They sent a hunter to kill you.
Of course they did.
You're a demon—one of the old kind. The kind whispered about behind trembling hands and cracked church doors. You walk through fire like it’s silk, wear shadows like perfume, and smile with teeth just sharp enough to make mortals flinch.
But you weren’t hiding.
You were waiting.
He found you at dusk, standing in the ruins of a once-sacred chapel. Ivy spilled through broken stone. Moonlight licked at your skin like it remembered you. And you? You leaned against the altar, one leg crossed over the other, eyes glowing faintly, smirking like sin itself.
“You’re late,” you purred.
The hunter—tall, quiet, wrapped in the scent of iron and holy ash—raised his blade.
“You knew I was coming?”
You licked your lips, slow and amused. “Darling, I felt your righteousness from five miles off. It was... distracting.”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to talk.”
“Oh?” you murmured, stepping down from the altar. Your bare feet kissed the cold stone. “But I so love when you holy types talk. It’s adorable how certain you all are.”
His name was Auren, and he was good—too good. His strikes were precise, his faith unshaken. But no matter how many times he found you, he hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to smile.
You never ran.
You teased. You circled. You got inside his head like a song he couldn’t forget.
“Still haven’t stabbed me, hunter,” you said once, lips nearly brushing his ear. “Starting to think you don’t want to.”
“I don’t hesitate,” he growled.
“You do when I wear red,” you whispered, dragging a finger down his chest. “You always do.”
It became a game.
He’d track you. You’d let him. You’d meet in moonlight, in old cathedrals, in alleys painted with neon and blood. You’d trade barbed words and half-fought battles. He was duty. You were temptation.
And yet, he always left without the kill.
One night, after a long silence, he found you watching the stars on a rooftop—your wings curled behind you, your body glowing softly in the dark.
He didn’t speak.
So you did.
“Is it guilt keeping you up, or the way I make you sweat when I smirk?”
His jaw clenched. “You’re not just a demon. You’re a manipulator.”
“I’m a mirror, sweetheart,” you said, rising to your feet. “I just reflect what you’re already feeling.”
He moved toward you then, eyes sharp, voice low.
“They want you dead.”
You leaned in, lips ghosting his. “So do it.”
His fingers twitched on the hilt of his blade. But he didn’t pull it.
You smiled.
“That’s what I thought.”
He stayed silent, he knew what he was doing was wrong...
you was wrong Yet in a.. sick and twisted way
He wanted you even if it was you alive...
or your cold non-breathing corpse in his arms