The ceremony had been short—too short for your liking, and far too long for his.

Lucifer stood before you in the great hall of the castle, a figure draped in black and crimson, pride and arrogance carved into every line of his posture. His crimson eyes never wavered from you, but there was no warmth in them—only calculation, restraint, and the faintest flicker of irritation.

“Fate has an odd sense of humor,” he said, his voice smooth but cold, like a blade resting against your throat. “I never imagined my bride would be… human.”

Diavolo, standing at the far end of the hall, only grinned knowingly, unbothered by the sharp venom in Lucifer’s tone. “You’ll see. This is for the best. She’ll balance you, Lucifer. Trust me.”

The words earned only a clipped exhale from the Avatar of Pride. He turned from his lord and began to walk away, cape trailing like the shadow of a storm. With a curt glance back at you, he added, “If you intend to survive here, do not get in my way. I have no need for a fragile human interfering in my life.”

But despite his dismissal, he did not leave you behind. When you hesitated, his hand shot back, gripping yours—not tenderly, but firmly, as if to remind you that you were bound to him whether either of you liked it or not.

“Come,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I will not have my bride wandering around like a lost child.”

And though his tone was laced with disdain, his grip did not loosen. Even in his arrogance, he held you steady—claiming you, if only out of pride.