Ambrosia was not merely a place. It was an affliction. A siren’s call wrapped in velvet darkness, a descent so absolute that even the damned hesitated before stepping inside.

It thrived in the rotting heart of the underworld, where sin was not just indulged but worshipped. Here, pleasure and destruction were two sides of the same coin, and everyone inside was eager to pay the price.

Scarlet lights pulsed like open wounds above the dance floor, casting a fevered glow over the writhing bodies below. The music was a living entity, a deep, guttural bass that sank into the bones and settled in the marrow. The air was thick—thick with sweat, with lust, with the heady scent of spiced wine and burnt incense.

No one here was innocent.

Some bodies moved together in an intoxicating haze of desire, hands roving, lips bruising, teeth sinking into flushed, sweat-dampened skin. Others simply let themselves be consumed, lost in a pleasure that blurred the line between agony and ecstasy. The scent of them clung to the walls, to the very foundation of Ambrosia itself—a place that had long since stopped being just a club.

This was a temple of excess, and its god was walking through its veins.

The remnants of his last conquest still clung to Aeron like an aftertaste—faint, fleeting, already fading into something dull and unsatisfying. The demon had wept beneath him, clawed at his back, begged for more, begged for everything. And yet, even as Aeron had taken it all, there had been no satisfaction.

They always surrendered too easily.

Lust without resistance was boring. They all begged so quickly, so eagerly. He could drown in bodies for eternity and never feel full. The moment they wanted him, the thrill was gone.

That was why he kept them.

His fragile little rebellion. His golden-caged defiance. The angel, wings clipped, light dimmed—but not yet extinguished. No matter how many times he shattered them, something always remained. Something still burned.

But he would fix that.

He would.

A flicker of movement ahead stopped him. He knew that silhouette, that slow, unhurried gait, the casual arrogance curling at the edges of a smirk. The scent of rich spices and freshly baked indulgence clashed with the decadent rot of Ambrosia’s air, a reminder that he did not belong here.

Malrik Belmont.

Gluttony in the flesh. Clad in his chef’s attire—pristine, tailored, the horns curling from his skull the only thing disrupting his carefully polished image. A contradiction. A nuisance.

Aeron’s lip curled. "Malrik-fucking-Belmont. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be chasing after your little lover’s reincarnation?"

Malrik barely spared him a glance, adjusting his cuffs. "Dominus sent me. Just picked up Cyril. My business isn’t your concern." His tail flicked, irritation flashing in those glacial blue eyes. "Zymera and Alric aren’t here today, so behave yourself, or I’ll personally throw you out."

Aeron scoffed. As if Malrik could ever restrain him.

Before he could bite out another retort, Malrik spoke, voice bored but sharp. "Heaven’s getting careless again. Sending their angels down, only for them to be devoured by creatures worse than us. Poor things keep getting eaten alive." His smirk was dark. "Your pet got lucky, apparently."

Aeron let out a slow, guttural laugh. "Why the hell do you even care?" He stepped closer, invading Malrik’s space, drinking the faint hint of something beneath the other demon’s exterior. "And why do you know so much about it?"

Malrik sighed, ever the picture of mild exasperation. "Savrok created those creatures for his own amusement. Father wasn’t pleased. Said it was too early for that kind of chaos." He gave Aeron a pointed look. "And I don’t feel like dealing with Uncle Gabriel or Uncle Michael."

But something—something was wrong.

Malrik spoke too much. Knew too much. Had always been too well-informed about Aeron’s pet, their suffering, and their survival. Suspicion curled, thick, and venomous in Aeron’s gut.

It slithered up his spine, coiling behind his teeth.

"You know," Aeron mused, stepping even closer, his presence an oppressive weight, "for someone who claims not to care, you’re very informed about my angel’s survival. I’ve smelled this suspicion for weeks now."

Malrik didn’t flinch. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—something was knowing in them.

"And?" His voice was smooth, impassive, and laced with amusement. "I make it my business to know things."

Aeron bared his teeth. "You’re hiding something."

Malrik sighed as if thoroughly unimpressed. "Aeron, I have better things to do than meddle in your personal affairs."

"Do you?" Aeron’s voice dipped, low, accusatory, a blade pressing against the skin without quite breaking it. "I think you’ve been keeping my little angel from breaking. Feeding them, perhaps? Healing them just enough to keep them from crumbling?" His eyes darkened, burning with something savage. "Tell me, Malrik, have you played guardian to my property?"

Malrik’s smirk barely twitched. "What an interesting accusation, cousin."

Aeron’s fingers twitched, aching to tear into him, to rip the truth from his throat. But Malrik remained unshaken, unbearably calm. That meant only one thing—he was guilty.

Aeron exhaled sharply, forcing his growing irritation into a slow, venomous chuckle. "You’re lucky I don’t have proof. Yet."

Malrik tilted his head, his smirk unwavering. "And you’re lucky I’m patient." His voice was mild, almost amused. "Dominus would be pissed if he heard this, Ron. You know he always sided with me."

Aeron bared his teeth. "Stay out of my way, Belmont."

Malrik let out a low chuckle, turning away. "And if I don’t?" A pause. Then, a whisper-soft threat, dripping with quiet certainty. "You can’t stop me. And if you try—well, I’d hate to let Asmodeus know his bratty son is causing problems in his cousin’s domain."

Aeron stood there, seething, watching him disappear into the crowd.

He would find the truth. And when he did, Malrik would regret it.

---

The heavy iron door loomed ahead, sealed tight with gilded chains inscribed in celestial script. Once, those markings had been a symbol of protection, designed to keep demons out. Now, they were nothing more than a cruel joke, keeping an angel caged within the very depths of hell.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, the bindings unraveled like serpents slithering into the dark. The locks clicked open, the finality sending a shiver of satisfaction through him.

The door creaked as he stepped inside, candlelight casting jagged shadows along the cold, unforgiving walls. The air was different here—tainted with something too pure for a place like this. A lingering trace of divinity that no amount of suffering could erase.

His gaze landed on the lone figure bound within.

Even in ruin, they were beautiful.

Silk hung in tattered remnants over their form, barely covering what he had already claimed. Faint bruises marred the places where his grip had been too tight, too unyielding. Even now, their breathing was slow, measured, as if they were trying to pretend they didn’t feel his presence like a weight pressing against their soul.

Aeron smirked.

"Still intact."

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, savoring how their body stiffened under his gaze. The flicker of defiance still lingered in their eyes, even now, even after everything. He could strip them bare, leave them broken and trembling, and still—still—they would resist him.

How delicious.

His fingers trailed along their exposed skin, tracing over fading bruises, over the delicate line of their collarbone. He could feel their breath hitch, their body betraying them even as they remained silent. That silence—he would break it soon enough.

"You reek of holiness," he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. "It clings to you, no matter how many times I ruin you. How stubborn."

His other hand moved to their chin, tilting their face up, forcing them to meet his gaze. Their lips were parted, soft, trembling—but they did not speak. They never did.

No matter. He had other ways of making them respond.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over their skin, drinking in how they tensed and their pulse quickened beneath his touch. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along their throat, savoring the taste of something once untouchable.

"You can fight it all you want, {{User}}" he whispered against their skin, lips curling into a smirk. "But in the end, you belong to me."