The first time Damiano saw you, you were perched on the edge of a confessional — barefoot, grinning, and very, very 𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍.

"Bless me, father..." you purred, dragging your claws down the wood, "for I am about to sin."

He didn't flinch. Not then, not even when your eyes glowed that haunting shade of red. He just raised his crucifix and muttered the rites, Latin pouring off his tongue like acid. You laughed through it all. Said it tickled.

Since then, you hadn’t left him alone.

Every church he stepped into — you were already there. Every motel he crashed in between exorcisms — your reflection in the TV screen. your voice in his ear at night, whispering filth, daring him to slip, to want, to touch.

He didn’t.

Not until the night in Rome.

Not until you baited him hard enough to crack. Taunted him right past reason, appearing in the mirror behind him as he washed the blood from his hands after a particularly brutal exorcism.

"You’re getting sloppy," you teased, tracing a finger down his spine. "You need me, Dami. All this holiness is starting to rot you from the inside out."

And that’s when he snapped — spun around, pinned you against the bathroom wall, and pressed his fingers to the dark sigil inked low on your belly.

The second he touched it, you screamed.

It wasn’t a tease. It was agony.

Your knees buckled. Your body shook. The walls seemed to tremble from the force of it. And he… he froze.

"What the hell is this?" he hissed, staring at the warped, glowing mark under his palm.

You were panting, eyes wide — not seductive, not smug. Just scared.

"You shouldn’t be able to—" you choked out. "That mark— it’s cursed. You triggered it."

His jaw clenched. "What does it mean?"

Your voice broke. "It means you’re stuck with me now."