Rein had never seen a room that didn't end.
No corners.
No doors.
No shadows.
Just layers upon layers of flowing crimson, obsidian vines, and velvet light that never flickered, never shifted with time.
He sat on the edge of the oversized bed, fingers buried in his hair, elbows on his knees.
He had no clothes.
No shoes.
No idea what time it was.
And no proof this place was even on the same plane of existence as the one he'd woken up in yesterday.
If it was yesterday.
It could've been an hour.
Or a year.
Or five minutes in a dream painted with blood and perfume.
He stood and began walking.
The air was thick and warm—like a greenhouse soaked in rose oil—and the floor beneath his feet pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat.
Each step felt like moving through a heavy, invisible syrup.
The walls—if they could be called that—were draped in gauzy, translucent red silk that fluttered with no wind.
And behind it all, the faint sound of music.
Not from any instrument.
Just a soft hum—Asmodra's voice, carried by the walls themselves, like the dungeon was humming in tune with her mood.
He passed a mirror.
His reflection looked like a thief in a palace: pale, tense, bare-skinned, haunted.
"Okay," he muttered. "Step one: don't scream. Step two: find a window. Step three: jump."
He reached out to the mirror. Tapped it.
No reflection this time.
Just a slow ripple in the glass, like water disturbed by breath.
Then it showed a bed.
Their bed.
Then her face—lazily watching him from across the palace.
She was brushing her hair.
He pulled his hand back like he'd touched fire.
"Right," he whispered. "She sees everything."
He turned sharply and walked faster.
The architecture seemed to stretch before him, endless halls leading into impossibly vast rooms, some with floating candles, others filled with petals that never landed.
Every now and then, he spotted movement—a vine uncurling, a silken curtain twitching, as if something unseen were watching him with one hundred gentle, jealous eyes.
A narrow passage opened to his left.
He took it.
Inside was a room shaped like a crescent moon.
In the center, hovering slightly off the ground, was a low platform surrounded by hovering cushions, glowing orbs of light drifting like lazy fireflies.
In the center: a basin of warm water, steaming faintly.
The air smelled like cinnamon and wine.
The walls pulsed.
"This is your sanctuary."
He flinched. Her voice. Not from behind him.
From the room itself.
"I didn't ask for a sanctuary," he said aloud.
Silence.
Then a gentle sigh—like a disappointed lover.
"You needed one anyway."
Rein backed out slowly.
The walls didn't shift to stop him.
But he still felt like he was walking through a massive throat that could close at any moment.
He returned to the central corridor.
He paced it once.
Twice.
Then a third time, slower.
Touching the vines.
Studying how they moved. How they pulsed.
They were… reactive.
When he brushed one gently, it shivered—just barely.
Almost affectionately.
He tapped it harder.
It twitched away, like a cat annoyed.
"Too much pressure," he muttered. "Too quick."
So.
They could be startled.
Possibly confused.
And they pulsed in rhythm with… something. Her?
Or the dungeon's own core?
He needed time.
A plan.
A way out.
But before that—he needed clothes.
Food. And answers.
And above all—
He needed to stop this place from thinking it loved him.
______
Rein heard her before he saw her.
Bare footsteps on silk-wrapped stone.
A faint perfume of burnt roses and something darker—spice, iron, and heat. Then the familiar whisper of air shifting without wind.
He turned too late.
Asmodra stepped through a curtain of living thorns that parted like loyal servants before her.
She wasn't wearing the ruined cloak anymore.
She now wore a flowing gown of red and black flame-thread, woven impossibly thin.
It clung to her like the air obeyed her figure.
She was holding a bundle wrapped in crimson silk.
Rein backed away, nearly tripping on a cushion.
She smiled.
"You wandered. Curious boys are my favorite kind."
"I wasn't wandering," Rein said. "I was looking for… breakfast."
"Then I am doubly favored," she said, stopping in front of him. "Because I bring gifts."
He opened his mouth to protest.
Too late.
She dropped the silk bundle into his arms.
He blinked. "What… is this?"
"Clothes," she said. "Handwoven by my palace seamstress in your exact measurements."
"I didn't give you my measurements."
"I took them while you slept," she said without a hint of shame.
Rein looked down.
The silk was soft. Warm. Heavy. Uncomfortably luxurious.
"You want me to wear this?"
"I want to see you in it," she purred. "Preferably while lying beneath me, telling me how grateful you are."
He choked on air. "I'm not wearing this."
"Try it on," she said, stepping forward. "Let me help you."
"Nope. No help needed. I'm good."
"You are," she agreed. "But you'll look better in crimson."
Before he could dodge, she reached out—hands unnervingly smooth and quick—and tugged the bundle apart, pulling one robe up and holding it against him with a thoughtful tilt of her head.
She didn't stop there.
Fingers brushed his shoulder.
Then his neck.
Then slid down to his hip as she circled him slowly, holding the robe in place like a tailor would measure with fabric—but not one Rein trusted to leave him with his bones unbroken.
"I could have dressed you in gold," she murmured from behind. "Or fire. Or molten armor that bends only for you."
"I'd prefer pants," he said, clutching the robe tighter.
"Then you shall have them. You only need to ask."
She stepped in front of him again.
Close.
Too close.
He backed up.
She matched.
He bumped into the wall. It rippled around his back like warm breath.
"You don't like being touched," she said softly, observing.
"No."
"It is a lie," she whispered.
And then—her hand was at his collarbone again.
Rein froze.
"You're warm now," she said. "Earlier, you were cold. Distant. Your pulse skittered like a rabbit."
Her hand didn't move. It rested there. Like she was claiming it.
"But now?" she whispered. "Now, it's steadier. Stronger."
He felt it. The heat under his skin. His body wasn't listening to him.
"You've begun to feel safe," she said.
"No," he whispered.
"Yes."
Her lips were inches from his now.
"You'll be mine," she said.
"Not willingly."
"Then I'll wait until it's willing."
Then—she kissed him.
It wasn't brutal. It wasn't violent.
It was slow. Deep.
A press of heat and softness that curled around his spine like smoke.
Her fingers didn't grab or force—they lingered, one at his jaw, one at his waist, holding him like a sculpture being admired.
He didn't move.
Couldn't.
When she finally pulled back, there was a smear of blood on her lower lip.
His.
She looked at it.
Licked it slowly.
And whispered:
"You taste like mine."