Azelior
"A virgin? How did you even manage to slip into a virgin's dream? Is that not forbidden?" Azazel, my youngest brother, demanded, his crimson eyes narrowing. He was lounging carelessly in the corner moments ago, but his tone betrayed the unease threading through him now. Azazel looked every inch the tempter he was born to be. His lean frame was draped in shadows, his obsidian-black hair tumbled carelessly into his eyes, and his lips curved in a smirk that rarely reached his gaze. But beneath his arrogant posture, he carried the restless energy of the youngest son, quick to mock and quicker to fear.
Before I could answer, Astarte, my younger sister and the last surviving succubus of our bloodline, let out an exasperated sigh. She rose gracefully, the dim torchlight glinting across her sinuous form. Astarte was beautiful in the way only a demon could be: her skin gleamed with a faint pearlescent sheen, her hair cascaded in a waterfall of silver-black waves, and from her temples curved delicate onyx horns adorned with gold rings. Her eyes were the color of liquid night, fathomless and dangerous, framed by lashes that could ensnare any mortal fool. Even her movements dripped seduction, yet her voice cracked like a whip when she scolded me.
"It is not only forbidden, it is suicide, Azelior," she said, her words sharp, her full mouth curling in disdain. "Feeding on a virgin's fresh lust is perilous. Their essence is too raw, too consuming. It is why our kind forbade it in the first place. You may think yourself invincible, brother, but even you are not beyond consequence."
I leaned back in my seat, unfazed by her lecture. Rules. Warnings. Fear. None of it mattered to me. I was a demon, and more than that, I was Azelior, the strongest of our bloodline. The hunger clawed at me, gnawing like wildfire in my veins. I had not tasted the lust of a human in five centuries, and the virgin's sweetness was an agony I could not deny.
Astarte's gaze sharpened as though she could read every treacherous thought. "Especially you," she pressed, her tone low and dangerous. "You are the last who should dare it. Half a millennium without feeding has already left your control hanging by a thread. To take a virgin's essence now… it could unravel you completely. It could devour you."
From the corner, Azazel finally pushed himself upright, his lazy smirk fading into rare sobriety. "She's right," he muttered, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his dagger. "I agree with her, brother. You know what happened to Soryn." His voice dipped, heavy with a shadow of dread. Even speaking Soryn's name seemed to curdle the air, a memory of ruin none of us wished to revive.
My head snapped toward him, my voice cold and cutting as a blade. "Do not," I hissed, "compare me to Soryn." My eyes locked onto his until he flinched back, his bravado slipping. "I am not weak. I will never be weak."
Astarte dared to snigger, unshaken by the edge in my voice. She was the only one among us who never flinched before anger. "That is exactly what Soryn used to say, Azelior," she replied, her tone laced with mockery, though her eyes betrayed something deeper. "And look what became of him." Her smirk faltered, softening into something almost vulnerable. "We are not warning you because we think you are weak, brother. We all bear the same chains of restraint. But you… You are dear to me," she paused, the faintest flicker of sorrow passing across her gaze, "You are the one I cannot bear to lose as well."
Her voice fell quiet at the end, almost swallowed by the shadows of the hall. With a weary sigh, she turned away, the sway of her silken hair catching the dim torchlight as she drifted toward the door, leaving the faint echo of her sadness in her wake.
...
Lily
It was impossible to focus with the dream still clawing at the edges of my mind. I hadn't been able to close my eyes again since waking in the middle of the night, and the restless ache it left in me hadn't faded. It was like an itch buried too deep to reach, mocking me with every heartbeat. The dream had been so vivid, so consuming, that even now I felt unsteady, as though I had carried a piece of it into daylight.
I swallowed the last of my iced latte in one go, the watered-down bitterness doing nothing to ground me. My gaze drifted back to the book spread open in my hands. I'd been stuck on the same paragraph for nearly twenty minutes. Normally, the words would spring to life in my imagination, painting scenes across my mind, but today they slid past me like meaningless ink on paper. Frustration boiled over, and with an irritated sigh, I shut the book, pressing my palms hard against the cover as if that might silence my thoughts. I hated that a dream... a stupid, fleeting dream... still had this kind of power over me.
"The coffee's not working on you, I see."
I jumped at the sudden voice and turned around in my seat. Standing there was Peter, the boy from my literature class.
Never in a thousand years did I think he would ever speak to me.
He wasn't hard to notice. Peter always had this quietly confident air about him, never loud, never desperate to be the center of attention, but somehow still visible in every room. His brown hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hands through it too often, and his glasses sat a little crooked on his nose, giving him a sort of disheveled charm. He was the kind of guy who always seemed to be scribbling something in the margins of his notebook... quotes, thoughts, lines of poetry, and I'd caught myself wondering more than once what went on in his head.
"Uh, yeah…" I muttered, not really sure what to say to him.
"I believe your next class is with me as well," Peter said, tilting his head slightly. "You enrolled in Critical Reading and Writing, didn't you?"
I managed a smile and nodded. "Yeah, I did."
It was the start of our second semester, and though Peter had been in nearly all my classes last term, we had barely exchanged words, aside from one awkward group assignment. That's why it startled me to hear him speak to me now. Peter wasn't the type who talked to just anyone. He had this quiet exclusivity about him... kind, polite, but not exactly open to everyone.
Peter wasn't the kind of guy you could easily pin down. He was kind, yes, but not exactly approachable. There was a quietness to him, a kind of exclusivity, as though he only allowed certain people into his orbit.
He glanced at his wristwatch. "Well, class starts in… five... no, four minutes." His voice was calm, but there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, like he already knew I'd lost track of time.
Panic flickered in my chest. I pulled out my phone to check and, sure enough, he was right. Shoot. I'd been so consumed by a stupid dream that I hadn't realized I was about to be late to my very first Critical Reading and Writing session with Mrs. Gomez.
I scrambled to gather my bag and books, nearly knocking over my empty latte cup in the process. Peter waited patiently, not rushing me, though that same boyish half-smile lingered on his face.
"Thanks for reminding me," I said as we walked out of the library together. "I could have missed the very first class." He only shrugged lightly, offering me that smile again, the kind that somehow managed to be both easygoing and distracting.
When we reached the lecture hall, we stopped short. Students were streaming out instead of filing in, their chatter filling the hallway. Peter and I exchanged a puzzled look before he stepped forward and stopped a guy passing by.
"Hey, isn't Mrs. Gomez's class supposed to start soon?" Peter asked.
The guy shook his head. "It was supposed to, but Mrs. Gomez got replaced. The class has been rescheduled. It won't start until next week." Then he disappeared into the crowd.
Peter walked back to me, his expression sinking a little. "Damn, that sucks," he muttered.
"You really wanted to take that class today, didn't you?" I asked gently.
He gave a small shrug before offering me a soft smile. "Not exactly the class itself. I just wanted to be in Mrs. Gomez's course. The seniors told me her lectures are the kind you don't forget. Honestly, I only picked this course because she was teaching it. But now..." His smile faded into disappointment. "Now she's not, and it feels like a real loss. She usually never gives up this class."
I nodded, sharing his frustration. I'd heard glowing things about Mrs. Gomez, too. Her energy, her passion for literature, the way she made even the driest texts come alive. I had been looking forward to learning from her. Still, a part of me couldn't help the small relief of having the afternoon free. I just hoped whoever they brought in to replace her would be even half as good.
I got home earlier that afternoon to an empty house. Being an only child, silence was something I'd grown accustomed to when my parents were at work. My mother teaches statistics at a college, my father works in finance, and between the two of them, our schedules rarely overlap. Dinner is usually the only time we sit together, though the conversation almost always circles back to their jobs or the same predictable question about my studies.
I love my parents, I really do, but they've never been the warm, affectionate type. Their concern is practical, not emotional. Good grades, good opportunities, a secure future, that's all they've ever wanted for me. It used to sting when I was younger, the way they seemed blind to everything beyond my report cards, but over time, I've grown used to it. In a strange way, their absence has become a kind of comfort.
Because of them, I've learned to embrace solitude. When I'm not at the table listening to talk of deadlines and office politics, I retreat into my room, where the quiet is mine alone. Reading, writing, painting... anything to keep my mind busy. I don't bore easily, which is lucky. The truth is, I've built a life where being alone doesn't feel lonely.
My university is only fifteen minutes from home, which meant I never got the chance to move out like most of my classmates did. Maybe once this semester ends, I'll try convincing my parents to let me live on my own. I can already guess their response, but there's no harm in trying. That, however, is a problem for another day.
Right now, all I could think about was sleep. After tossing and turning through most of the night, my body ached for rest. I trudged into my room, collapsed onto my bed without even bothering to change, and within moments the world slipped away into darkness.
As soon as sleep consumed me, I found myself standing in a room. A room too familiar. My breath caught as realization hit me: this was the same place from my dream last night. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen, threaded with something darker that clung to my senses. My heart sank. Was I here again? In the dream? Would it play out the same way?
A soft glow flickered to life, illuminating the space around me. I gasped as the room came into view.
It was breathtakingly modern, the kind of luxury that belonged in a magazine spread. Smooth black marble stretched across the floor, glossy enough to reflect the warm lights overhead. The walls were sleek panels of matte charcoal, broken only by floor-to-ceiling windows veiled with sheer curtains that swayed with an invisible breeze. A king-sized bed dominated the center, dressed in crisp white sheets and layered with plush throws of gray and silver. On either side, floating nightstands held minimalist lamps that glowed a golden hue.
To the right, a glass wall opened into a private lounge that looked almost unreal. A low leather sofa and a marble coffee table sat on a sunken platform, facing a pristine infinity pool that stretched toward the windows. Its surface shimmered with faint, dreamlike light, as though the water itself pulsed with a quiet energy. Steam rose from the pool, carrying a subtle warmth into the cool air, and the faint sound of rippling water echoed through the chamber. Beyond it, a bar gleamed, stocked with crystal decanters and rare bottles that glittered under recessed lighting.
"Do you like it?"
The voice slithered through the air, thick and velvety, the same one that had haunted my dream last night. I gasped, spinning around to find the source. He was there, standing just beyond the light, his body cloaked in shadow. I could make out the gleam of polished shoes, the sharp cut of his silhouette, but not his face.
All I knew was that he was tall. His presence filled the room, commanding and impossible to ignore. His voice wrapped around me like silk, and his scent... rich, intoxicating, a blend of spice and smoke, seeped into my lungs until I felt dizzy.
"Who are you? And how did I get here?" I heard myself whisper. My voice trembled, but not with fear. I should have been terrified, I knew that, but instead a strange, reckless excitement coiled through me, heat rushing to my skin.
He stood beside a tall mirror, and when my gaze drifted toward it, I froze. My reflection stared back at me, but I hardly recognized the girl in the glass.
A stranger wore my face.
She stood in a short, lacy black dress that clung like a second skin, the hem teasing just below her hips. Long, bare legs stretched into sharp black heels that made her look taller, more dangerous. Her breasts were pushed high by the cut of the bodice, the neckline plunging far deeper than anything I would ever dare wear. The straps barely kissed her shoulders, leaving her skin bare and vulnerable.
My hair... my plain, straight hair, was now a cascade of glossy curls, bouncing in soft, perfect waves. Dark, sultry makeup sculpted my features into something bolder, sexier. I stared, unable to look away, heat flooding my chest as if the reflection belonged to someone else entirely.
Someone made for sin.
He moved toward me with unhurried steps, each one echoing softly against the floor. My chest tightened with panic, yet my feet betrayed me. I didn't move. I couldn't. It was as if my body already belonged to him, bound in place by the gravity of his presence.
He carried a glass of champagne effortlessly in one hand, the golden liquid catching the light as though it shimmered only for him. The closer he came, the stronger his scent wrapped around me, dark spice, warm musk, something sinful that made my pulse trip.
And then, when he was only inches from me, the shadows surrendered his face.
My breath caught.
He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, almost unreal. His jawline was sharp, sculpted as if by the hand of some cruelly perfect god. His lips, full, firm, and faintly curved in a knowing smirk, looked like they were made to ruin me. His cheekbones were high, his nose strong, and his eyes, oh his eyes, glowed like molten amber, burning with something primal and unrelenting.
Silken black hair fell in deliberate disarray around his forehead, framing his face with an effortless kind of allure. His skin was pale, smooth, but not lifeless. It was luminous, striking against the darkness that clung to him. Even the faintest shadow of stubble on his chin only made him look more masculine, more wickedly refined.
Every inch of him radiated temptation, power, and sex. He wasn't just handsome. He was devastating.
I was utterly speechless. Never in my life had I imagined a man this devastatingly beautiful would stand before me. My eyes roamed over him greedily, unable to look away, drunk on his presence alone. I was so consumed by the sharp perfection of his features, by the dark hunger simmering in his gaze, that I didn't even notice the moment his long, cold fingers slipped around my throat.
The sudden contact made me gasp, my breath catching as a rush of excitement twisted low in my stomach and a tingling heat sparked between my legs. My pulse quickened beneath his touch, every beat hammering against his palm. Without even realizing it, I dragged my tongue across my lips, wetting them, and I caught the way his eyes darkened as they followed the movement with predatory precision.
His grip tightened just enough to make my knees weaken, his touch both a threat and a promise. He leaned closer, his breath brushing my cheek as he whispered, voice rich and velvety, "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you…" He paused deliberately, letting the silence coil around me like a trap. Then the corner of his mouth curled into a sinful, wicked smirk. "Not until you beg me to."
A shiver tore through me, my body betraying me as desire and fear tangled into one unbearable ache.