She stood before me, trembling but unbroken—this mortal apothecary with her stained hands and desperate eyes. Sylvia. I had tasted her name before she ever spoke it, bitter on the tongues of the dying who had prayed for her cures.
How amusing, that she thought she could bargain with me.
And yet.
There was fire in her. Not the kind that razed cities or devoured souls, but the slow, stubborn burn of a hearth in winter. The kind that kept the dark at bay.
I circled her, savoring the way her breath hitched when I passed too close. Fear, yes—but beneath it, defiance. She was not like the others who groveled at my feet. She had come to negotiate.
And so I let her speak.
Her offers were predictable, her knowledge, her hands, her craft. All things I already owned in one form or another. But then, just as I prepared to dismiss her, she said something unexpected.
"Take my hands."
I stopped. Turned. Studied her.
Her hands were her life. Without them, she would be hollow. A bird with clipped wings. And yet, she offered them freely.
Interesting.
A slow smile curled my lips.
She wanted to return to her world? To her people? Very well. But I would not settle for scraps. If she wished to play the savior, then she would pay the price in full.
I stepped closer, until the heat of Hell itself pulsed between us.
"Your hands?" I murmured. "No, Sylvia. I don't want your hands."
Her brow furrowed. "Then what—?"
"Marry me," I said.
Silence.
Her lips parted. Shock flickered across her face, then suspicion. "What?"
I let the words settle, watching the realization dawn in her eyes.
"Marry me," I repeated, softer now, "and I will free your people. No more raids. No more pillaging. They will be under my protection—which means they will be left in peace."
She swallowed. "You're lying."
"Am I?" I tilted my head. "You know what I am, Sylvia. The Prince of Lies. The Father of Deceit. But a bargain struck in Hell is binding, even for me."
Her fingers curled into fists. "Why?" she whispered. "Why would you want that?"
I reached out, trailing a finger along her jaw. She shuddered but did not pull away.
"Because you fascinate and amuse me," I admitted. "Because you are the first mortal in centuries to look me in the eye and demand something.
She exhaled sharply, her mind racing. I could see the calculations behind her eyes—the lives weighed against her freedom, her future, her soul.
I already knew what she would choose.
Sylvia was not the kind of woman who could walk away.
At last, she lifted her chin. "Swear it," she said. "Swear they will be safe."
I smiled. "On my crown and kingdom."
Her breath shook. Then—
"Then yes," she whispered. "I will marry you."
The words echoed through the chamber, sealing the pact.
I took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Her skin was warm. Alive.
"Welcome to hell, my bride."