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Your breath departs on a weary sigh; there is no way you will be able to fall back to sleep after that. Reluctantly, you unravel out of your cocoon of sheets and swing your legs over the side of the mattress to crawl out of bed. The floor is pleasantly heated beneath your feet like sun-baked sand dunes.

You groggily shuffle to the bathroom and disrobe, desperate for a shower in hopes that it will help wash the startlingly sinful dream from your mind.

How will you ever face the demon again after that? To say you have a terrible poker face is an understatement. A groan of exasperation rolls through your throat- you just know you're going to madly blush as soon as you see him.

Cool water cascades over you, soothing your taut and aching muscles with gentle fingers of lukewarmth.

While you would love a hot shower, it's too warm on this level to comfortably enjoy one.

You dip your head under the spray, letting the water pour over your face and your lips part so you can breathe.

Taking your time to enjoy the supplied shampoos and fragrant soaps, you whip the bar into a lovely lather that smells of relaxing lavender and scrub down in slow circular motions.

Showers are likely your new favorite thing, next to regular meals.

You finish rinsing off and turn the squeaky handles, shutting off the flow and then step out. A stack of fluffy towels awaits you in the cabinet to dry off with. After exiting the bathroom, you decide to see what the mahogany bureau has to offer, and relish the scent of lemon wood polish that wafts from the motion of the drawer being slid open. You poke around to find a lacy stack of neatly folded black lingerie, and you fish one of the pairs of panties out.

'And just where the Hell is my ass supposed to go?' You scrutinize it with a raised brow. Thongs were not an unfamiliar undergarment to you, but this here? This is frilly fishing line.

But with nothing else clean to wear, it'll have to do. You slip them on with a sigh in defeat.

Moving on to the closet hollow, you pull out one of the new maid's uniforms and squeeze into it. You are grateful that it laces up the front rather than the back, considering Tuare isn't here to help you. As you pull and tie the laces across you bosom, it cinches tight, encasing your curves in silk and cotton. You roll your shoulders slightly, feeling the fabric flex with your movements. You wonder how it could be so superbly tailored to your seemingly exact measurements... the disconcerting idea that they must have been taken while you were asleep flits through your mind.

You return to the bathroom to check your reflection, and it is exactly as you had suspected; while similar to your original uniform's design, there were key differences that make it considerably skimpier. The neckline is a plunging V and the hem of your skirt halts just barely at mid-thigh, allowing for legs for days. If you have to bend over for one thing or another, your Master is going to get one Hell of an eyeful of your goods.

You regard the garment with doubt, and the fabric whispers as you run your fingers over the finely woven material that subtly gleams like polished obsidian. But you cannot deny that the design, while indeed scandalous, is much cooler that the original uniform. It allows for plenty of air flow and is composed of a more breathable material, which you are grateful for- the last thing you need is to have a heatstroke while working for the Devil.

Unfortunately, your wardrobe at this point in time is limited. You have no choice but to wear what is supplied.

When you pass your bed on the way to visit the bureau once more to search for your stockings and garters, you are struck dumb to find a tray of food waiting for you on the little table.

'He said dinner wasn't until 7pm.'

What time is it? You cannot even begin to guess without the aid of a window to see the sky or the temperature drop of nightfall.

You are pleased to discover the tray presents a thick portion of flame-seared salmon drenched in a creamy garlic butter sauce and is garnished with a side of leafy greens, and it has been paired with a small glass of white wine.

Your mouth waters at the promise of food and drink, making your stomach clench with sudden hunger.

Cradling the delicate stem of the glass, you slowly bring it to your lips for a sip. The alcohol is sharp and clear, a perfect balance of sweet and tart. It is accompanied by a fierce sting going down, and you grimace- but you are far from caring at this point. Warmth blooms in your veins as the alcohol wraps your frayed nerves in a gauze of liquid comfort.

Next, you use the edge of your fork to cut into the fillet, and the meat falls apart in pretty blushing flakes. After swiping the tender morsel through a swath of creamy butter sauce, you bring it to you mouth. It's delicious and... disappointingly cold.

How long have you been asleep?

You take a few more bites and lick the richness of the garlic from your lips before nervousness twists your stomach into knots. What if you overslept and are late for your duties?

It would not be outside the realm of possibility- it would seem you have made a habit of oversleeping as of late.

You eat half of the fillet before anxiety wins out- you set down your utensil and decide to try to gauge what time it is. Perhaps you can find a window and see where the moon or sun currently hangs in the sky.

Stepping out of your room, you glance around. It is pitch as night out here, and dead silent. The sconces which had lined the wall had been extinguished of their fire, plunging the hall into darkness. You wander down the corridor and slide your hand along the balmy surface of stone as a guide, stumbling blindly in the inky and featureless black. Turning the corner, your eyes fall upon a broad, towering shape that is even darker than the surrounding penumbra. It damn near fills the breadth of the hall. You squint, straining your eyes.

Then it shifts.

'Oh, fuck.'

It's alive.

There isn't time to startle or even think as it rushes you, and you choke out a gasp of horror as you are suddenly seized and hurled up against the wall. The impact crushes the breath from your lungs and the back of your head hits hard, sending a bolt of pain down your spine.

Its grasping hands are talons, but far larger than your Master's- the fingers of a single hand engulf almost the entirety of your rib cage. The other pulls at the plunging V neck of your uniform with a decisive yank, and you cry out in shock as the laces are torn open. Panic charges through you as your feet dangle off of the ground. Heated breath huffs over your neck, and you resign yourself to the fact that you are about to be mauled to death by something you can't see. Your heart hammers desperately against your ribs, threatening to burst free of its cage.

"P-please-"

"Drop her this instant!" A vicious snarl of command rips through the air.

'Oh, thank the gods!'

The beast's shape freezes in place.

"Now, Greed."

"Apologies, Lord." The unseen thing's voice is impossibly deep and gravelly. Carefully, it lowers you to the floor. "I did not know you had a new pe-"

"Silence! Return to your post." Demiurge snaps like a whip, and the claws release you instantaneously, as though you have burned him. Despite the monster's dominating size, the Devil is clearly in command here.

Firelight bursts through the dark, illuminating the massive creature that had you in its clutches in a gauzy amber light. It is actually a he- his broad shoulders, biceps and forearms are donned in obsidian plate armor edged with gold, leaving the rest of his midsection open to reveal his immaculately chiseled abdomen, and massive webbed wings fold behind his back. His head of red flowing hair is crowned by long, curved horns and his six eyes flash scathing red. Fangs protrude from lips that curl in a wolfish snarl. He towers over your Master at nearly eight feet tall.

'Holy shitwizard cuntbaskets...'

A new level of fear flips your brain back on, and you rapidly recoil from your captor as soon as his iron grip releases, and retreat to the farthest wall. And you thought you shit a brick when you first saw Demiurge? This massive bastard could make a fully furnished brick house fall out of your ass.

"My sincerest apologies," Demiurge offers, and he approaches with a lit candelabra, melting out of the inky shadows as if they are a second skin. "Greed here is one of my personal body guards. After delivering your dinner I had matters to immediately tend to, and I fear I had not yet had a moment to relay to him that you will be staying here from now on."

The monstrosity named Greed respectfully lowers his head to the Devil and takes his leave, and you are left in stunned silence with shredded clothes and shaking like a leaf.

"I promise no one else will lay a hand on you- you are under my protection." He assures you, and motions towards your room. "You are free to return to your quarters."

You don't move. You can't. Your muscles are frozen with paralyzing fear and shock.

"I... I don't want to be by myself..." You whimper, thoroughly shaken, before you can consider the admission of weakness. Repressed emotion releases all at once, and as you close your eyes to draw a shaky breath, a few tears of terror spill down your cheeks.

When the demon takes a prowling step forward, you instinctively step back; each muscle instantly reawakens, primed and ready to fly as you are suddenly overwhelmed by the impression that he's a predator and you are prey, backed into a corner with nowhere to run but straight into his awaiting jaws.

'Don't run, don't run...' Swallowing thickly, you clench your jaw, fighting your fight-or-flight reaction.

He halts, poised, and you see his muscles bunch and coil beneath his suit with mounting tension- like a stalking cat that has been spotted by his intended prey.

"Would you like me to stay with you until you fall asleep?" He offers, his voice softening with a passable semblance of concern.

This question disarms you- it muddies the waters of your apprehension and perception of him, and forces you to consider that if Lord Demiurge really intended to harm you, he simply could have allowed that monster to tear you apart.

But he didn't.

Opposition roils within a cacophony of both desperation and hair-raising, instinctive alarm. You want to say yes- but something deep in your bones tells you that he's a wolf at the door, and you would be utterly insane to let him in.

And yet... he has been nothing but polite; he has offered you a job, taken you in, given you your own room, and he just saved you from being violently dismembered and devoured.

So, you sniffle and nod like a frightened child.

"Are you hurt?" The demon asks, moving with a slow and calculated approach, careful not to startle you further, and he rakes his eyes down your form to analyze your person for injury.

"I... I hit my head kind of hard, but other that, I don't think so." You tell him and rub the back of your scalp.

"Here, drink this." The Devil produces a small glass vial from his breast pocket and passes it to you. It contains a dark red potion. "It will numb the pain and help you sleep. The last thing you need is additional head trauma."

"Thank you." Tentatively, you take it from him while trying to keep your ruined dress closed with your other hand. You uncork the top with your teeth and toss it back. It is concentrated and bitter.

"Come," He takes the lead, the candelabra lighting the way, and you fall in line behind him to slink back to your quarters, haphazardly holding you shredded clothes together. "Lie down."

Obediently, you slip beneath the sheets to curl in a ball, and he sets the candelabra down on your nightstand so you can bask in a golden glow of comfort.

He takes his place next to the doorway, a silent sentry watching over you.

Again, you find yourself feeling reprehensible for misjudging him once again.

"Thank you, Master. I-I'm sorry if I woke you." You murmur in shame, and shuffle further into the illusion of safety the sheets provide. "I didn't know what time it was, or if I may be late for my duties."

"You did not wake me. I do not require sleep as you do. It is seldom needed for my species- more of a luxury than a necessity." He muses. "As for the time, it is approximately 2 am."

'I was out for nearly 12 hours?! Damn.' You didn't mean to sleep so long. "I'm sorry. I normally don't sleep this much."

"No need to apologize. It is only to be expected. Your body needs time to fully heal." While the demon's voice takes on a clinical tone, his sense of understanding soothes your anxiety. "How is your recovery progressing?"

"Normally, I think." You inform him, and pull your pillow a little further under your head. "However, I... I have been having strange dreams lately."

"Ah." The side of his mouth curls upwards, seemingly unalarmed. "This is a common side-effect of the healing potions."

'That's good to know.' You were beginning to worry it was the result of extensive brain damage.

"Will they stop when I am no longer taking them?"

"Most likely." He answers with a curt nod. "But dreams are nothing to fear. Just remember they cannot harm you, no matter how frightening or intense they may seem."

"I know..." You nodded and yawn, and settle deeper into the plush of the mattress.

Your breath steams in the bitter cold as you huff, fighting tooth and nail to rein in your fear. You pant heavily, your lungs burning from the icy chill in the air. With wide eyes, you scan the shadowy stretch of trees and smatter of thorny thickets before you. Moonlight streams through the nearly bare branches, dappling the forest floor with ever-changing lacy patterns of silver.

He must be behind you... or so you hope. Otherwise, you are approaching him head on, hurtling directly into his trap.

You know outrunning him is out of the question- four legs is always faster than two.

Ancient oaks stand tall, their bare branches stretching to scrape at the sky and creak ominously in the wind, and you flatten your back up against the rough trunk of the largest one to hide. From your lips cloud silver plumes and your chest heaves with exertion. You strain your ears in effort to hear your hunter over the manic racing of your heart.

The forest is silent as the grave, save for quiet breeze whispering and sighing through the branches, and what few leaves still cling to life. Perhaps you lost him?

Adrenaline surges through your limbs, making your entire body hum with an electric charge.

A flash of orange, as bright and brief as the flicker of flame slithers in the thickets before you.

You burst forth in a sprint, racing for all you are worth through the dying foliage of autumn. Sharp branches whip at your face and sides, and you feel the sting of pink welts rise on your flesh.

A throaty roar deafens your heart's thunder in your ears.

The pounding gait of your pursuer grows louder.

As expected, you have no hope of outpacing him.

He's gaining on you, and you can feel the impact of heavy paws slamming upon the earth. You dare not look back, and focus solely on running without tripping over the gnarled roots jutting from the ground.

Hot breath huffs over the backs of your thighs as he closes in.

A strangled scream bursts from your lungs as a hard swat to your ankles throws you off balance and you tumble to the ground, face-first. You scramble, your hands and feet seeking purchase to no avail. Panic makes you wild, uncoordinated, and you only manage to thrash about. Claws hook into your sleeve and rip, and you feel the needle-like point of a talon pierce through the fabric and into your flesh with a burning sting. Every hair on your body stands on end, and your face tingles with a strange sensation.

'This is it- this is where I am disemboweled!' Your fingers curl into the earth with intent to hurl dirt in his eyes as one last act of defiance, but your hands tingle with a bizarre numbness, resulting in your digits only twitching in the damp soil.

He roughly flips you onto your back.

As your eyes meet with your captor, you are stunned to behold not a beast bearing down on you, but Lord Demiurge.

The demon cages you beneath him with well-muscled limbs, keeping you pinned to the ground. His cheeks split open in the most wicked of grins, flashing rows of fangs that glint wetly in the pale light of the low-hanging moon.

A whimper catches in your throat, your breath unfurling in panicked curling wisps.

"Shhh..." He coos, and gently strokes your cheek with the back of his glove. "Be a good girl..."

After a few heart-stopping seconds, a euphoric, golden warmth slowly blossoms through your veins, making you feel pleasantly heavy, cementing your body to the prickly blades of dead grass. Your eyes roll in your head, and you jaw slacks.

'Oh...oh, this isn't so bad...' It reminds you of the bright glow of morphine that you were injected with at the brothel. It manages to dull the fangs of your fear, but does little for your confusion.

The claw of his thumb tenderly brushes the corner of your mouth, tracing the plump curve of your lower lip. The Devil's gaze smolders into yours, dark and hungry. Your pulse kicks wildly as he slowly presses into your mouth.

"Suck." He hisses.

Your eyes shutter as your lips seal around his thumb, surrendering to his command. You flick your tongue over the buttery soft leather of his glove, closing your lips around the digit to suckle gently, and take him deeper into your mouth.

Hearing his sharp inhale, you cast your eyes up to see his lip curl, utterly hypnotized.

Enraptured by your mimicry of oral sex.

A shameful throb pulses between your thighs, allowing your mind to break the surface and you realize your complacency in falling under what must be a spell...

Or the effects of a drug.

The idea of being drugged is a splash of cold water. You jerk your head back and suddenly withdraw, both terrified yet enthralled by the unfamiliar desire heating your blood and your chest heaves for breath.

"W-what...have you done to me?" You choke out, helpless and trapped in the web of suspense he weaves.

Demiurge lowers his face to yours, and drags his tongue up the side of your cheek in dark promise.

You arch and gasp, unable to stop yourself as the alien inclination to wrap your arms around him and pull him closer overtakes you, only to learn that your limbs are dead weight. A soft laugh melts into your skin, his response to your reactions cruelly twisting a thorn of truth within your heart.

The truth that you like this- how his touch sets your flesh aflame.

He's so close you can practically taste the dark spice and masculine tang of his scent.

"Oh, little human..." He chides with a lithe chuckle, and he strokes his claws tantalizingly up your side, and you watch his tongue sweep over his fangs...

"I've yet to even begin."

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