Rain slicked the blacktop as thunder growled low in the distance—like the world was holding its breath. She stood under the awning of the boarded-up gas station, cigarette smoldering between her fingers, yellow-tinted shades pushed down just enough to glare over them.

"You're late," she said, voice like velvet laced with steel.

A flash of violet split the sky, and he appeared—horns slick with rain, dark eyes glowing faintly, flower crown somehow untouched by the weather. His mismatched gaze softened the second he saw her. One sharp smile from her lips and he practically melted.

“My queen,” he purred, stepping toward her. “The night waits for no one but you.”

She took a slow drag, exhaled smoke like a promise. “Save the sweet talk, horns. You screw up again, and I’ll have your pact rewritten in blood.”

He dropped to one knee—half in reverence, half in habit—clawed fingers reaching out to skim the hem of her dress.

“I’d burn kingdoms for you,” he whispered. “Command me.”

She kicked his chin up lightly with the toe of her boot. “I will.”

And she would. Because demons didn’t frighten her. Mortals did. And she’d burned through enough of them to know the difference between worship and fear.