean, too clean for this filthy world and the streaks of my blood that stained the floor I was dying on.
He stopped right beside me and lowered to his knees.
And then I saw him.
I don’t know how I was still conscious—maybe I wasn’t. Maybe this was the moment between life and death. Maybe he was death, but what more could I expect from a demon.
He looked young—no, timeless. Not beautiful, but unbearable to behold. Like staring at the eye of a storm. Like the kind of face that ruins poets. Every detail was sharp and intentional—hair dark and messy like it had been styled by the wind itself, a coat hanging off him like it was made to worship his frame. His eyes—
God, his eyes.
They didn’t glow. They watched. Quietly. Deeply. Like they’d seen everything and stopped caring.
He looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like he already knew how I’d break again.
"I told you, young lady, that you'd regret saving him," he said, his voice mocking.
"P—p—please save me; I'll give you anything you want," I pleaded, tears dripping from my eyes.
"You owe me something already, young lady," he said, his voice low and smooth.
"Yes, but please, I—I cannot afford to die; please help me," I begged, staring at his face that looked like it was carved from the first sin ever committed.
"I'll save you, young lady," he said with a deadly pause.
"On one condition," he added, his voice curling around my fading consciousness.
I blinked up at him, blood slipping at the corners of my eyes. “Anything,” I rasped. “Anything, just… don’t let me die like this.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying me as though weighing the weight of my soul and his options, to see if I was worth it.
And then, softly—almost too softly to be real—he spoke:
“You will love me.”
My heart stuttered. “W—what?”
“Not human love. Not safety. Not what I give you. The kind that strips you bare,” he said, voice low and electric.
My lips trembled. “But I don’t even know your name.”
He smiled then—slow, devastating. “You will.”
I wanted to scream, to cry, to ask why love would ever be the price for survival. But even as my body begged for life, something deeper stirred. Not hope. Not longing. Just recognition. Of him.
“If I love you… truly… you’ll let me live?”
He nodded, then knelt lower. “Live, yes. But it won’t be the same life, Yasmine. It’ll be ours, mine.”
Something ancient and terrifying shimmered behind his eyes, but it wasn’t cruel. It was lonely.
And I—broken, dying, desperate—said, “Then take it—my soul, my scars, my rage. Make them yours.”
His hand rested over my chest, just above my heart. A pulse of warmth—not heat, not fire, but something like memory—radiated through me.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “And I’ll show you what it means to love a devil.”
And then everything went black—but this time, not from pain.
"W—what about my baby, please?" I begged.
"It's gone, Yasmine," he said, and the way he muttered my name was too f*****g perfect, like I wasn't just at the face of death.
The words sliced cleaner than any fall. Gone. My baby—gone. My arms curled around emptiness, and I didn’t even scream. There was nothing left in me to scream with.
Do I get something in return?" I asked, my voice thinner than breath.
He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear, and for a moment, I swore the world stilled around us—time itself kneeling in reverence.
"You get me," he murmured. "All of me."
I didn’t know if it was a promise or a threat. His voice curled into my bones like venom—sweet, intoxicating, deadly.
I closed my eyes, a fresh wave of tears slipping free.
"And them?" I asked, voice shaking. "Francis. Aileen. The ones who threw me to die."
His smile turned razor-sharp.
"Oh, Yasmine," he said, voice laced with wicked delight. "You will not just survive, you will rise, and you will make them choke on their laughter, on their cruelty. You will haunt them before you kill them."
"Swear it," I demanded. “Swear I’ll get to take everything from them like they took from me.”
He touched my chest again, his palm resting over my shattered ribs.
"I swear it," he whispered. "You will burn their world to the ground. And you will smile while it turns to ash."
My lips trembled.
"And my love?" I asked. "If I give it to you—fully, purely, as you asked—will you stay?"
He didn’t hesitate.
"For the rest of my life."
And I—broken, dying, desperate—said, “Then take it—my soul, my scars, my rage. Make them yours.”
- Writer
