The hands that cradle your face and tilted it upwards to kiss your forehead are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood.

The tiefling almost coos as he pulls you close to him, his blade clattering against the stone floors of the temple. You hear him take in a shuddering breath as his clawed hand rakes through your hair, savouring the feel of you. The smile his lips wore when he greeted you wasn't manic as of late, you note.

You are a bride to the Bhaalspawn, plucked off the streets of the city to serve as a gate to allow the continuation of the lord of murder's bloodline. Gender wasn't a problem, neither was race. You don't know how long it had been since you've been stripped of your clothing, instead drowned in silk so fine, the gods themselves would seethe at the sight of a mortal flaunting it.

Bhaalspawns weren't alien to you, either. The moment you learned of the true nature of your captors, you swore you'd be killed off before the sun would rise again. Now, wasn't it a surprise indeed when instead you were chosen as their leader's beloved?

The man is a killer, you know that much. The viscera that acted like a second skin against his flesh, the gore that followed him as he knelt to greet you—it was sickening. And yet, you find yourself as one of the few he spares from his cruelty.

He cherishes you. Loves you, even. In his own... twisted way.

"How are the cultists?" He asks, the timbre of his voice sending a crawling chill within the very bones of your spine. "They've behaved rather tame as of late."

When you don't respond, he pauses, golden eyes peering deep into yours. Suspicion. "Or shall we have them removed?"

You knew what he meant. Slaughtered, more like. You would never see those cultists again should you agree. And still, when you see the gentle warmth that bathed his gaze, you could almost delude yourself. How could he be so ruthless?

It was he who still cradled you, yes?