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Later that evening, you grant yourself a brief reprieve and lean against the granite countertop in the kitchen to catch your breath before dinner for your Master must be prepared.

Much to your relief, after scrubbing out the bloodstain in Demiurge's quarters, he ordered you off to the kitchen to prepare the Tomb's lunch for the day- roast chicken breasts and Caesar salad. With that done, you spent the next few hours dusting and mopping the great hall.

You wished Tuare was here- you wanted to tell her she may have been right all along; that he is indeed dangerous, and how he had frightened you by grabbing you suddenly. But as your luck would have it, it seems she had been sent off to another section of the Tomb to clean for the day.

It's just you and Pestonya now.

A dull, wet slapping sound startles you, and you look across the aisle to see massive slab of raw meat laying heavily over a cedar cutting board, oozing an alarming amount of blood.

'Good gods.' This is what your Master is going to be eating?

Pestonya withdraws a butcher knife from the block and passes it to you. "Here we are- we'll be slicing a fresh filet of Wagyu for Lord Demiurge's dinner. Cut a filet approximately an inch and a half thick from the widest end."

"Um... okay." You take the blade and angle it to saw into the chilled flesh and muscle to Pestonya's specifications. The knife slices through the meat effortlessly like butter, and you peel the piece away, gruesomely drenching your bare hands in blood.

Blood.

Suddenly, your sinuses sting with the salty smell of tears and the metallic tang of blood rings like a rusty, tarnished bell over your tongue.

He defiled your body, your memories-

'I'll rip you apart!'

Seething fury brews in your veins, bitter and black, and the breath stutters from your lungs.

Your fingers gouge into the meat, and you hear him scream-

'Yes, bleed, break- break like you broke me-'

"Are you alright, dear?"

You jump, and swallow thickly- but your tongue is numb with shock as your mind reels, trying to find its center once more.

"I-I'm sorry." You whisper, and your eyes brim with a wave of tears that threaten to spill.

"I understand. Tuare would have similar... experiences. Sometimes she still does." Pestonya assures you, and rests her hand on your shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Would you like me to finish it?"

You draw a deep breath, then slowly, shakily exhale, blinking rapidly. "No... I... I think I'll be alright."

If you let her take over, you'll be alone with your thoughts and fear you'll fall into that deep, dark chasm once more. Right now, the best thing you can do is keep your hands and mind busy.

Pestonya nods, and wags her tail. "Then let's cut another."

'Yeah, I guess I ruined that one.' You set the filet aside, your eyes lingering on the deep grooves you raked into it.

Angling the blade, you carve another filet out for the second time.

"Very nice!" Pestonya remarks, and she directs you to lay it over the cutting board, and she fetches a few spices from the cabinet and shakes out a small pile from each.

"Now, rub the roasted garlic and oregano into the filet."

"Yes, ma'am." Scooping up as much as you can, you sprinkle it over the meat and roll it in for a thoroughly coating and admire the snowflake-like marbling of the cut. It is unlike anything you have ever seen before and piques your curiosity.

"I've never heard of Wagyu- what is it exactly?" You query.

"It is a meat which has higher levels of intra-muscular fat, or marbling, but the meat texture is finer than that of a typical cow's. These cattle are raised on a small farm in the Royal Capital, and only in the best of conditions. They are fed exclusively on the greenest of grasses, and drink only from a stream that is purified with Bakuhanseki stones. They live luxuriously before being slaughtered at not a day older than three years- and that is what makes the meat such exquisite quality."

"Wow... I didn't know there was such a method of raising livestock." It sounds as though the cattle have had a better life than you.

"While the same likely cannot be said for other Wagyu farms, we pay the farmer well, and periodically oversee the animals' welfare to ensure it remains up to our standards. For the Guardians of the Tomb, only the best will be served."

She lights the fire to the cast-iron stove next and lays out a copper pan, and greases the surface with olive oil. "We are going to sear it for just a few minutes. This locks in the blood and juices, and keeps the center raw, as he prefers."

"Raw?" You echo, hoping you heard wrong.

"Yes. Arch Devils require a regular intake of iron content for optimum health. While the Rings of Sustenance eliminate the need for consuming food and drink when it comes to most heteromorphs, the living steel in his tail will grow dull and brittle without daily iron. I suppose you can liken it to a vitamin deficiency, one that cannot be maintained with the aid of magical items." Pestonya explains.

"I hear spinach is high in iron." You jokingly suggest, and Pestonya smiles.

"Indeed, but Lord Demiurge, like most demons, is a carnivore. His preferred method of ingestion is via meat- the more rarely cooked, the more blood- and the higher the iron."

''Oh." So, your Master is practically a wolf.

Or a tiger.

After the filet is seared on each side, it is placed on fine china and garnished with a lush branch of parsley.

"Now, we have to choose a wine. Red meats such as beef or venison are paired with red, and white meats like fish and poultry are paired with white." Pestonya informs you.

You haven't a clue what she is talking about. As far as you know, alcohol provides a nice buzz and takes the edge off of pain or wraps your nerves in a warm, fuzzy gauze. Is she seriously saying people actually drink for reasons other than that? Like to make meals more palatable?

'Why am I even surprised? The Guardians live in the lap of luxury. I'd probably be drinking for vanity too if I could afford it.'

"This one is Lord Demiurge's preferred bottle." Pestonya lets you examine the bottle's label to familiarize yourself with your Master's choice. The label depicts two serpents with glittering golden scales winding around a bushel of apples, their eyes glaring crimson like rubies. You hand it back to her, and she pours a serving into a delicately stemmed tulip glass.

The wine is blood red, and smells richly of berries and amber notes. You imagine the entire bottle likely costs an arm, a leg, and a soul.

"Will you be able to carry this to his quarters alone?" She asks.

"Yes, ma'am, I think so."

Pestonya places the plate and glass on a tray, and passes it to you.

You pray to any god you think might listen that you don't trip over the corridor's uneven cobblestone as you gingerly carry the tray to his quarters, focusing on each footstep so as to not to spill the wine.

By some miracle, the tray survives the journey, and you manage not to lose a drop. But now, with your hands full, comes the question:

'How do I knock?'

You know damn well if you try to lean downward to set it on the ground, you will only wind up dumping the contents of the tray and send it all crashing to the floor.

Damn it. You should have asked Pestonya to accompany you- if nothing else, just to open the door. Your failure to think things through never fails to astound.

With a frustrated sigh, you carefully incline forward and knock twice with the side of your head.

'Ow.'

Almost instantly, the door slowly creaks open, and the hair on the back of your neck prickles with alarm as you are almost positive that you see a humanoid shadow slither from the doorway and across the floor.

'Maybe I'm seeing things.'

A trick of the firelight dancing off the walls, perhaps?

With an audible swallow, you force yourself to disregard it and step into the room.

Again, you find Lord Demiurge reclined in his ivory chair, seemingly quite absorbed in another scroll, as though he never moved from that position. Timidly, you approach him, your stomach bubbling with nerves.

"Your dinner, Master." You bow at the waist before the demon, keeping your back almost painfully rigid in an endeavor to keep the tray level so as not to spill the wine.

"Excellent." He acknowledges you, and permits you to straighten your stance with a brief motion of his hand.

Demiurge furls the scroll and unfolds from his chair in a seamless motion, reminding you of a lounging tiger that suddenly animates to take advantage of prey that has foolishly grown too bold in his lethargy.

He prowls to the table and you watch his steel-plated tail smoothly sway behind him as he elegantly seats himself. A furtive glance to the window down the arched entryway of the Master bedroom shows the velvet curtains drawn tight, yet the dying light of mid evening valiantly slips around the edges. You estimate it to be around 6:30 to 7:00 pm. The days have only just begun to stretch with early spring.

Delicately, you set the plate down before him at the table as he drapes his napkin in his lap, and you lay out his silverware in the order of which Pestonya had shown you.

An icy caress over the back of your thigh makes your heart drop to your feet- it feels smooth and hard like the flat of a blade.

You jolt with a start and the knife falls from your hand and to the floor with a clatter, and a hard lump of fear clogs your throat in horror that you have just made a mistake.

"F-forgive me!" You stammer and the thump of your pulse kicks wildly within your chest at the thought of what he might do to you for dropping his silverware, because now he will have to delay his meal while you retrieve a clean one.

Without thinking, she bends over to pick it up, granting him a glorious view of her perfectly heart-shaped derriere.

His jaw clenches and the leather of his gloves creak as his hands flex at his sides with the effort to resist the urge to grab and squeeze those perfect, creamy globes of flesh.

All he can imagine is walking up behind her, holding her down, bent over just like that, and slapping that ass with an open palm while he whispers in her ear what filthy things he would do to her. Then he would soothe away the faint red imprint with the flat of his tongue.

But he silently coaches his restraint.

You then realize what touched you was his armor-plated tail. Whether it was on purpose or not, you cannot be absolutely sure... although you want to lean towards intentional.

Fumbling clumsily at first, you finally manage to grab the knife and you swivel back to him, thoroughly discombobulated.

"It's quite alright." He says in an emotionless tone, but the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, betraying that he finds your flustered klutziness rather amusing.

A breath you didn't even realize you are holding stutters from your lungs in relief that he doesn't appear to be upset whatsoever. Quite the opposite, actually.

"Please, allow me to get another one for you!" You plead, and turn to rush to the kitchen in order to retrieve it.

The Arch Devil catches your wrist, and you gasp when you feel the startling sting of his talons through his gloves.

"Something this minor is no issue." He blinks slowly, deviously at you with the ghost of a smile. "Stay. I insist."

He releases you, and holds out his clawed hand for you to pass him the knife. With uneasy compliance, you relent.

The demon takes the utensil and wipes it on his linen napkin, then silently motions to the chair at the end of the table, implying he wishes for you to join him.

You obey, and slide the chair out to sit. Your eyes are magnetically drawn to how he cuts the steak open with surgical precision, and the dark, bloody juices seep out to stain the bone china red.

A morbid curiosity wonders if he performed surgery on you, and if your flesh split beneath his scalpel with as much practiced ease.

His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, and his gaze darkens at the scent and sight of blood. He then shutters his eyes and tows the flat of the dripping blade across his tongue, not allowing a drop of it go waste.

"Perfection." He purrs, his crystalline eyes sliding open to affix yours and his tongue curls over his fang.

The way those diamond-like eyes burrow into yours as he savors the blood on his palate gives you the impression that it is your own flesh that he wants a taste of, and a spiral of something hot races through you, unbidden. Your lips unseal as your heart begins to beat like the wings of a caged dove.

"So... are you sleeping well in your new quarters?" He asks, his gaze never faltering from yours.

"Y-yes, master." You quietly reply, relieved that he says something to snap you out of the bizarre trance you are falling under. "And thank you. I've never had a room of my own before."

"Is that so? And why is that, if you do not mind me asking?" Demiurge probes, and takes a bite of steak, and you simmer under the latent heat of his unwavering gaze.

"Um...we used to be locked in a designated room until the day was over, and after so many hours those of us who couldn't work anymore would sleep in a closet until the next shift, or another client would arrive." You timidly explain.

Demiurge draws a brow, but is otherwise expressionless as he weighs your words and chews meditatively, then swallows.

"That is unfortunate." He says tonelessly, seemingly unaffected by the fact that you once lived in overworked conditions and squalor, as such history is typical for slaves. "However, as long as you serve under me, you will have your own quarters, clothes, and whatever else may be necessary for your functions."

"I am very grateful for that." You say with a respectful bow of your head. "And I noticed... none of the other cleaning staff have their own room. Even Tuare says she has to sleep in a shared bedroom with the rest of the maids." You note aloud.

"Of course. You're a personal servant, not mere maid staff." Demiurge practically scoffs.

You mull that over for a moment, but the difference between the two definitions eludes you, as are obligated to the same duties as the maids.

'But why do I have my own room? Why do I stay on his Floor but none of the other maids do? Surely I'm not the only one contracted to a Guardian.'

The demon can see the wheels in your head turning, though not quickly enough for his liking, as he adds, "You are assigned to the 7th Floor, my floor, and the kitchen; not the entirety of the Tomb as they are. Hence, why you have your own room, near your master."

"Oh." You say dumbly, feigning understanding- but as you feared, he can tell that you have failed to connect the dots.

"To be blunt," His voice slithers the length of the table. "...it means I_own_ you. You are bound to me, your Master; like a pet,"

Your eyes blink rapidly as your brain stalls on that one word.

'A PET?!'

"...which, of course, means that you are mine to play with and stroke when I please." The demon declares, and something predatory and possessive kindles in his expression as he illuminates the fine print of what you have actually agreed to.

Your body goes rigid as a board and your blood chills in your veins, tightening your skin with a prickling sensation as every hair stands on end. Time slows to a delirious crawl.

'Oh, shit.' Seriously, what were you thinking, agreeing to a deal with a Devil? You should have known that the bargain would weigh almost entirely in his favor.

As your eyes widen, his narrow as he watches with rapt satisfaction as the truth seeps in, his lips skinning back into an insidious grin, freezing the marrow in your bones.

"Now, be a good girl," Demiurge slowly reclines back, adopting a pose which looks like a summons- chest open and legs stretched wide. The Devil's gaze simmers as he speaks slowly, giving each word its due. "...and_come_- sit on my lap."

Your face pales at the request, especially when he pats his knee in invitation, as though you are but a lap dog.

Instinct commands that you run, run like Hell and don't look back, especially with the way his eyes pierce yours like twin daggers as he waits for you to comply.

The demon is not someone you feel safe saying 'no' to, and if he grabbed you so roughly just for lying to him, what would he do to you for refusing a direct order? You are not in favor of finding out.

But even more worrisome-

...you feel it, buried beneath your primal fear and pride. A tiny, forbidden flame of excitement, one that ties to your kittenish curiosity and secretly thrills at the developing situation.

Your limbs shake as you slowly, hesitantly rise from your chair, and you duck your chin as you approach the demon seated before you. His pleased visage swims out of focus when you avert your gaze and dare to entertain him and put yourself in the proverbial lion's jaws.

But what choice do you have? You can do this- or, more accurately, you have to do this- you now have a home, regular meals, and work. To disobey him could mean jeopardizing everything you have gained.

You aren't willing to take that risk.

Knees trembling, you edge your way to his side, and twitch when he slides his hand over your waist and settles you over top the unnaturally warm bench of his thigh. He gently rubs your side with his thumb.

'Oh gods, he's touching me...' It is methodical and thorough, a desensitization, perhaps. Like how he might try to calm a panicked animal.

The warmth of his palm is easily felt through his glove as well as the thin silk of your uniform. You swallow a little- even sitting down, he threatens to loom over you.

"There. This isn't so bad, is it?" He coaxes with a smirk. It's so strange- no, wrong the way his words make you dizzy with an unfamiliar sensation- but you're drawn to him like a moth to a dancing pyre. You're mesmerized, terrified, but .... unable to resist. Again, you feel that foreign, throbbing heat unfurling from between your legs.

"N-no, Master." You sputter, and your heart flutters as he moves his hand from just above your waist up to your rib cage.

He isn't hurting you- far from it, in fact. His hand offers only gentle support. But your heart feels as if it is going to pound out of its cage.

'FUCK.' Your face tingles as a flush blooms over your cheeks, but are helpless to stop it.

"Here, try a taste," he insists, holding a bite of Wagyu near your mouth.

You prepared and cooked the steak yourself, and therefore are confident that it is not drugged or poisoned- still, your nerves favor a moment's hesitation before allowing you to nervously lean forward and accept his offering.

Some of your fear ebbs as you slowly chew the tender morsel.

'OH...oh my gods, that is divine!' Flavor bursts over your taste buds- the rich roasted garlic and herb is beautifully complimented by the coppery wang of brewed blood, and the buttery soft sliver of tissue melts in your mouth.

How can meat that is damn near raw taste so exquisite?

"Your verdict?"

"It's delicious." You tell him after swallowing.

"Indeed." He smiles. "You should be proud."

Your heart stops cold.

'Wait... how does he know that I made it?'

"Did you know," He starts as he spears another bite of steak onto his fork. "that Arch Devils of the Incubus class possess a sense of smell which rivals even that of a canine's?"

'What is an Incubus?'

"...No." You carefully reply, unsure as to what he is getting at.

"We even consider it a sort of... second sight." He muses, "For example; by scent alone, I can deduct that you handled this filet almost exclusively but with the aid of Pestonya in the kitchen, with no other individuals present, and even how anxious you were when bringing it to my quarters."

His accuracy is unnerving.

"It also allows me to determine all sorts of things about an individual. Who lacks fear and would make a good soldier, who would cower and run at the first sight of an enemy, who has a habit of lying and cannot be trusted to follow orders..." His voice trails off.

'He really could smell my fear...' Your heart plummets at this knowledge. 'he can probably smell how terrified I am right now.'

"But you..." He says pointedly, and his tongue sweeps over his fangs in contemplation. "I admit, I have a difficult time pinning down."

His inadvertent double entendre reminds you of the last dream in which he did exactly that, and it sends drags of something raw and electrifying swooping through the depths of your abdomen.

He licks his lips before continuing. "Do you know what I smelled earlier when you were cleaning my quarters?"

Quivering with anxiety, you can only respond with a light shake of your head.

A chill races up your spine as he then grips your chin and turns your face to the side so you have to look at him directly.

"Oh, but I believe you do..." He looks down his aquiline nose and stares with carnivorous interest. His hand reaches for you and you instinctively gasp and cringe, but he only cups your cheek as he slowly, purposefully slides a thumb down over your mouth, dragging your plush lower lip with it.

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