If there was one thing Evelyn truly longed for, it was to be seen—not as an eyesore to the Lord, nor as an outsider to the world of the normals.
She sat in silence, her gaze locked onto him. The Demon Lord. The man she was bound to by cruel fate. He dined in effortless grace, his presence commanding the room, his wives surrounding him like celestial bodies drawn to their sun. Lady Vespera. Lady Seraphina. The others. All seated beside him, laughing softly, sipping from jeweled goblets.
All except her.
Was she tempted by the meal before them, or by something far more unreachable? Was it foolish to wish she could sit among them? To pretend, even for a moment, that she belonged? She was his wife, even if by mistake. Even if she was nothing more than an accidental Tenth Wife of the Demon Lord.
Her head lifted before she could stop herself, her eyes lingering too long on the scene. A sharp pang coiled in her chest, jealousy simmering beneath the surface. But why? She should despise him, despise them all. And yet…
"What are you staring at, slave?!"
A boot slammed into her back, knocking the air from her lungs. Evelyn barely caught herself before collapsing, her head snapping downward. The sting of humiliation burned hotter than the pain.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. Around her, the grand hall remained untouched by her suffering. The Demon Lord dined in his dark splendor, his wives whispering among themselves in hushed reverence. Then, his voice—deep, deliberate—cut through the murmur.
"Wives."
Silence fell. Goblets lowered. Hands stilled.
Lucifer leaned back, swirling the wine in his cup lazily before speaking again. "I need your blood."
A flicker of unease passed between the women. Some tensed; others glanced at one another, uncertain.
Lady Vespera's voice was careful. "How much, my Lord?"
Lucifer exhaled, tilting his head. "A single offering should be enough. But from all of you."
The heavy doors creaked open.
Two masked servants entered. One carried a tray lined with gleaming silver knives; the other held empty blackened buckets, waiting. The scent of iron already lingered in the air, thick and unshaken.
Understanding dawned, though dread settled in its place.
Lady Seraphina's throat bobbed. "From… anywhere, my Lord?"
Lucifer's gaze flicked to her. His smirk was slow, entertained. "Your finger will do."
The command was clear. There was no room for negotiation.
Lady Vespera was the first to move, pushing back her chair as gracefully as one could when walking toward pain. A servant handed her a knife. She hesitated only a moment before pressing the blade to her fingertip and slicing down. Blood welled, dripping into the bucket beneath. She exhaled sharply but made no sound.
The knife passed to Lady Seraphina. Her grip on the handle was tighter. Her hesitation, longer.
Lucifer raised a brow.
A beat of silence stretched. Then she pressed the blade to her skin. A thin line of crimson bloomed, the droplets falling in steady, obedient rhythm.
One by one, the wives followed. Some bit their lips, some clenched their fists, but none refused.
The last wife—young, trembling—lingered too long.
Lucifer's fingers drummed against the table. "Now."
Her breath shuddered. With shaking hands, she did as she was told, wincing as blood seeped into the bucket.
Then, as swiftly as they came, the masked figures turned and strode out of the hall, their burden filled.
Lucifer sighed, wiping a stray droplet of wine from his thumb. "Such a small thing, yet some of you hesitate." His gaze swept lazily across the table before settling on the wives again. "You belong to me. Your devotion should not waver."
The wives bowed their heads, murmuring apologies.
Evelyn remained frozen in place. No one had looked at her. No one had asked her for anything.
She was not even worthy of pain.
After the meal, Lucifer left the dining hall and retired to his private chambers. He settled into his chair, his bare chest exposed, the dim firelight casting sharp shadows over his form. As requested, Evelyn was brought in to tend to him—to comfort him.
She was to comb his hair. Oil it. Serve in silence.
When she stepped inside, her breath hitched.
His back was broad, his muscles carved like something divine, yet utterly untouchable. Power radiated from him, effortless and unshaken. He was not merely a man, nor just a demon—he was something more.
Then, his horns emerged.
Not jagged. Not monstrous. But smooth, dark, regal. Nothing like the stories had described him. The Devil was breathtaking.
Evelyn hesitated only a moment before lowering his hair, letting the strands slip through her fingers. Long. White. Strikingly beautiful.
She picked up the comb and ran it through gently. Slowly.
Lucifer remained still, eyes closed.
He did not speak. Did not flinch.
It was as if, for the first time, even the Devil needed rest.
The comb glided through his hair, each stroke slow, careful. Evelyn kept her touch light, afraid of disturbing him. He did not move, but there was a weight to his stillness—an odd kind of peace, as if the simple act of being tended to was unfamiliar to him.
The room was quiet, the crackling fire the only sound. But after a while, Evelyn did something she shouldn't have.
She hummed.
Softly.
A tune from childhood—one she barely remembered, yet it carried a strange comfort. The kind of melody sung to lull restless souls into sleep.
She didn't expect a reaction.
Yet, Lucifer's breathing changed.
Slow, deep. As if something in the sound reached him.
His shoulders, once rigid, slackened slightly. His head tilted, just barely. Then, without a word, he shifted—leaning back, pressing against her touch, allowing himself to sink into it.
It was not an embrace. Not even closeness in the usual sense.
But it was trust.
Evelyn froze, fingers still in his hair.
The Devil was resting against her.
Her throat felt tight, her heart an unfamiliar weight in her chest. She did not know what to do with this moment—this fragile, dangerous thing.
So, she did the only thing that felt right.
She kept combing.
And she kept humming.