The Devil

Dante stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the girl before him. She looked like she didn't belong here.

Her wide, frightened eyes flickered across the room, taking in the expensive decor, the grandeur that surrounded her. Yet, instead of admiration, all he saw in her expression was fear. She was trembling—subtle, but noticeable.

He had seen fear countless times before. He thrived on it. But hers was different. It wasn't the kind of fear that came from facing death or power. No, this fear had been woven into her bones, carved into her soul long before she had stepped into his world.

Dante had expected resistance, maybe even anger. But she was utterly silent, obedient in a way that made something tighten in his chest.

He didn't like it.

"Follow me," he ordered, his voice firm but indifferent.

She hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward, her movements light, hesitant, as if she were afraid of the marble beneath her feet might shatter.

Dante turned, leading her through the mansion's long, dimly lit halls. The faint sound of her footsteps trailed behind him, and despite himself, he listened to everyone. It was unsettling, how small she felt in his space, like a fragile thing that didn't belong in a place built on power and blood.

He stopped at a door at the far end of the hall, pushing it open.

"This is your room," he said, stepping aside.

Luna peered inside, her hands twisting together in front of her. It was far larger than anything she had probably ever known—lavish, with dark wooden furniture, silk sheets, and a massive window that overlooked the sprawling gardens.

She didn't say anything. Didn't thank him. Didn't protest.

She just stood there.

Dante exhaled through his nose, his patience wearing thin. "You're not a prisoner here, but don't mistake this for freedom," he said, his voice cold. "You stay in this house. You obey my rules. If you try to run, I will find you. And if I find you, you won't like what happens next."

A small shudder ran through her, but she nodded.

Dante watched her closely. He was used to people fearing him, but with her, it felt different. There was no fight in her, no defiance—just quiet, suffocating submission.

It irritated him.

"Marco will show you the rest of the house. After that, you'll join me for dinner," he said, already turning away.

Luna barely moved as Marco stepped forward to lead her away. Dante lingered only a second longer, watching as she disappeared down the corridor.

Something about her was unsettling. He had expected resistance, expected her to fight back, to scream, to curse his name. Instead, she was like a ghost drifting through his world—silent, cold, waiting for something to end her.

And for the first time in a long time, Dante felt something unexpected.

He didn't like it.

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