Chapter 2

He collapsed to his knees, panting, as the heat pooled even more insistently between his legs. His body was no longer his own. Something—someone—was playing with him.

And then, like a hot breath against his ear, he heard:

“Did you really think you could banish me so easily, little sorcerer?”

Melek’s voice.

Urik whipped his head around so fast his bones cracked, but no one was there. Only the wind and the mocking morning sun.

“Get out of my head, demon,” he snarled, pressing his fingers to the mark.

A low laugh echoed in his mind—lascivious and intimate.

“Why fight it? I was just helping. You were so tense.”

Urik felt a spike of anger—and, to his horror, something else. A wicked curiosity to know what more Melek could do.

“Go to hell.”

“I’m already there. And you, Urik... you’re coming with me.”

Before he could respond, a rush of images flooded his thoughts—cold hands roaming his torso, sharp teeth nibbling his neck, a warm, strong body pressing him into the forest floor.

His wrist throbbed, and Urik realized with a mix of terror and fascination that the mark now radiated a humid heat, as if it were... eager.

“No,” he growled, forcing himself to stand. “This is not happening.”

But his traitorous body disagreed.

Melek laughed again, this time softer—almost affectionate.

“You’re fun when you lie.”

Urik clenched his fists. He needed answers. And more importantly, he needed a cold bath.

“If you want something from me, demon, show yourself and speak like a man.”

Silence was his answer.

The mark pulsed one last time—like a goodbye kiss—before settling into a mere shadow on his skin.

Urik took a deep breath.

The cold bath didn’t help.

Urik rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the water trail down his still-tense body. The silent tower—normally a sanctuary—now felt suffocating. Every shadow stretched like tempting fingers, every whisper of wind against the stained-glass windows sounded like a provocative sigh.

The mark on his wrist throbbed.

He dressed in sharp, angry motions, ignoring the uncomfortable weight between his legs. “Just a residual effect,” he tried to convince himself. “Nothing a bit of mandrake oil and a purification prayer can’t fix.”

But when his hands touched the silver vial where he kept his elixirs, a chill ran down his spine.

“Are you really going to try to erase my touch?”

Melek’s voice echoed through the library—so clear that Urik dropped the vial. Glass shattered across the stone floor, releasing a bitter scent of rotting herbs.

He turned, fists clenched.

“Enough games, demon. Show yourself!”

The air vibrated. A shadow uncoiled from the darkest corner of the room, forming in spirals of purple smoke. Curved horns emerged first, then those eyes—golden like ancient coins, pupils dilated with pleasure.

Melek was truly there.

Unlike the ethereal vision in the forest, now every detail was sharp: the muscles beneath wine-colored skin, the elongated claws resting on his hips, the mirrored mark on his own wrist—identical to Urik’s, but pulsing red.

“Better like this?” Melek smiled, baring sharp canines.

Urik swallowed hard. His scent—sulfur and burnt honey—filled the room, making Urik's mouth water against his will.

“What do you want?” he growled, backing up until he hit the bookshelf behind him.

Melek stepped forward. Then again. Until only inches separated them.

“You.” The word came out like a flash of black fire. “Your magic. Your... resistance.” A claw traced the air near Urik’s neck, not quite touching, but the heat of it made his stomach twist.

“It’s rare for someone to bear my mark without begging for more.”

Urik’s face burned.

“I’m not some incubus’s toy.”

“Aren’t you?” Melek tilted his head. “Then why does your heart race when you look at me? Why does your mark respond to mine?”

As if to prove his point, the symbol on Urik’s wrist pulsed hard, sending a wave of heat straight to his groin. He held his breath—but it was too late. Melek sniffed the air and laughed, low and rough.

“Liar.”

Urik acted without thinking. His fist lashed through the air with the precision of decades of magical training—only to strike smoke. Melek reappeared behind him, lips just a breath away from his ear.

“Angry and delicious. I love that combination.”

The icy breath on his neck made Urik shudder. He spun, casting a binding spell:

“Vetharis!”

Golden cords of energy materialized, wrapping around Melek. The demon raised an eyebrow, amused—then the bindings dissolved into smoke.

“Darling, I’ve devoured arcanists far more powerful than you.” His fingers closed around Urik’s chin. “But I do love your spirit.”

Urik tried to pull away, but the mere pressure of that claw froze him in place. Worse—his rage was morphing into something more dangerous, more heated, as Melek traced his thumb along Urik’s lower lip.

“L-Let go of me.” His voice cracked.

Melek studied his face, the playful expression fading into... curiosity.

“You’ve never been touched, have you?”

The question hit Urik like a blow.

“That’s none of your business.”

The demon laughed—but not cruelly this time.

“Oh, sweetheart. That explains so much.”

His other arm wrapped around Urik’s waist, pulling him against a body that felt both solid and ethereal—like holding a storm.

“Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

Urik should have fought back. Should have conjured fire or summoned banishing seals. Instead, a moan escaped his throat as Melek nipped at his neck, claws tearing through his tunic to bare his chest.

“S-Stop...”