Episode Five: The Devil's Dilemma
1142 Words
She wasn’t supposed to stay.
Ava was supposed to be another indulgence. Another beautiful distraction I could control, devour, and leave behind like a story I no longer wanted to tell.
But she kept coming back.
And worse—I kept letting her.
The first time I saw her, I thought fragile. And that’s what I liked. Fragile things shatter easier. And when they do, they make a sound that stays with you.
But Ava didn’t break the way I expected.
She bent. She burned. But she didn’t fall apart. Not completely.
And now she was becoming a problem.
I watched her sleep.
Not out of affection—at least, that’s what I told myself—but out of curiosity. Her lips were slightly parted, her brow creased like she was still trying to figure me out even in her dreams.
I should have left hours ago.
But I couldn’t move.
I hated that.
She stirred, half-waking, curling closer to me with a soft breath.
I could still feel her from the night before. Her thighs wrapped around my waist, her voice cracking as she whispered my name like a prayer she didn’t believe in.
It had been different.
Gentle.
Intimate.
It was a mistake.
I never let it get tender.
That’s how people start believing in illusions.
That’s how I start losing control.
And control is the only thing I’ve ever trusted.
I slipped out of bed, pulled on my shirt, and walked to her window. Morning sunlight pushed through the curtains, soft and gold, painting the walls like it didn’t know who it was shining on.
I used to love mornings like this—afterglow and silence, a quiet room with no expectations.
But with Ava, the quiet didn’t feel clean. It felt dangerous.
She made me think too much.
And that’s always where things went wrong.
I used to be someone else.
Not softer, not sweeter—just simpler.
There was a woman once. Years ago.
She said my eyes looked like they hid storms.
I liked her for that. For seeing the warning signs and coming closer anyway.
I hurt her.
Worse, I let her believe she could fix me.
That was my mistake.
I don’t make it twice.
That woman left with scars.
And I swore after that, I wouldn’t let anyone close enough to see the parts of me I don’t like to name.
Until Ava.
She made herself impossible to ignore.
Not just because she was beautiful. That part was easy. Lots of women are beautiful.
It was her need.
The kind she didn’t speak out loud.
She radiated it.
Craved something deeper than skin. Something that felt like surrender without saying the word. She didn’t want romance. She wanted ruin. The slow, brutal unraveling of self.
And I gave it to her.
Because I’m good at it.
Because I enjoy it.
But now—something’s shifting.
I see it in her eyes when she looks at me too long.
I hear it in the silence between her moans.
She’s falling.
And worse—some sick part of me wants her to.
I returned to the bed, sat on the edge.
She stirred again, waking slowly.
“Morning,” she said, voice husky with sleep.
I didn’t answer.
She reached out, touched my back. “You okay?”
No one ever asks that.
I almost lied. Said yes. Said nothing.
But something cracked.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
She sat up, covers slipping down her chest. I didn’t look.
“About what?”
I turned to face her. “About you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”
“That I should’ve never touched you.”
Her mouth parted, breath catching. “Then why did you?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“And now?”
“I still want to.”
She studied me.
And I hated the way she looked at me—like she was seeing too much.
“You’re afraid,” she said softly.
I laughed once. Dry. “I don’t do fear.”
“Yes, you do,” she said. “You’re just better at hiding it.”
I stood up. Walked to the window again.
“You’re going to fall for me,” she said behind me. “And it’s going to destroy us.”
I didn’t respond.
Because I already knew she was right.
Later that night, I sat alone in my penthouse.
No music.
No lights.
Just a glass of whiskey and the sound of traffic bleeding through twenty stories below.
My phone buzzed.
Ava.
You left. Again.
I didn’t respond.
Not because I didn’t want to—but because I did.
Too much.
She made it hard to keep the walls up.
And I’ve built those walls with blood.
I picked up my phone. Started typing.
This is the last time.
Paused.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Midnight. The red room. No words. Just touch.
Sent.
Control restored.
At midnight, she came.
Of course she did.
Dressed in black lace, no hesitation in her step, eyes wide but fearless.
The red room was private—soundproofed, bare except for the chair in the center, a full-length mirror behind it, and the straps bolted to the floor.
I’d brought a thousand women here.
None of them haunted me afterward.
Ava stepped into the space like she belonged in it.
I said nothing.
She said nothing.
Just stood there, breathing.
I circled her. Slowly. Watching the tension ripple under her skin.
She was expecting punishment.
Maybe part of her wanted it.
But I wasn’t here to hurt her tonight.
I was here to mark her.
Not her skin.
Her mind.
I strapped her wrists and ankles—not tight, just enough to let her know I could break her, but wouldn’t. Not unless she begged.
I touched her slowly.
Tormented her.
Stroked her nerves until she trembled, whimpered, cried out.
She watched herself in the mirror.
That was the rule: no closing her eyes.
I wanted her to see what I did to her.
What she let me do.
What she wanted.
By the time I finally took her, we were both shaking.
And when it was over, I didn’t untie her right away.
I just held her.
And for the first time in years, I felt something dangerous curl around my ribs.
It wasn’t lust.
It wasn’t control.
It was need.
Afterward, we lay on the floor.
Untied. Unarmed.
No masks.
No games.
She looked at me like I was the answer to a question she never meant to ask.
And I looked at her like she was the one person I might never be able to break.
Or walk away from.
And that was the real danger.
Because once the Devil starts needing someone?
He stops being invincible.
And starts being human.
- Writer
