The Devil's Sanctuary

The Print and the Spark

​The silence in the belvedere was heavy enough to crush a lesser woman. It had been exactly five minutes since the incident, and July was still standing on trembling legs, frozen in a state of absolute, hyper-focused panic. With a shaking thumb and index finger, she had been meticulously picking individual grains of wet shirataki rice off the man's face and clothes, one agonizing piece at a time.

​She had just reached for a final rogue grain clinging to the collar of his black shirt when his massive hand shot out, clamping around her wrist and stopping her hand mid-air.

​"Enough," he grumbled, his voice a low, warning vibration.

​A collective, suffocating tension rippled through the glass-walled room. Positioned like statues against the polished frames, the bodyguards awkwardly stared straight ahead, their chests shaking slightly as they violently suppressed their laughter. In this house, daring to crack a smile at the boss’s expense didn't just mean getting fired—it meant a one-way ticket into the frozen Siberian wilderness.

​The giant let go of her wrist and leaned back, his piercing, eagle eyes locking onto her flushed face. "Are you full?"

​July nodded frantically, not daring to trust her voice. She cast a guilty, sideways glance at the round mahogany table, which was now a tragic battlefield of scattered, watery grains.

​Without another word, the man stood up to his full height, effectively eclipsing the morning light. He reached down, grabbed her hand by the wrist, and began to stride out of the belvedere. July had absolutely no idea where they were going, but his steps were long, ruthless, and unyielding. He dragged her out into the massive hallway and straight toward the grand staircase, descending toward the lower floor.

​At the bottom of the stairs, Jacques was waiting patiently, a tablet tucked under his arm. But as they approached, the butler’s usual stoic composure cracked. His forehead wrinkled in deep concern as he stared at the girl behind his master.

​The giant paused, following Jacques’ gaze backward. When he turned around, his jaw slightly dropped in genuine shock.

​July was an absolute mess. Her chest was heaving violently, her cheeks were a fiery crimson, and she was dripping with sweat, panting for breath as if she had just run a marathon. Who wouldn't be? Compared to his towering frame and massive strides, July’s 4'11" stature and short legs stood zero chance. For every single step he took, she had been forced to take four desperate, lunging leaps just to keep her wrist from being dislocated.

​A flicker of realization crossed the man's dangerous face, followed quickly by a dark scowl. "f**k," he cursed under his breath, realizing he had completely forgotten her size.

​Jacques, ever the professional, moved with lightning speed, grabbing a crystal glass of chilled water from a nearby console table and handing it to her.

​July snatched the glass, drained it in three massive gulps, and slammed it back onto Jacques' tray. The sheer exhaustion overrode her survival instincts. Completely wiping out her fear, a surge of raw, unadulterated anger took over.

​"Pisti! Naa koy hubak!" she snapped fiercely under her breath, reverting to her native Bisaya in her rage, telling the universe that she had asthma and this man was actively trying to kill her.

​The giant blinked, his brow furrowing as the foreign words echoed in the grand foyer. He looked down at her small, trembling, angry form. "Are you okay?"

​July let out a sharp, mocking hiss, glaring up at him with daggers in her eyes. She actually stepped closer into his space, pointing a finger at his chest. "You were literally dragging me from upstairs like a sack of potatoes, and you're asking me if I'm okay? Are you stupid?!"

​A suffocating, dead silence fell over the foyer. Jacques completely stopped breathing. The bodyguards at the door braced themselves, fully expecting the master to draw his weapon and end the girl right then and there. If this had been any other situation, or any other person on the planet speaking to him with such utter disrespect, he would have wrapped his massive hands around their throat and strangled them until the light left their eyes.

​But as he looked down at her—this plus-size, messy "scrap" who had been weeping and begging for her life in his arms just thirty minutes prior—something twisted in his chest. Her ferocity was unexpected. He looked up at the massive staircase they had just descended, calculating the height.

Yeah, the anger is justified.

​A sudden, uninvited grin tugged at the corner of his beautifully sculpted lips. Amusement, dark and sharp, danced in his eyes. He found her feisty.

​To hide the expression from her, the giant quickly turned his back, staring down the long corridor so she wouldn't see just how much she was entertaining him.

​"You have a loud mouth for someone who was just crying over salt and water," he remarked casually over his shoulder, his voice laced with a mocking drawl.

​"And you have zero situational awareness for a guy who claims to be the King of Hell!" July shot back, her hands on her hips, her heart still hammering against her ribs. "A normal person walks down stairs. They don't sprint like they're fleeing a burning building!"

​The man let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine. He slid both of his hands deep into his trouser pockets, the silk fabric stretching across his broad thighs, and turned his head just enough to flash her a wicked, dangerous smile.

​"Maybe this is my way of killing you, scrap," he murmured, intentionally dropping his voice into a slow, menacing cadence. "You know... hypertension. A sudden, catastrophic heart attack from running up and down my halls." He paused, letting the threat hang in the freezing air between them. "Seeing you slowly die from exhaustion might actually be... interesting."

​With that final, cold parting shot, he strode away, his heavy leather shoes echoing against the marble floor as he disappeared into a pair of double doors.

​He didn't look back. And because he didn't look back, he completely missed the sudden, agonizing flash of pain that crossed July's eyes. The fiery anger vanished from her face, replaced by a hollow, sickening dread.

​Hypertension. The word didn't scare her because of his threat. It tore at her heart because her father—the man she had crossed the world to save—was currently lying in a hospital bed back home, his heart failing from that exact, silent killer. The reminder of her helplessness brought the tears right back to the brim of her eyes.

​Beside her, Jacques pressed his lips tightly together, letting out a soft, sympathetic sigh. Though his face remained professional, July could see the faint crinkles around his eyes—he was silently laughing at the entire dynamic.

​"You'll be fine, miss," Jacques said gently, his voice breaking her out of her spiral. "Don't take his words to heart. We don't kill people just for fun here."

​July looked at the elegant butler, then back at the closed double doors where the giant had vanished. She ran a hand over her face, adjusting the oversized jeans that were still slipping down her waist.

​She could barely believe her own life. She used to spend her free time tucked into her bed in the Philippines, scrolling through romance and thriller stories on her phone's reading apps, rolling her eyes at the absurd, dramatic plot twists of dark mafia billionaires.

​Yet here she was. In the middle of frozen Siberia, wearing branded clothes and had worn his underwear, having just thrown rice at the most lethal man she had ever met, and talking back to him like a disgruntled spouse.

​This wasn't a romance novel. This was real, dangerous trouble.