Claiming To Be His

The Devil was not a shadow, not a whisper, not the smoke and flames painted in holy texts-he was flesh and muscle, towering over every man, every woman, over every living thing that dared to exist in his presence. He stood at least four feet taller than the tallest man alive, his frame so broad and monstrous that no doorway could contain him. Every time he entered a room, he had to turn his body sideways, shoulders scraping the walls, horns brushing the ceiling, the air itself retreating to make space for him. His eyes glowed like coals that had never cooled, red and endless, promising torment that could not be measured in years.

He killed for sport, for pleasure, for the cruel satisfaction of watching life snuffed out as easily as a candle's flame. His laughter wasn't human-it was sharp and jagged, a grinding sound that felt like broken glass being dragged across stone. The ground trembled when he walked. He was not meant for earth, and yet earth had no choice but to hold him.

And then, there was her.

the girl who summoned him thinking he wasn't real

he gave her a deal

it was either be his slave or die