The Demon’s Bride

I was broke. Like, ramen-noodles-and-stolen-WiFi broke. My car had just been repossessed, my apartment was hanging by a thread, and Sallie Mae was blowing up my phone like a toxic ex who suddenly wanted me back. Life was giving me hell—and that night, I was finally drunk enough to stop caring. So I sat at the bar of some half-dead dive in Eastwood, swirling a cheap glass of red and thinking about what it might feel like to vanish. Not die—just disappear. Be somebody else. Some lucky chick with rich parents, flawless skin, and a damn savings account. That’s when he sat down. I remember him because he didn’t belong. Not in that crusty bar with broken neon signs and sticky floors. He wore a deep red suit like he was born in it, with a black shirt open at the collar and no tie. His skin was pale—smooth like marble, but warm somehow. His eyes? Gold. Not hazel. Not amber. Gold. Like the sun burned behind them. And he was smiling at me. “Rough night?” he asked, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. I didn’t even look at him fully. “Rough life.” He chuckled. “Maybe I can offer a solution.” I finally turned my head. “Unless you’ve got six grand and a job that doesn’t involve stripping, hard pass.” He set a scroll on the bar. Like, a real-ass parchment scroll. Who even carries that around? “Sign this,” he said, “and everything you owe will vanish. You’ll wake up debt-free, comfortable, protected.” I raised a brow. “So… you’re either a scammer or the most extra credit card rep I’ve ever met.” “No scam,” he promised. “Just an agreement. One signature, and your burdens disappear.” I tilted my head, suspicious but curious. “What’s the catch?” He grinned. Too wide. “There’s always a catch. But in your case, I’d say the reward outweighs the cost.” I should’ve run. Instead, I grabbed the pen he offered. Fancy-ass feather quill. Red ink that shimmered like blood in candlelight. And I signed. First name. Last name. Soul. Sanity. Self-respect. All of it. I barely remember stumbling home. Just remember crashing in bed and whispering, “Please… just let me disappear.” And the universe must’ve heard me. Because I woke up in Hell. ⸻ The air here is thick—like breathing smoke wrapped in silk. My skin feels too hot, like I’ve been baking in an oven, and the mattress underneath me is so soft I sink into it. I blink slowly. Black silk sheets. Stone walls carved with glowing red runes. A chandelier of bones. Literal bones. Where the f**k am I? I sit up fast—too fast—and regret it immediately. My head spins, my body aches, and I’m completely, entirely naked. “What the—?” That’s when I hear it. Footsteps. Calm, confident, echoing off stone. Then the door opens. And he steps in. Tall, broad, dressed in the same red suit with no shirt this time. His chest is carved muscle, scarred and inked with symbols I can’t read. Horns curve from his head like a damn crown. His eyes glow gold. And when he smiles, his fangs flash. “I see my bride is awake.” I scramble backward on the bed, clutching the sheets. “Bride?!” He nods, sauntering closer. “You signed a soul-bound contract. In my realm, that’s marriage.” “No. No, no, no,” I say quickly. “I thought I was signing up for, like, some supernatural debt relief program. I didn’t know I was marrying a damn demon!” He smirks. “Did you read the fine print?” “Who reads fine print?!” “Foolish mortals rarely do.” I shoot him a glare. “Okay, listen—horny Lucifer cosplay or whatever your name is, I’m not trying to be anyone’s bride. Especially not some entitled, fire-breathing, red-flag-ass demon.” He pauses. Then tilts his head. Then—laughs. Not a chuckle. A full, deep, rumbling laugh that makes the air vibrate. I don’t know if it’s hot or horrifying. Maybe both. “You are amusing, little flame,” he says. “Don’t call me that.” He ignores me and reaches toward the wall. A flick of his fingers and the runes shift. The chains on the walls rattle. Power stirs. I slide off the bed, wrapping the sheet around me like a toga. “Back up, hellboy. I’m not into kinky abductions.” “Then behave like a bride,” he says calmly. “Or I’ll treat you like a slave.” That hits different. My fists clench. My body buzzes with rage. “You ever talk to me like that again,” I say low, “and I’ll show you what it feels like to get your balls cursed off.” His eyes flash, amused. Intrigued. A little dangerous. “I like you,” he murmurs. “You’ll be fun to break.” I smile sweetly. “Try me.” Then I spit on his floor. He blinks. Then slowly wipes the corner of his mouth with a finger like I insulted his ancestors. “Alright,” he says. “You want a demonstration?” Chains shoot from the ceiling—metal glowing red-hot—and I don’t move fast enough. They wrap around my wrists, yanking me off the floor mid-step. I kick. Twist. Scream. The air sizzles around me. “I told you—” I growl. “I command here,” he snaps, voice echoing like thunder. “And you will learn your place.” I stare at him, panting, half-hanging in the air. “Bite me,” I snarl. His eyes lower. He walks forward slowly. When he speaks, his voice is low and lethal. “I intend to. Eventually.” My heart stutters. I hate him. I hate him. So why does my stomach flip every time he speaks? Why does the fire in me… respond to him? He reaches out and brushes a thumb across my cheek. “Savage little soul,” he murmurs. “You’ll burn so beautifully.” My body tightens. My jaw clenches. I want to curse him. Hit him. Kiss him. I don’t know what the hell this feeling is—but I do know one thing: This is war. And I’m not losing.