Seduction Entangled With Love

chapter 1:The illusion of a devil

Ever since that night—the night—I haven’t had peace in my dreams. Not even the soft illusion of it. It’s like the moment I close my eyes, he's already there. Watching. Waiting. Smiling with something inhuman curled behind his teeth.

Every time I sleep, it’s him.

I never see him arrive. I never remember falling into the dream. I’m just… there—inside some place that feels like my apartment, but not. The walls pulse like they’re breathing. The air is thick like fog and honey. And he's always in the corner, lounging like sin in a suit, his eyes black but glinting red when the light catches them just wrong.

He touches me. In ways that make my skin try to crawl off my bones.

Soft at first. Fingers like velvet dragging down my spine. Then rougher—hands locked around my wrists, my throat, my thighs. Kisses that burn and steal. Sometimes he pins me against nothing, and it still holds. Sometimes he watches while I twist and beg, his mouth wet with laughter, his voice thick with the promise of something worse.

I wake up soaked. Sweating through my sheets, trembling like I’ve just come out of a fever. Tears on my cheeks, thighs clenched, breath caught halfway between a scream and a moan. It’s disgusting. I feel… used. Violated. Aroused. All of it at once. Every time. Every night.

Dennis noticed.

Of course he did. He’s always nosing in, always asking questions with those soft eyes like he actually gives a damn. "You look tired," he said yesterday, handing me my coffee with two sugars, no milk, just like always. "Did you sleep?"

"No," I lied. I don’t even bother trying anymore. There’s no sleeping—not really.

And it’s getting worse. Last night… he said my name.

The devil. In the dream. He moaned it. Lena. Like he owned it. Like it tasted good in his mouth.

And I don’t know if I dreamed this part or not—but when I went to the bathroom this morning, there were bruises on my hips. Fingertip-shaped bruises.

They weren’t there before.Jesus!—I cried out, like His name could drown out the other thing whispering in my ribs.

But this began long before the dreams. Before Dennis. Before I even knew what real fear felt like slicking my skin from the inside out.

It started on Red’s Day.

That damned holiday—roses and promises and every couple clinging to each other like they weren’t just waiting to shatter. That was the day I got dumped. By a boy who said I was “too much.” Said I “made him feel things he couldn’t handle.” What the hell does that even mean?

So I walked.

I didn’t even realize I left the apartment barefoot, keys still dangling in the door, my phone thrown onto the kitchen tiles. The rain fell like needles. Not romantic, not gentle—angry, like it hated me too. And I didn’t care. Let it soak me. Let it drown me. My mascara bled like my heart, thick black streaks down both cheeks, my breath puffing fog like a dying engine. I was shivering. Trembling. Lost in the city like it had chewed me up and was deciding whether to spit me out or just finish the job.

And then I saw it.

The mansion.

It wasn’t just old. It was ancient. Gothic, crooked, windows like dark eyes staring down. It looked like the kind of place kids dare each other to knock on, the kind of place that makes even crows stay away. Iron spikes along the gate. The air around it didn’t feel like the rest of the storm—it was still. Dry. Waiting.

I should’ve kept walking. But I didn’t. My feet betrayed me, drawn like they knew something I didn’t.

I just wanted to get out of the rain.

I stood under the overhang, dripping like a drowned thing. My heart was hiccuping inside my chest. And then… the door creaked. Wide. On its own. No footsteps. No motion. Just a slow, wet groan of old wood splitting space.

I should’ve run.

But instead—I stepped inside.

The air was warm. Too warm. Like walking into a breath that had been held too long. The scent—oh God—the scent. Something between roses and rot. Like a funeral bouquet left too long on the altar.

I blinked water from my lashes. The hall stretched on forever—red carpet, polished obsidian floor, torches instead of bulbs flickering along the walls. Paintings lined either side. People in twisted expressions—ecstasy, agony—it was hard to tell which. I remember one: a woman with her mouth open in a scream, but her eyes rolled back like she was coming. My stomach clenched.

Then I heard it.

The voice.

Low. Velvet. A chuckle, like thunder that was trying to flirt.

“You poor little thing… all wet and shaking. You must be freezing.”

I turned. But there was no one behind me. No one anywhere. Just that voice echoing, curling around the columns like smoke, sliding down my spine.

“Come warm yourself.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“Don’t be afraid, Lena. You came to me.”

That’s when I realized something was wrong.

I never told him my name.

I’d never even said it aloud.

And yet, he knew.