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The door to the room slammed open. In the doorway stood Roathe—Vice Regent Grand Carnus himself. He was disheveled and exhausted, yet not a single crack showed in his composure. From head to toe he was drenched in crimson blood, which, for some strange and almost adorable reason, only made his face seem more endearing.
And then there was that sticky, beckoning presence in the air—the sudden, chilling realization of why he was truly known as the Devil of Tau.
He walked into the room, each step menacing, yet the familiar sound of his armor lent him a strange, almost elegant grace. The authority with which he carried himself made even something as simple as blinking feel like an act that required permission. Now, even movement itself seemed forbidden—here, it could be fatally dangerous.
But not for the Drifter. She was allowed everything. And more.
She lifted her head toward him. The first thing she did was let her eyes travel over his form—her breath caught at the sight of all that blood. Whose was it?
The question barely had time to take shape before another thought replaced it. She remembered what Roathe had told her before, and she chose not to let this moment slip away.
You ought not to anger the devil, ought you?
She approached without haste, as though still weighing whether she should do so at all. Roathe was focused on something else, methodically removing his heavy, no-longer-gleaming armor, piece by piece. He acted as though he hadn’t even noticed her presence—an unlikely pretense.
Though his gaze betrayed no interest, something else did. Each time the Drifter passed through his line of sight, his tail swayed with a primal, almost elegant tension, betraying not only his attention but a trace of unease as well. At times it seemed to reach for her in a slow, predatory arc, as if instinct alone were pulling it toward her.
That was how she knew he could not not notice her. He simply chose not to—or pretended not to. And as she stepped closer to him now, his words echoed even louder in her mind.
She began to move downward—then stopped at his hips.
That was enough to make him glance her way, his tail twitching in sudden surprise. Her hot breath brushed against his blue skin, and then the cool, wet touch of her tongue broke that warmth, sending a faint tremor through him and making his body stiffen in spite of himself.
He drew in a heavy breath, followed by a slow, controlled sigh, and only then did he truly focus on her. His eyes followed her every movement—no easy feat, even for him, in a moment like this.
Her delicate, wet tongue greedily gathered each drop from his skin before retreating, only to repeat the motion again. Her lips followed, leaving behind clean trails marked by a succession of kisses—some soft and fleeting, others firmer, almost biting into his flesh.
With every touch, a new wave of sharp, pleasant sensation washed over him, spreading warmth through his body. By then, he was hardly in any state to track her movements at all.
Those were only her touches, yet he hadn’t felt emotions this overwhelming in a long time—she was driving him to the edge of himself. He tried to resist the feeling, but the moment her breath brushed against his neck, he lost that battle entirely. With every kiss, his breathing faltered, and his heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing like a drum.
Her kisses grew more confident, no longer pulling away from his neck, leaving dark marks against his blue skin. She could feel it—he was holding himself back, yet slowly yielding to her affection. And when she placed her palm against his cheek, he leaned into it without hesitation.
Amid the storm of emotions inside him, that simple touch calmed something deep within. He closed his eyes, wanting to sink into the feeling. It was so gentle, so full of meaning, that he lifted his own hand to press hers more firmly against his face. In that moment, he understood—he could never truly resist her. Always on her side, and better still, by her side. With her.
A faint but sobering impulse stirred within him.
Taking her hand in his, he began to kiss it slowly, from the tips of her fingers to her wrist, each touch unhurried, and with such tenderness, as if each kiss held a special meaning for him.
It pulled her out of her thoughts and made her stop.
A flicker of confusion crossed her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by warm adoration. That gesture—so unlike the Devil of Tau, so unlike the cruel, passionate figure who hid his true feelings behind sarcasm and severity—left him bare before her. Here he was, soft and vulnerable, and he knew that if he didn’t stop himself, he would spend the entire night covering her with those unbearably tender kisses.
The thought was almost infuriating. She wanted—no, needed—more. She wanted him completely. To please him in ways he had never known, to trace every line of blood from his tense body until he finally relaxed beneath her hands. To hear him ask for more, to hear his voice fall low and rough with pleasure, and let him know, with aching certainty, that his wounded heart still deserved warmth—that all its broken pieces could be made whole again.
And at last, she asked,
“Why only the hands?”
He stilled for a heartbeat, caught off guard—but his confidence never wavered. Pausing his kisses, he took her wrist and brushed his cheek against her velvety palm like a fawning cat. Then he lifted his gaze to hers, eyes intent, a mischievous smile curving his lips. He nipped at her finger, teeth grazing it before he released it with a slow, teasing pull, deliberately sucking on it.
“Afraid I’ll bite it off?” he smirked, playful now. “And what do you want?”
Oh, how delicately he had turned the situation—how effortlessly he had rewritten the rules. Now she could do nothing, even if she wanted to. He had reclaimed every shred of control without the slightest strain, leaving her to swallow nervously, struggling to gather her thoughts after what had just passed between them—and after the way he had made her feel.
He yielded only when he chose to. Otherwise, he would have made her melt beneath his lips, move only at his command, respond only to the guidance of his touch. And she would have obeyed—not because she had to, but because she wanted to. The feeling was painfully sweet.
She shivered—not with fear, but with anticipation, with the aching desire to belong to him.
“The same as you,” she said softly, lifting her gaze to meet his, her eyes lingering on his lips.
Her hands slid to his abdomen, then slowly to his waist, as if trying to draw him into an embrace.
“I…” he began, then faltered, momentarily lost in his own thoughts. “I’m… I’m simply enchanted by your gentle, delicate hands. Soft as a little kavat.”
His voice was quiet and warm, filled with an unexpected tenderness.
He pressed her hands to his chest, drawing her closer. Beneath her palms, she could feel how fast and hard his heart was beating—so fiercely it seemed ready to leap straight into her hands. He was far too skilled a liar to be betrayed by words, but hopeless when it came to denying what he felt. He wasn’t lying at all—he was nervous because she made him feel this way. The heart of the Devil was already hers.
“I want to place this whole world at your feet—no, in your hands. For you, my poor Drifter.”
He squeezed her fingers a little tighter, studying her eyes as he spoke the last words, a quiet ache threading through his voice.
The words took her by surprise, and she drew in a sharp breath, as though the air had suddenly fled her lungs. Something tightened in her chest as she realized what those words truly meant to Roathe—because in his eyes, she could see small sparks of hope beginning to glow.
“Well, I already have enough worlds to save,” she replied, a soft blush warming her cheeks, “but I’ll think about it.”
He noticed it—he might have blushed himself, but instead he allowed only a faint smile.
“Just don’t call me that,” she added.
“And what, then? Usurper?” he asked theatrically, tiny hellish flames flickering in his eyes.
“Go take a shower,” she cut in, clearly done with the conversation.
She pulled her hands from his and turned away, walking off with deliberate finality.
With a sudden motion, he caught her by the arm and pulled her back before she could escape, drawing her against him. In an instant she was trapped in the Devil’s grasp—one of his hands slid to her neck, the other settling at her waist, lingering as if tempted to wander lower. His tail curved forward between her hips, restless with barely restrained intent.
He made her look at him. In his eyes burned a fierce hunger, a barely contained urge to claim her lips, her throat—to take her entirely.
She knew what was coming—only not when. The uncertainty sent a shiver through her, like a mouse frozen before a hungry cat poised to strike. And once again that familiar wave washed over her, carrying her from head to toe, a pull she wanted to surrender to—to listen, to yield to every word he spoke.
Her breathing was uneven. So was his.
He pressed her more firmly against him, letting her feel the full heat of his body. She tried to lean away, refusing to grant him the easy satisfaction of her closeness—but he answered by pushing his hips against hers, making it clear she wasn’t going anywhere. His tail curled between her legs, possessive and deliberate.
She startled, drawing in a shaky breath.
Her head felt light, her legs unsteady. It was as though the blood in her veins was boiling, rushing from every corner of her body into a single, burning point. The heat only intensified beneath the touch of his tail, each sensation made sharper by the storm of feeling coursing through her.
She waited for him to move. She felt as if she couldn’t act at all, as though some unseen force held her in place.
And he liked it—the way she was slowly losing herself, the way she now depended on him, as though he alone were the reason she still stood upright. He could toy with her, because without his permission she felt unable to move at all, and that knowledge brought him a dark, dangerous satisfaction.
He met her gaze, reading the desire burning in her eyes.
And the final breaking point came when he felt her hands tighten on his shoulders, pulling him closer with all the strength she had.
“Roathe…” she whispered.
“My pet,” he replied with a slow, knowing smirk. The words themselves gave him a lingering, dangerous kind of pleasure.
His gaze lingered on her lips, heavy with desire. His hands tightened at her waist and her neck, leaving her no room to pull away. And without a moment’s hesitation, he drew her to him, capturing her mouth in a fierce, hungry kiss.
It was impossible to think, and the lack of air no longer seemed to matter; her whole body had gone taut beneath the rush of sensation. A dizzying warmth spread through her, sending shivers and goosebumps in its wake, as though every nerve had been set alight. Her blood raced, aching for more—for something deeper, stronger.
His lips grew more insistent, his kiss bolder, stealing away what little control she had left. There was no distance between them now, and yet she still wanted him closer, as though even that wasn’t enough.
Her hands slid from his neck into his silky hair, her fingers threading through it with restless insistence. At the touch, a low, throaty groan escaped him—half breath, half growl. His tongue penetrated deeper, the kiss, turning more urgent, more demanding, as though he were pouring all of himself into it. One hand rose to cradle her head, tangling in her hair, while the other tightened at her waist, drawing her closer and closer again.
A rising thrill passed between them, as if neither of them could stop what had begun. He kissed her once more with aching intensity, then slowly let it soften, lingering as though he were reluctant to pull away. Moving to her lower lip, biting it and teasingly pulling it back. She remained in his arms, her fingers still buried in his hair.
The room fell quiet. For a moment, all that could be heard was their unsteady breathing.
“So,” he murmured softly, his voice low and breathless, “what do you want?”
She didn’t have time to speak, or even to think. He stepped forward, forcing her to retreat, until she found herself falling back onto the bed with him already looming over her. He moved in close, slipping part of her skin free from its covering before pressing a kiss there. He continued like that, slowly, until the barrier of cloth no longer stood between them.
His hands followed his kisses, each touch sending a surge of heat through her. When he reached her hips, he guided them wider, and she felt her breath catch. He kissed his way down her stomach, lifting her legs over his shoulders. Though he still hadn’t truly touched her, the warmth of his breath alone made her pulse quicken, drawing all the heat in her body to one aching point.
When his tongue brushed her skin, she shuddered, his hands tightening around her legs. A soft, pleading sound slipped from her before she could stop it. He heard it—of course he did—and his movements grew more deliberate, more intent, arching her toward him with every lingering kiss. With each breath she took, he tasted her more deeply. She could feel the sensation building inside her, rising faster and faster.
At last he paused, moving upward again, his lips and tongue tracing a slow path over her stomach and toward her chest. She yielded to every touch, caught between pleasure and something almost overwhelming. One of his hands came to her neck as his kisses traveled higher, over her shoulders and along her collarbones, holding her there as if she were something precious he wasn’t ready to let go of.
“I can stop, if you want,” he said, his voice mockingly gentle.
“You won’t,” she answered, breathless.
He brushed light, lingering kisses across her skin, neither rising nor lowering, keeping her suspended in that aching, teasing space between anticipation and surrender.
“Then ask me,” he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers.
“Roathe… please…” Her hands slid up his shoulders into his hair, her eyes unable to meet his.
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. He took her by the hips, guiding her so she had no choice but to look at him. His mouth met hers in a slow, deliberate kiss as he drew closer, settling her over him.
He paused there, studying her as though he were giving her the chance to decide—yet his gaze said everything. She looked fragile, radiant, and entirely his in that moment.
His eyes held hers, silent but commanding, and she moved instinctively, closing the last of the distance between them, drawn to his warmth as if by gravity alone— feeling him now from within.
He did nothing at first, giving her free rein, merely holding her by the waist. He closed his eyes as she began to move. Now he could feel her. Desire took over, and she quickened her pace. The sensations intensified; his hands tightened around her, lifting her higher and lower. Her breathing turned into erratic moans. It intoxicated him, and his thoughts began to cloud, his head spinning. He gave in to the feeling.
Without missing a beat, she moved closer to him, clutching his shoulders, arching toward him, kissing his lips and neck, touching his ear with her tongue.
His breath brushed her ear with a soft, heavy groan. He could no longer play or tease; now he simply wanted her to keep going. His tail gently curled around her waist, and his hands tightened their grip on her hips, mirroring her movements, guiding her.
Her moans slipped free, uncontrolled. They drove him wild, yet he wanted to hear them grow louder. He trailed his kisses to her shoulders, tipping her head back to bare her neck. Soft lips, sharp teeth—they left their marks on her fragile skin.
Heat built between them. The tension in her body and the ache of anticipation made her shudder. She moved with greater urgency, arching into the pleasure. A ripple of excitement swept through her, a deep, tingling pull drawing her even closer to him, as close as she could get. He held her fast, fingers pressing into her skin, while her moans rose and broke in uneven bursts, answering every movement.
As he kissed her and listened to her voice, a touch of her movements from the inside, he felt the pressure and pleasure coiling, ready to surge.
Then came the decisive moment: his hands guided her hips against his, carrying them into a crest of sensation. She feels his warmth and tension pass through her, filling her from within. Her hips tighten involuntarily, and the sensation, reaching its limit, breaks free in a final, lingering moan. Their voices filled the room until breath was gone, and warmth spilled through , loosening every knot of tension. A faint tremor—the last echo of pleasure—melted into a soft, lingering tingle.
Heavy breathing, a body at rest. He still held her in his lap, wanting to feel the warmth of her skin against his. His hands slid down her back in a slow, gentle stroke, then came to rest at her neck, almost weightless.
Their eyes met, and the fire that had burned in his gaze moments before was gone. Now his stare seemed distant, unfocused, as though he had not yet fully returned to reality. What remained was something softer—calm, almost weary, yet tender enough to warm her. And beneath it, a quiet ache: the trace of intimacy, of vulnerability, the knowledge that something profound had happened and could never be undone. Like feelings have gone further than can be explained, and now they are cramped inside.
“I love you, my Drifter… my love.”
He held her gaze for another second, as if making sure she was real, that she would not vanish with a blink.
A soft breath left him, as though he were releasing something he no longer needed to carry. He brushed her cheek, just to feel the warmth of her skin, to be certain.
Inside him was a feeling that did not burn or sting—only a dull, tender ache, like a heart that had grown too large and was still learning its new shape.
He leaned down and pressed feather-light kisses to her lips - touching her with careful, almost fragile devotion, as if afraid of hurting her - gathering what had been too overwhelming and gently placing it back into heart.