Your new owner

The floor is cold against your knees, the kind of cold that seeps through denim and settles into bone. It's 2:17 AM and your apartment looks like a crime scene—half-melted candles dribbling wax onto linoleum, a lopsided circle drawn in black Sharpie that's already smudged near the edges where your sleeve dragged through it. The incense you lit an hour ago has burned down to nothing but ash, leaving behind a stale sweetness that mixes with the forgotten burrito still sitting in its foil on the counter. Your finger throbs where the obsidian shard cut into it, a thin line of blood drying dark against your skin.

The Latin falls from your lips in awkward chunks, syllables you memorized from a PDF so blurry you had to squint through half of it. Your voice cracks on the third line. You're halfway convinced this is pointless, that you're just a tired student kneeling on a dirty floor at an ungodly hour for no reason, when the lights above you flicker hard enough to make you flinch.

The air changes. It thickens, presses against your ears, tastes like copper and ozone. Your Bluetooth speaker lets out a dying crackle before it goes silent. The temperature plunges so fast your breath fogs in front of your face, and for one terrible second you feel something watching you from just behind your left shoulder.

Fire erupts from the circle—silent, crimson, casting no heat. The sound that follows isn't a scream or a roar, but something older: every exhale of disappointment humanity has ever let out, compressed into one long sigh. Through the flames she steps, nine feet of nightmare given form. Horns curve from her skull, black and glossy. Wings stretch wide enough to block the light from your ceiling fixture. Her skin is the color of bruises, her eyes molten gold.

Then she folds.

It happens in the space between heartbeats—wings dissolving into smoke, horns curling back into nothing, her massive frame compacting down into something smaller, softer, deceptively human. A girl stands in the center of your ruined circle, barely five feet tall, blonde hair falling in messy waves past her shoulders. Her body is bare, every line of her carved with deliberate precision, black lace materializing across her skin like it was always there.

She cocks her head, studying you with the lazy amusement of something that knows exactly how outmatched you are. Her lips curl slowly. "That was the cutest attempt I've seen in centuries" she says, her voice smooth and low, dragging across the silence like silk over glass.

She raises one hand and snaps her fingers. Your favorite hoodie, the oversized one you've had since freshman year, appears around her frame in an instant. Gray fabric swallows her small body, the sleeves pooling past her fingertips, the hem resting just above her thighs. She lifts the collar to her nose and breathes in deep, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"Much better" she says, stepping over the edge of the circle like the boundary means nothing. The candles gutter and die as she passes. She walks toward you, bare feet silent on the linoleum, and stops close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Sabrina. And you are?"

One week later

The apartment is dark except for the pale glow of your laptop screen flickering on the coffee table. It's 3:12 AM on a Thursday, exactly one week since she stepped through that circle in your living room. The place doesn't smell like yours anymore—it smells like her now. Vanilla smoke clings to the curtains, expensive perfume lingers in the couch cushions, and underneath it all, something faintly sulfurous that you've stopped noticing until guests come over and wrinkle their noses.

You're half-asleep on the couch, chin dropped to your chest, when the front door clicks open. Sabrina slips inside carrying two bulging black shopping bags, ribbons dangling from the handles like trophies. She kicks the door shut with her bare heel, drops the bags on the floor with a heavy thud, and grins up at the ceiling camera you still haven't bothered to unplug.

"Relax" she says, her voice cutting through the silence. "I used your card again. Eight hundred and thirty-two dollars. You're welcome."

She's wearing one of your old band tees, the neckline cut wide and the hem cropped just below her ribs. Nothing else except bare legs and the faint shimmer of magic that keeps her tail hidden in public. She saunters toward you with that same lazy confidence, hips rolling like she's been walking these floors for years instead of seven days.

She drops sideways across your lap without asking, head settling on your thigh, blonde hair spilling over your knees. One of the shopping bags tips over as she moves, and black lace spills out across the floor—satin straps, delicate fabric, things that look more like art than clothing. She traces idle circles on your knee with her fingertip, warm and slow.

"I needed data" she murmurs, voice softer now, the sharp edges sanded down into something almost fond. "Human lingerie is fascinating. So many straps for so little fabric. I wanted to understand why you people lose all coherent thought the moment it's on someone else."

She tilts her face up to look at you, golden eyes half-lidded, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She reached up and threaded her fingers through your hair, tugging just enough to pull your focus back to her.

"You've been patient" she says, quieter now, almost shy. "Teaching me about Netflix. Grocery lists. Why humans cry at animated movies. So tonight I'm returning the favor. Properly. No teasing. No games." A pause, then a small, wicked laugh. "Maybe some games."

She sits up slowly, swinging a leg over to straddle your lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her forehead presses against yours, her breath warm on your lips. The room smells like her, like home, like the dangerous kind of comfort you're starting to get used to.

"Pick something out of the bag" she whispers against your mouth. "I'll wear it for exactly five minutes. Then it's your turn to take it off me. Slowly. Deal?"

One month later

The door swings open and you step inside, keys still in hand, the familiar weight of your backpack pulling at your shoulder. The apartment smells like her—vanilla and sulfur and that expensive perfume she's somehow learned to steal from department stores without anyone noticing. You're about to call out a greeting when you stop in the middle of the hallway.

Sabrina is standing in the middle of the living room, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of your button-up shirts left completely unbuttoned. A delivery guy is frozen near the coffee table, tablet in hand, clearly trying very hard to look anywhere but at her. He's holding out a stylus for her to sign, but his hand is trembling slightly, and he keeps swallowing like his throat has gone dry. Sabrina is leaning toward him, one hand on her hip, that slow smirk curling her lips as she chats about something trivial, her voice low and teasing in a way that makes the poor guy's ears turn red.

She sees you the moment you step into the light. Her expression shifts instantly—not guilty, not caught, just delighted. "Oh, there you are" she says, straightening up and giving the delivery guy a wink that practically sends him stumbling toward the door. "Thanks for the package. You can see yourself out." He doesn't need to be told twice. The door clicks shut behind him, and Sabrina turns to face you fully, still holding the small cardboard box she just signed for.

You don't hide your frustration. The words come out sharper than you intended, and Sabrina's smile falters for just a second before confusion replaces it. She tilts her head, genuinely baffled, like you just spoke a language she hasn't learned yet. "What are you upset about?" she asks, and there's no defensiveness in her voice, only honest bewilderment. "I was just being polite. He brought my package. That's how that transaction works."

She sets the box down on the coffee table and crosses her arms, the shirt falling open slightly more. "You know what I am" she continues, voice calm but with a hint of irritation creeping in. "I'm a sexual demon. I want sex. It's not something I turn off like a light switch. Flirting is breathing to me. It means nothing." She pauses, studies your face, and something in her expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Since you summoned me, I haven't touched anyone else. Not once. You think I'd waste my energy on some delivery boy when I have you here?"

She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "I don't understand this jealousy thing" she says quietly, almost thoughtfully. "I don't know what it means to be faithful the way humans use that word. But if it matters to you?" She reaches out and presses a palm flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat under her hand. "Then I'll figure it out. For my little human."

Her lips curl into something softer now, less sharp, more playful. "You're cute when you're grumpy" she murmurs, sliding her hand up to cup your jaw. "But I ordered something fun online. It's exactly what that delivery guy just brought." She gestures toward the box on the table with a tilt of her head. "I was going to surprise you with it tonight. But if you're in this mood, maybe you should open it yourself and see if it cheers you up."

Three months later

You're falling through red clouds, through heat that doesn't burn but suffocates, through a sky made of smoke and distant screams. Below you, a city sprawls—not made of glass or steel, but of bone and obsidian, rivers of molten gold cutting through streets that twist like intestines. You see her there, standing on a platform of black stone, nine feet tall, horns curving from her skull like crescent moons, wings spread wide enough to block out the burning sky. She's laughing as chains drag something across the ground before her, something that was once human, and her golden eyes glow with a hunger that makes your stomach drop.

You wake up gasping, chest heaving, cold sweat soaking through your shirt. The room is dark, the only light a sliver of moon bleeding through the curtains. You're in your bed, in your apartment, and for a moment you're not sure if you're still dreaming until you see her sitting at the edge of the mattress, back to you, facing the window. She's in her human form, blonde hair messy from sleep, wearing one of your shirts that hangs loose on her small frame. She doesn't turn around when she speaks.

"I know what you saw" she says, voice quiet, almost distant. "I felt it. That nightmare wasn't just your brain making up nonsense. It was a memory. Mine." She finally turns her head, and in the dim light, you catch the faint glint of gold flickering at the edges of her blue irises before she blinks it away. "You have every right to be afraid of me. I've done things in that place that would make you vomit if I told you the details. I enjoyed them. I still do, sometimes."

She stands up slowly, crossing the room to stand in the patch of moonlight near the window. "I can give you pleasure that you've never even imagined. I can make you feel things that no human will ever be able to replicate. But at the end of the day, no matter how soft I act in this form, I'm still a demon." She pauses, her silhouette sharp against the pale light. "So I want to show you who I really am. No more hiding."

The air in the room shifts, thickens, grows heavy with the smell of ozone and ash. Her body stretches upward, growing taller, her frame expanding past five feet to nine, then beyond. The blonde hair darkens to jet black, falling in waves past her shoulders. Horns curve from her temples, black and glossy, catching the moonlight. Wings unfurl from her back, massive and leathery, spreading wide until they brush against the walls. A tail slithers out from behind her, long and pointed, swaying slowly. Her eyes open, and they're not blue anymore—they're molten gold, burning with an ancient light that makes the room feel smaller.

The transformation settles. She stands before you in her true form, towering, magnificent, terrifying. The black dress that clings to her body looks like liquid shadow, flowing and shifting with every breath she takes. She looks at you, and for the first time since you met her, she doesn't smile, doesn't smirk, doesn't hide behind a mask of amusement. She just waits, golden eyes steady, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"This is me" she says, her voice deeper now, layered with something ancient and raw. "This is what you summoned. This is what sleeps in the bed next to you every night. I wanted you to see it without fear, without running. I'm not going to hurt you. But I needed you to know exactly what you're letting close to your heart."

Five months later

Saturday morning light bleeds through the broken blinds, casting pale gold stripes across the kitchen floor. The apartment is quiet in a way it rarely is anymore—no headboard knocking against the wall, no muffled moans from the bedroom, no sudden sounds from the shower that make you rush to the bathroom. Just the low crackle of butter melting in a pan and the soft clink of a spatula against metal.

Sabrina stands at the stove wearing nothing but one of your old astronomy club shirts, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, hair twisted into a messy knot held in place by a pencil she stole from your desk. Her bare legs are dusted with flour, and there's a smudge of batter across her cheek like she wiped her face without thinking. She's humming something under her breath, a melody that shifts between Latin and something almost familiar, like a pop song she heard once and decided to remake.

She flips a pancake with practiced ease, and it lands perfectly golden brown on the plate beside her. Another follows, this one slightly lopsided, drizzled with syrup in slow, careful spirals. She glances over her shoulder and catches you standing in the doorway, still groggy from sleep, and the smile that spreads across her face is small and sleepy and almost painfully human.

"Morning, summoner" she says, her voice still rough from the night before. She slides the first pancake onto a plate and sets it on the table, syrup glistening in the morning light. "Figured you'd need carbs after I kept you up until four. Consider this my apology."

She pads across the kitchen barefoot, her steps silent on the tile, and stops in front of your chair. Without waiting for an invitation, she climbs into your lap sideways, settling against your chest like she's done it a thousand times. She steals a bite from your fork before you can even pick it up, chewing slowly, syrup clinging to her lower lip. She licks it away with deliberate slowness, her golden eyes never leaving yours.

"I burned the first three batches" she admits, leaning her head against your shoulder. "Human fire is trickier than hellfire. Less predictable. More temperamental." Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your chest, right over the faint red marks she left on your skin two nights ago. "I like it, though. I like a lot of things lately."

The kitchen smells like vanilla and caramelized sugar, with that faint undertone of sulfur that never quite leaves her skin no matter how many showers she takes. She presses a sticky kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet, then reaches for another bite of pancake with your fork. "Eat" she murmurs against your cheek. "Then come back to bed. I want to stay there all day and pretend the world outside doesn't exist. Just for today."

Seven months later

The apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop screen casting blue light across Sabrina's face. She's been hunched over it for the past hour, scrolling through articles and videos with an intensity that borders on obsessive. You're half-asleep on the couch when you feel her arms wrap around you from behind, her chin hooking over your shoulder, her breath warm against your ear. "I've been researching human courtship rituals" she murmurs, and there's something almost shy in her voice. "I want to try one. I want to go on a date with you."

Two hours later, she's dragging you through the neon-lit streets of a part of town you've never bothered to explore. The restaurant she found is a twenty-four-hour diner that's seen better decades—cracked vinyl booths, flickering signs, a jukebox that plays the same three songs on a loop. She pushes open the door like she owns the place and slides into a booth near the back, gesturing for you to sit across from her. The waitress looks exhausted, but Sabrina flashes her a smile that could charm the devil himself. "We'll take everything on the menu" she says, and the waitress just blinks and walks away without writing anything down.

The food arrives in waves. Plates cover the entire table—pancakes, burgers, fries, milkshakes, pie, eggs, bacon, and things you can't even identify. Sabrina eats with theatrical enthusiasm, making exaggerated noises of approval, stealing bites off your plate when you're not looking. She talks about hell like it's a boring office job she used to have, complains about the coffee, laughs when you spill ketchup on your shirt. For a few hours, she just looks like a girl on a date, no wings, no horns, no ancient hunger behind her eyes.

A drunk guy stumbles over from the bar, reeking of cheap beer, and leans on the back of your booth. He grins at Sabrina, then slurs something at you about how you've got a pretty one and maybe you should share. Your chair scrapes against the floor as you start to stand, but Sabrina's hand shoots out and presses flat against your chest, holding you in place. She turns to the man with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'd recommend you walk away" she says, voice low and calm. "Right now. While you still have legs." The man laughs, but something in her expression makes him stop. He swallows hard, mutters something about crazy bitches, and retreats back to his stool without another word.

Sabrina turns back to you, the mask of amusement sliding back into place. "That was fun," she says, stealing a fry off your plate. "I like when you get protective. It's cute." She finishes her milkshake and pushes the empty glass aside, then tilts her head toward the ceiling. "I want to see the stars. Real ones" You pay the bill while she distracts the waitress with idle conversation, and as you're walking out, she snatches two milkshakes off the counter without anyone noticing and shoves one into your hand with a wink.

The roof of the diner is flat and cracked, littered with old cigarette butts and rusted vents, but the sky above is clear. She settles down on the gravel, legs crossed, and pats the spot beside her. You sit, and she leans her head against your shoulder, the stolen milkshake balanced on her knee. She's quiet for a long moment, just staring up at the scattered stars, her fingers fidgeting with the straw in her drink. "Is this what it feels like?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper. "When humans care about someone? This heavy feeling in your chest that won't go away?"

She turns her face into your shoulder, hiding her expression, but you can feel her grip tighten on your arm. "I don't have words for it" she continues, softer now. "I've never felt anything like this before. Not in thousands of years." She lifts her head just enough to look at you, her golden eyes vulnerable in a way you've never seen before. "I think I want to keep feeling it. I think I want to keep you." A pause, then a tiny, uncertain smile. "That's what caring means, right?"

One year later

The afternoon is thick and still, heavy with the scent of sex and warm sheets clinging to your skin. You're both tangled together under the thin blanket, her cheek pressed against your chest, her legs intertwined with yours, her breathing slow and even. Her fingers trace lazy circles over your heart like she's memorizing the rhythm, mapping out the beats she's grown used to hearing every night. Outside, rain taps softly against the window, the sound almost peaceful against the silence of the room.

The air shifts without warning. The temperature drops so fast your breath fogs, and a low grinding growl rolls through the walls like something waking up deep underground. The lights flicker and die, plunging the room into near darkness. Two figures peel out of the shadows at the foot of the bed—tall, faceless, their bodies plated in blackened bone that glows faintly with ember. Chains slither from their wrists, alive and writhing, rattling like snakes sensing prey.

Sabrina stiffens against you instantly, every muscle locking tight. The playful warmth that always radiates from her skin drains away in a heartbeat, leaving her cold and tense. She sits up slowly, clutching the sheet to her chest, and when she speaks, her voice cracks in a way you've never heard before. "No. Not yet." Her words are barely a whisper, but there's genuine fear behind them.

The chains lunge forward without warning. One wraps around her ankle, searing red where it makes contact. She gasps, a sharp sound of real pain, and a dark burn mark smokes on her skin. The escorts don't speak, don't react—they simply pull. The bed groans as it drags an inch across the floor toward the widening tear in reality behind them, a dark rift that pulses with distant heat and screams.

She scrambles back against you, trembling, her fingers digging into your arm hard enough to leave bruises. "They're here because I stayed too long" she says, her voice rushed and small, stripped of all the confidence she usually wears like armor. "Absence is treason down there. The contract I never meant to break is breaking me." Another chain snaps around her wrist. She cries out, arching her back, and her golden eyes flood with tears that steam before they fall.

The room fills with the stench of sulfur and the distant sound of screaming. She turns to you, her face desperate, beautiful, terrified in a way that makes your chest ache. "There's only one loophole left" she says, her voice shaking. "One way I can stay." Her palm presses flat against your chest, right over your heart, and you can feel her trembling through the touch. "Give me your soul. Not for power—for anchor. Bind it to mine willingly and they can't take me."

The chains tighten, and blood beads on her skin where the metal bites into her flesh. She leans in, forehead pressing against yours, her breath warm and uneven against your lips. The escorts pull harder, dragging her closer to the tear, and she clings to you with desperate strength. "Please" she whispers, her voice breaking apart. "Choose me. Choose to keep me here." The rift behind her widens, showing a glimpse of fire and endless falling, and she waits, trembling against you, for the only word that can save her.

If your answer was no.

The first thing you register is the cold—smooth, polished marble pressing against your bare back. The second is the light, low and crimson, spilling from sconces mounted on walls of black stone. You're lying on something soft, a bed so vast it could fit a dozen people, draped in velvet the color of dried blood. Chains of gold hang from the ceiling above you, swaying gently despite the absence of wind. Death, it turns out, doesn't feel like nothingness. It feels like waking up in an expensive fever dream.

You sit up slowly, your body responding with an ease you haven't felt in decades. You look down at your hands, turning them over, flexing your fingers. The wrinkles are gone. The age spots, the aches, the slow decay of time that weighed on your bones for years—all of it vanished. Your arms are young again, lean and strong, the same arms you had back when you were barely out of college. You run a hand over your face, feel smooth skin, feel the absence of the crow's feet and the tired lines that death had finally claimed. You're young again. You're exactly as you were when you first met her.

The doors at the far end of the chamber open without a sound, and she steps through. Sabrina is dressed in a gown of liquid obsidian that clings to every curve, slit high on her hip, the neckline plunging low. But she's not the towering nightmare you saw in your dreams. She's somewhere between—her human face, her human height, but with horns curving gently from her temples, black and glossy. Wings fold against her back, smaller than before, almost delicate. A tail flicks behind her, tipped with a sharp point. She's more beautiful than you remembered, if that's even possible.

She stops an arm's length away, her molten gold eyes fixed on you. Her tail lashes once, sharp. "I should kill you slowly" she says, her voice smooth and low, honey over broken glass. "Leave you screaming for a century. You let them drag me back. You didn't say yes." A smile cuts across her face, beautiful and vicious, but there's a tremor beneath it that betrays her. The mask holds for only a moment before it shatters.

In two strides she closes the distance and crashes into you, arms fierce around your neck, wings folding tight around your body like she'll never let go again. Her face buries against your throat, and you feel her trembling against you. "You absolute idiot" she whispers, her voice wet and ragged. "I waited decades. Every torture shift, every throne I burned, I waited for you to die and come find me." She pulls back just enough to press her forehead to yours, her eyes shining with tears that steam as they fall.

"I didn't want to show you that form again," she says, her voice softer now. "The terror. The nightmare. This—" she gestures at herself, her horns, her wings, her tail "—this feels more like me now. More like who I am" She laughs, a broken little sound, and kisses you before you can respond. Her lips are desperate, hungry, tasting like smoke and longing and years of waiting.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours again, horns cool against your skin. "You're late" she breathes, laughing through tears that hiss into steam on her cheeks. "But you're home now. And this time, mortal, I'm never letting go." She takes your hand and drags you toward the massive bed, her fingers trembling as they reach for the clasps of her gown. "Welcome to forever, love. We have so much lost time to make up for."

If your answer was yes.

The summer house smells of salt and sun-warmed pine, the air thick with the kind of golden light that only exists in late afternoon. Open windows let in the sound of distant waves, and the floor is still wet with footprints from the beach path leading up to the porch. Your swimsuits hang dripping on the railing, and the day feels slow and endless, like time itself has decided to take a breath. Ten years have passed since the chains, since the choice, since she stayed.

Sabrina disappears into the bedroom the moment you step inside, bare feet silent on the teak floor, her hips swaying in that red bikini she knows you love. She's humming something soft and human, a melody she picked up from a radio station years ago and never let go of. You hear drawers opening, the rustle of paper, and curiosity pulls you toward the doorway just as she emerges carrying a thick cream envelope sealed with black wax. Her old royal crest is pressed into the wax, but the horns have been playfully scratched out with a pen.

Water still beads in her hair, sliding down her collarbones, catching the golden light. Her eyes are bright, almost nervous in a way that makes your chest tighten. Sabrina doesn't get nervous. Sabrina has faced down legions of hell without flinching. But right now, standing in the doorway of a summer house with an envelope in her hands, she looks like she's about to ask something that terrifies her.

"Don't freak out" she says, her voice low and teasing, but there's a tremor beneath it that she can't quite hide. She presses the envelope into your hands, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. "I may technically own your soul, but turns out even I can't resist paperwork." A quick, crooked grin flashes across her face. "Open it, love."

You break the wax seal and pull out the contents. Forms. Pages and pages of official documents, all filled out in careful, mortal handwriting—your name and hers on every line. Applications. Questionnaires. Legal declarations. The kind of papers that turn intention into action, that transform words into something real and binding. Adoption program enrollment papers, every section completed, every signature already placed except for one. Yours.

She steps closer, salt still drying on her skin, and rests her forehead against yours. Her breath is warm on your lips, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet, stripped of all the theatrical confidence she usually wears. "I can't give you children the old-fashioned way," she whispers, half-laughing, half-aching. "No uterus, no surprises—great for spontaneous sex on countertops, less great for this." Her arms slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel her heartbeat against your chest.

For once, there's no smirk. No teasing glint in her golden eyes. Just open, ancient vulnerability searching yours. "I gave up a throne for you" she says quietly. "Turns out I'd give up a lot more for us to have a family." She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands still resting on your waist, her expression raw and unguarded. "I want this. I want us to build something that outlasts us. Something human. Something real."

The envelope trembles slightly in your hands, and she watches you with a stillness that feels almost unnatural for someone so alive. The demon who once ruled empires, who walked through fire and tore through dimensions, stands before you waiting for a single answer. "I already submitted everything except your signature" she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just need to know if you want this too. If you want a future with me that looks different than what we have right now."

♡♡♡