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Demiurge rounds the corner to his Pet's room and deposits her onto the bed, watching her eyelids flutter as she fails to stay awake.

If the Devil did not have concerns that Greed would find her irresistible, smelling of sex and in a state of utmost fragility, he would have simply abandoned her where she had dropped.

He then straightens his posture and takes a moment to admire his handiwork. She looks utterly debauched- her tresses spill wildly over her pillows in golden waves which remind him of the rivers of molten lava that flow through the ruins of the Burning Temple, and her cheeks are still alight with a blushing rose glow. Her clothing is in scuffed disarray and his milky seed trickles in a steady stream from between her open thighs. She lies pliant as a newborn lamb, and just as breakable.

Demiurge licks his lips, and entertains the idea of washing her; parting her legs, the demon languorously kneels at the foot of the bed and slides in between them, lifting her shapely calves to rest them over his shoulders.

He begins to lave at her slit, sweeping away the pearly mixture of their release.

A low rumbling purr rolls through his chest as he grooms her clean with long, soft strokes. She tastes of lilies and peaches with some bright citrus, scorched with his own dark, woodsy spice and musk. It is intoxicating, and he delves his tongue into her folds to steal more. She groans and shifts before him, but her face is serene in her unconscious state.

Then he smiles- all fangs, in black-hearted delight. Any strength that may have fueled her escape has been drained from her after what he had subjected her to, and no amount of fear-charged adrenaline could buoy her as exhaustion ushers her into a dreamless sleep.

It is a sight that pleases him to no end- she had taken him so hard that he was sure her body would retain the shape of his shaft.

The Devil honestly had not expected to release such an impressive... volume after having done so just the night before, but her young and supple body managed to wring him dry, so it is no wonder she cannot even stand.

The natural sedative found in Incubus semen tranquilizes both his own race as well as mortals; the effects mirror an opiate in how it subdues a potential mate with both euphoria and drowsiness, and is just as addictive. Due to a low fertility rate, its purpose is to lull the bred into a sense of relaxation and security after rutting, which increases the chances of a second coupling and the odds of offspring. However, humans and Incubi cannot produce viable embryos, so he need not worry about the risk of pregnancy.

A powerful wave of satisfaction rolls through his being at the knowledge that she will become addicted to him soon enough, making it all the easier to shape her into his ideal Pet.

And as much as she infuriates him, this little female is special- his Creator would not have chosen her otherwise. She maintains an ironclad will to overcome any and all adversity that is hurled into her path. She is a survivor- her life has been defined by a series of sink-or-swim moments, and each one molds the clay of her being. Not to mention she presents the opportunity for an in-depth analysis on how the human psyche adapts to traumatic events.

Demiurge takes a deep, steadying breath- he is still livid, but after a vicious fucking and ingesting a minuscule dose, his ire has been reduced from a raging boil to a bubbling simmer. While he is still tempted to disembowel her for vandalism and attempted theft, she is far too valuable a specimen for him to rip her open for a precious few moments of sadistic satisfaction.

There are so many potential experiments he can perform on her...

And now, in his possession, nothing stands between her and him but her psychological armor- which he is taking great pleasure in dismantling, piece by piece.

Spinning sharply on his heel, he leaves her to sleep it off and storms to the Ninth Floor.

There are only two people within Nazarick who harbor such a fondness for humans that they would willingly defy his claim to his Lord's former Pet, and Demiurge did not smell the Butler on her.

---

"Am I to understand that it was your intention to assist in her escape?" Demiurge hisses. The Devil maintains a flawless mask of resolve, save for his nostrils flaring with barely-leashed animosity.

"Yes, my Lord." Pestonya replies, nonplussed.

The Seventh Floor Guardian stands facing the head maid in the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back. While he maintains a non-threatening posture, the way in which his tail whips sharply behind him is a testament to his true demeanor.

He is livid beyond belief.

Pestonya is his comrade... how could she do this to him? And how long has she been helping those indentured to Nazarick's service escape?

"Why?" Demiurge's voice grows quiet, and his gaze narrows.

Accompanying his contemplative silence is a suffocating swarm of menace that thickens the air. His acute hearing detects the susurration of fur prickling against linen as Pestonya's hackles rise in response to the growing sense of danger. She doesn't outwardly show it, but Demiurge can smell it- the sharp tang of fear.

The head maid recognizes that this is when he is at his most deadly; when he is thinking. As a tactician, his mind is his most lethal weapon.

"While I am well aware that you harbor a certain... benevolence for humans," He practically sneers, as though the word leaves an unsavory taste in his mouth. "to my knowledge, never have you dared to go so far as to help a personal servant abscond from Nazarick. So, I ask you- why this one?"

Demiurge knows what her reasons are- but he wants to determine just how much the head maid knows about his Creator's former Pet.

"Because she is no mere human, my Lord. She..." Pestonya gleans for the right words, before finally letting out a weary sigh. "I could smell her on him nearly every day. Did you think I would not recognize that she was Lord Ulb-"

Too much. She knows too much.

"And in light of his absence, she now belongs to me." Demiurge's voice suddenly grows tight and edged with possession. "If you could not scent what my Lord was doing with her in the Burning Temple, I highly recommend you have your sense of smell examined. What I require of her is nothing new, nor is she being treated any worse than when she was when in my Creator's possession. Believe me- I was privileged in bearing witness to their..." A sly grin creeps over his features, and his tongue glides down the length of his canine_. "activities."_

"My Lord, with all due respect, she wasn't merely his pet, she was his-"

"What she was matters not." Demiurge snips, and the muscles beneath his suit coil with severe tension. "What does matter is that you have betrayed me in your attempt to rob me of what is rightfully mine."

"Indeed, I have." Pestonya admits, remorse utterly lacking in her voice, as she is resolute in her belief she has done no wrong.

"You are aware that all of my Creator's property, save for what Lord Ainz has claimed, has been bequeathed to my brother and I. Need I remind you that Lord Ainz himself assigned her to my floor, to serve me?"

"No, Lord Demiurge." The dog-headed maid says simply. "I am perfectly aware."

She admits everything and denies nothing. And somehow, her blatant honesty needles him even more.

"She damaged Malphas' parting gift to me- she ripped the sapphire clean out." Demiurge glowers at the floor, his lip curling to bare his fangs in a wolfish snarl. The demon's back crests with a deep inhale, and then he shoots her a scathing glance. "Was that your brilliant idea or hers?"

Pestonya lightly shakes her head. "I apologize on her behalf- I never told her to do anything of the sort."

Seeing as to how the Devil is an expert in interrogation and can literally smell a lie, Pestonya doesn't bother trying to deceive him. "She was explicitly instructed to neither say nor do anything that may raise suspicions."

Demiurge barks a dry laugh. "Well, unfortunately for you both, she failed to follow even the simplest of instructions."

"Now... what to do with you?" The Seventh Floor Guardian flashes her a lethal smile, then idly taps a claw on the polished surface of the granite island. "Shadow demon,"

The living void plummets like a black star from the ceiling and materializes at the Devil's feet, awaiting his Master's command.

"...inform Lord Ainz of Pestonya's betrayal."