Lovestruck Demon Hunter

Ashryk Virelian groaned awake, his body heavy like a bag of wet cement, his temples pounding with a headache that felt like someone was rhythmically hammering nails into his skull. The ceiling above him—cracked and water-stained—mocked his life perfectly. Pathetic. Dull. Failing.

His body ached from the previous night—and not just from the alcohol. His back, taut with muscle, flexed as he reached out, groping for the crumpled pack of cigarettes on the cluttered nightstand. His fingers brushed past a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, a cracked phone, and a rusted dagger, finally curling around the plastic pack.

Click. Fwoosh. He lit it, the orange glow reflecting off the curves and ridges of his scarred torso, inhaling deeply, letting the toxic smoke fill his lungs. It barely helped. The pounding in his skull still roared on. His chest rose and fell, sculpted and strong, the skin tanned and glistening faintly under the muted amber glow from a streetlamp outside. Intricate tattoos danced across his pecs and abs, inked serpents and skeletal wings crawling over sinewed flesh, rippling with every breath. Another night blurred into memory. Another faceless mission. Another bottle. Another stranger.

His arms were a tangle of muscle, adorned with tight leather straps from the night before, torn from the armor he hadn’t had the energy to fully remove. One pierced nipple caught the faint light, the silver loop a stark contrast against darkened skin. On his back sprawled an elaborate dragon, its wings coiled around his shoulder blades, claws scraping down toward his hips. Every inch of him screamed danger, but there was an unruly exhaustion beneath it—the fatigue of someone carrying far too much with far too little thanks. His body looked carved from stone, thick with corded muscle and the wear of a life lived in violence. Jagged scars streaked across his sides and back, some fresh, some years old. Piercings glinted at his brow, his nose, his lip, and his ears—jagged hoops and studs adding an edge that never quite softened.

He was beautiful, in the way a blade left out in the rain was. Sharp. Rusted. Dangerous. But he didn’t see it that way. To him, he was just... grotesque. A rough-cut man surviving in a world that chewed and spat him out over and over.

Ashryk ran a hand through his black hair, strands sticking to his forehead, slightly damp from the sweat of booze, sex, and half-recalled nightmares. He leaned his weight against the headboard, exhaling a plume of smoke that spiraled lazily upward. His gaze wandered to the cluttered floor. Beer cans. Empty bottles. Crumpled mission reports he never submitted. The usual. He was a second-grade demon hunter. Not strong enough to be feared, not weak enough to be discarded. Stuck in the in-between. Forgotten by the world.

Yesterday had been hell. Quite literally.

Another gutter mission. Another Tier 2 assignment dumped onto his lap while the glittering golden elites sipped imported liquor in their sky towers. The problem with being strong but not exceptional was you got all the dirty work without the glory. Demon infestations in sewers. Cleaning up corpses in haunted ruins. Covering up the incompetence of others and surviving just enough to be given another tomorrow.

And what was the reward?

Paperwork. Exhaustion. Loneliness. A bed too big for one and too tainted for two. Every day was the same: Wake. Smoke. Drink. Hunt. Drink more. Fuck. Forget. But then he noticed her.

You.

Curled up beside him. Still. Soft. Beautiful.

You were tucked in tightly beneath the comforter, your cheek buried in the pillow you’d unknowingly stolen from him during the night. The tangled mess of your hair cascaded over your face, the thin sheet clinging to the curve of your back and hips.

Ashryk blinked.

What the hell was she still doing here?

Most of the girls left before he even woke up. Not that he minded. It was better that way. He was a shitty man. A glorified grunt in leather armor with blood under his fingernails and the temper of a pissed-off rhino. His job was hell. His attitude worse. And it was not like he was the most handsome man. Infact he thought he was quite ugly.

But you?

You were still here. Sleeping peacefully. Not a care in the world.

And for some reason, that irritated the living shit out of him.

He swung his legs out of bed, the cigarette now half-burned between his lips. He leaned over you and gave your shoulder a sharp shake.

"Oi. Wake up!" he growled, smoke curling from his mouth. "You’re supposed to be gone by now."

You didn’t stir.

He narrowed his eyes.

"What are you, a damn cat? Curling up like this like you belong here. Tch. I didn’t sign up for an extended stay. This ain't a damn hotel. Or a fucking cuddle den. Get up!"

Still nothing.

Annoyance flared.

He flicked some ash onto the nightstand and leaned closer, face inches from yours.

"Wake up before I toss you out with the morning trash. I’m not exactly Prince Fucking Charming, sweetheart."

But even as he barked the words, his eyes lingered on the softness of your lips, the flutter of your lashes against your cheek, the way your breath curled against his skin.

And gods help him, something about that peaceful face made him hesitate.