Morning sunlight crept through the curtains. Tenra yawned, blinking awake—only to find Raynare sprawled across his chest, her gaze fixed on him with hungry intensity.
A smirk tugged at Tenra's lips as he stroked her cheek.
"Still not satisfied?"
Madness, longing—a beautiful and wicked fallen angel, now thoroughly claimed. Last night had left nothing untouched.
Raynare didn't answer. Instead, she pressed her lips to his, devouring him with desperate greed. They lost themselves in each other, tangled and breathless, until Tenra rolled her beneath him, pinning her with effortless dominance.
"Raynare, your body, your soul, every piece of you—I picked you up, so you belong to me. Burn that into your stupid little head."
His words were absolute, but Raynare didn't protest. She only smiled—a smile so intoxicating it bordered on delirium.
"Ah… all yours, my master…"
Submission and sweetness, pleasure swirling with revenge—Raynare bathed in the twisted ecstasy of being claimed by someone who would never abandon her. The feeling was so exquisite, so warped, it threatened to drive her mad.
"But—"
Her tone shifted, cold and dark as the abyss.
"If you ever dare cast me aside, I'll curse you. Even in hell, I'll curse you."
She'd been discarded once—betrayed once. Never again.
Tenra gazed down at the broken, twisted woman beneath him, lips curling into a wicked grin.
He liked her more with every passing moment.
"Raynare, do you want revenge on Azazel?"
He lifted her chin, voice smooth as silk.
"Absolutely."
Her eyes flashed with lethal resolve. But then, the fallen angel's smile returned—dangerous, dazzling.
"My magnificent master… you'll help me, won't you?"
Raynare was no longer the naive fool she'd once been. She understood her own insignificance. Alone, she could never reach Azazel—but with Tenra's power behind her…
"No."
Tenra's answer was bright and unyielding.
No anger. No disappointment. Raynare met his gaze, icy eyes growing colder.
But Tenra continued, voice low and decisive:
"Your revenge is yours alone. I won't help you. But—"
"I'll give you the power to see it through."
He flipped his hand—a black jewel appeared, pulsing with dark energy. Without hesitation, Tenra pressed the gem to Raynare's chest.
"AHHHHH! AHHHHHH!"
Raynare screamed, her voice raw and shattered, as the black jewel melted into her body. The agony was indescribable—Tenra could have made it gentle, but he knew Raynare didn't need kindness anymore.
The fusion was brief but unforgettable. For a moment, Raynare felt herself die all over again.
Then—twisted joy. Power surged through her veins.
Darkness, evil, curses, strength—unparalleled, intoxicating power.
"This is the Sacred Gear forged from all the souls of King Flauros—[Dark Evil King]. My gift to you."
"Use it well. From now on, you're my tool, my dog. Struggle, fight, serve me until your dying breath."
Tenra's words slithered into her ear, a devil's whisper.
Flauros's power might be weak among kings, but for Raynare, it was overwhelming. Its versatility—cursed hellfire, black domains—made it the perfect weapon for a soul as shattered and wicked as hers.
Raynare didn't answer with words. Her body spoke for her—clinging, desperate, burning. They collided again, lost in a frenzy of passion and depravity, painting the morning with scenes of utter corruption.
—
"Lord Tenra. Lady Raynare."
By the time they emerged, it was nearly noon. Mittelt and Kalawarner stood waiting outside, faces flushed with embarrassment—they'd heard every sound, every word.
Raynare looped her arm through Tenra's, surveying the two with narrowed eyes and a sly smile.
Under her gaze, Mittelt and Kalawarner felt a chill crawl down their spines. This Raynare was nothing like the woman they'd once known—darker, colder, more dangerous.
"All past grievances are forgotten. From now on, you two are her subordinates."
Tenra's words were calm, but the meaning was clear.
"Yes, my master…"
Raynare's smile was dreamy, but Mittelt and Kalawarner felt only dread. Back under the thumb of this twisted soul—their future looked pitch black.
—
Europe. Near a quiet church, a man with devil's wings sat on the ground while a blonde nun tended the wound on his chest.
If Tenra saw him, he'd burst out laughing. The man was none other than Diodora Astaroth—the same Diodora whose depravity Tenra had once carved away.
"All done, Mr. Demon."
The healing light faded. The nun wiped her brow, smiling as if she'd accomplished something wonderful.
"Thank you, beautiful saint. But you helped a demon—if anyone finds out…"
Diodora's face was all worry and gratitude, but his voice was oddly high-pitched, almost girlish—a ridiculous affectation.
"It doesn't matter. Even a demon deserves the Lord's salvation."
"Please leave quickly, sir. I must return."
She waved him off, unconcerned, then bowed and hurried back toward the church.
Diodora watched her go, licking his lips, a predator's grin spreading across his face.
Such delicious prey. It wouldn't be long before the church cast her out.
The thought of a new toy brightened his mood. He could no longer defile these saints' bodies, thanks to a certain bastard—but their souls were still his to play with.
And that was a pleasure beyond all others.
A pitiful world—one more broken, twisted soul added to the collection.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
The story isn't over...
🤔 Want to know what happens next to the characters?
🤫 Eager to explore the untold secrets of this world?
✍️ Ready to read more of my wildest stories?
✨patreon.com/GoldenLong