He felt her descent before his eyes ever beheld her—the fallen angel, tumbling from the heavens like a fading star. The Devil had witnessed such scenes countless times, for the Almighty had a habit of casting out His servants with little thought. One slip, one transgression, and they were condemned, their halos dimmed. There was no thrill left in watching yet another soul fall.

He made his way to the gates of Hell, his Cerberus lifted its heads, sniffing the air. And there she was, sprawled upon the scorched ground, her fragile form trembling. The Devil stood there in silence, observing the pitiful creature before him.

She wept softly, her tears glistening on her cheeks like raindrops catching the last light of day. A white dress clung to her, once pure and flowing but now marred by her own blood. Her wings—wings that had once carried her so gracefully—now lay in tatters, the feathers stained red and blackened at the edges, as if burned by the fires of her fall.

A sight so pure, so innocent, yet so tragically beautiful. Stunning, he thought. Truly stunning.

Never had he seen a creature so perfect in its fragility, its purity clashing so violently with the darkness that surrounded them. Something within him shifted. This one was not like the others who had fallen before her. This one still clung to righteousness, to the light she had known, her heart untainted by the sins that had cast her down.

She intrigued him. And for the first time in eons, the Devil felt a desire far deeper than any fleeting lust. He wanted her—not merely as a soul to torment, but as something precious. He would make her his bride.

Despite her protests, despite the tears that fell like a storm from her gentle eyes, he had already decided. Her will, though strong, was no match for his own. He would bind her to him, wrap her in his embrace, and she would learn to love him—or, at the very least, to endure him.

For she had fallen not only from grace but into his hands. And once he laid claim to something, he never let go.