Lyra's POV
The moment the door opened, I braced myself.
He walked in.
The room, already heavy with silence, thickened, as though the very air knew who had entered. There was no sound of footsteps—just his presence, filling the space like a thick, oppressive fog. The walls seemed to shift, to lean in toward him, as if they wanted to bear witness to his arrival.
And then, I saw him.
The Demon Lord.
He was like nothing I'd ever imagined—beautiful, yet wrong. His beauty was alien, divine even, but it held something dark, something unnatural. His features were sharp, too perfect, as if he had been sculpted by the gods themselves—except for one thing: he should not have existed. Not like this. His black hair fell around his shoulders, catching the faint light of the lanterns in a way that made it seem like it could burn. His eyes, molten gold, glowed faintly as if they held the sun within them. There was no warmth in them. Just fire.
A god.
And yet, I felt only fear.
He stared at me. And I could feel his eyes tracing every inch of me—taking in the way the black robe clung to my body, the way my pulse quickened under his gaze. I was a thing to him. Nothing more.
His voice, when it came, was deep, smooth, and utterly possessive.
"Get out," he ordered, his gaze never leaving me. It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't even a command. It was the certainty of a god who had never known refusal.
The maid, standing in the corner, flinched as if she had been waiting for the command. Her eyes darted nervously to me before she quickly dropped her gaze. With a trembling hand, she curtsied and scurried out of the room, leaving us alone.
As the door closed behind her, I felt a cold chill sweep through the room. The air felt heavier now—more suffocating. He was all that mattered now. Not the room, not the shadows, not even my own fear. It was him.
He moved toward me, each step precise and deliberate. Every motion was a warning. Every glance a threat.
I backed away instinctively, but my body didn't obey me the way it should. My feet stumbled against the bed, and I nearly fell. But he was there. Right there, in front of me, before I could even blink.
"Don't think you can run from me," he said, his voice like a velvet blade. "You're here to serve one purpose. And that purpose is me."
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but no sound came. His eyes, gold and burning, held me captive.
"I didn't ask to be here," I managed to choke out. "You can't do this."
"I can." He reached out and gripped my chin, forcing my face up to his. The contact was like fire against my skin, his warmth seeping into me, too much, too wrong. "You were chosen. You're not a victim here. You're just a means to an end."
He let go of me, and I took a shaky step back, my chest heaving.
"What do you want from me?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.
He smirked, a slow, predatory smile that made my stomach churn.
"You, Lyra, are here to satisfy me," he said, voice dropping lower. "Nothing more. Nothing less. Do you understand?"
I swallowed hard. The cold weight in my stomach felt like ice. "I won't—"
"You will," he interrupted, his voice quiet and dangerous. "Whether you want to or not."
He stepped closer, and I took another step back, but again, he was there. Like he had never moved. His body pressed against mine in an instant, and I gasped, feeling his warmth radiating through the robe I wore. He was so close I could feel the tension in his muscles, the power beneath the surface. He wasn't even trying to hide it.
"You'll never be able to escape me," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "I'll take you again and again until your body knows exactly who you belong to."
I shuddered, disgust mixing with something darker, something I couldn't understand. But it was there.
He disappeared before I could react, vanishing from my sight in a blink. The temperature in the room dropped, and I heard the faintest shift in the air. The power he exuded hung in the space like a storm waiting to break.
Then, he reappeared, standing across the room, his eyes never leaving me.
"I will take what's mine," he said, his tone final. "And right now, you belong to me."
He didn't wait for a response. His gaze darkened, possessive, and he turned on his heel, walking toward the door. Just as his hand touched the handle, he glanced back.
"Prepare yourself. I don't like to wait."
With that, he was gone.
I stood there, frozen, the silence swallowing the space around me.
He had left.
But not really. I could feel him. He was always here.
I couldn't escape.