DANNESYA BRINGS YOU A THRILLING ROMANCE TALE OF HUMAN GIRL X LUCIFER. READ FREE SAMPLE OF BOOK 3 BELOW!

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Chapter 31

He was strapped tight to the chair. His head yanked back rigid. Ruby tied the final knot at his throat.

She dragged the bucket closer. Heavy plastic, sitting there two days. The liquid inside had thickened. Warm. Reeked of ammonia and rot.

She tilted it.

The wave hit his face with a sick splash. Filled his nose instantly. His mouth. The ammonia burned through his sinuses. Seared his eyes open.

He inhaled on reflex. The foul fluid scorched his throat. His lungs.

His body bucked hard against the ropes. He sputtered. Choked on the thick, putrid liquid. The straps held him rigid. His muffled cries turned to desperate gargles.

Ruby didn't stop. She tilted the bucket again.

The stream was steady. Relentless. His lungs burned for air. Got filth instead.

His eyes rolled back. His body went slack. He fainted.

Ruby was precise. She put the bucket down. Reached for the vial of smelling salts. Cracked it under his nose.

His eyes snapped open. Wide with fresh terror. The ammonia stench. The cold swamp of his own filth. The panic started over.

Ruby poured the rest on the floor. The concrete became a cold, foul swamp. She watched the foam settle.

Lucifer watched the memory in silent clarity. Profound disgust washed over him. Acidic. A phantom bile rose in his immortal throat though he had nothing to purge.

Ruby stood over the man. Her face was blank. Her breathing steady. Her hands precise as she set the bucket aside.

She felt nothing. No pity. No rage. Just cold completion.

She worked mechanically. Clamped a ring light onto a stand. The harsh white light sliced through shadows. Created a bright, artificial stage. A high-definition camera focused.

Her account, @justice_for_jane_doe, went live.

Forty thousand viewers instantly. The title: Performance Art.

The comments scrolled too fast to read. Damn, the acting is insane. This is viral-level horror. They believed the terror was makeup. Good acting.

Ruby didn't acknowledge the screen. Her expression was flat. Detached.

She rotated the camera to face the victim. He was shaking. Bruised. Tied tight. His eyes were wide pools of raw terror.

"Confess," Ruby ordered. Her voice was low. Flat.

He tried to refuse. A weak shake of his head.

Ruby didn't shout. She didn't rage. She just moved. Methodically. A brief, sharp action cut off his breath. The terror returned. Immediate. Overwhelming. It broke him.

His voice came out raw. Broken. He began to speak.

He confessed every crime. Every girl. Every hidden, vile act. The truth poured out, ugly and undeniable. Fueled by absolute fear.

The viewer count hit one hundred thousand.

Clips were ripped instantly. Uploaded. Shared across every platform. They called it "viral horror." The audience was unaware they were watching a final courtroom.

Miles away, in a brightly lit precinct, a report came in. An officer yawned. Squinted at the screen. He noted the high production value.

He filed a report: Open Investigation: Potential Unauthorized Film Project.

They weren't coming to save him. The system viewed his screaming terror as entertainment. They didn't know the difference between acting and reality.

They didn't realize he was already in his grave.

Ruby stood over the man. She held a large syringe. The thick, colorless drain cleaner inside smelled metallic. Caustic. Corrosive. Final.

The man looked up. He didn't beg forgiveness for his confessed crimes. He only begged for life.

"Please. Don't."

Ruby's hand was steady. She found the pulsing carotid artery. Pushed the needle in deep. Precise. Emptied the syringe with one hard push.

The poison was instant. Catastrophic.

His throat seized with a violent spasm. His limbs lashed out. Convulsing against the ropes. A terrible chemical smell erupted from his mouth.

His skin instantly mottled. Sickly gray. Angry red. His eyes rolled back. Fixed on the ceiling. He died in less than a minute.

The convulsing stopped. His head slumped. The basement went silent.

Ruby watched it all. Her face was flat. She felt nothing.

She cleaned nothing. Wiped no prints.

She picked up her cheap phone. Dialed 911. Her voice was steady. Emotionless. "There's a twelve-year-old girl at this address. She's safe now. He's dead. He can't hurt her anymore."

She hung up.

She walked out with a horrendous big plastic bag. Locked the door quietly. Got in her beat-up car. Drove away. Left the state.

By the time police arrived, they found the basement. The twelve-year-old girl was found unharmed. Crying. The abuser was dead. But the body was missing.

Ruby was already hundreds of miles away.

Chapter 32

Lucifer lifted his hand from the grimy, water-stained page. The movement was stiff. Almost arthritic. His claws—black and razor-sharp—dug into the bony ridges of the armrest. A throne forged from Judas's ribcage.

He found himself performing the absurd ritual of humanity. Reminding himself to breathe. A low, unsteady exhale left his chest. A sound he hadn't made in millennia. The sound of a man in shock. Not a devil.

The notebook had been recovered during the investigation. The pages were swollen from rain. Warped from humidity. The ink was smudged. Testament to hurried, desperate writing. Yet stubbornly legible.

Lucifer read the single entry detailing the First Kill. The details flowed through the Archive's echo. A deep, resonant hum that played back not just words but the writer's original emotional state.

"I saved her. Made sure she wasn't in the house. Made sure he couldn't hurt her ever again. Does that make me GOOD? Or just LESS EVIL? I don't know anymore. I don't know if I ever knew."

The handwriting had begun with a visible tremor. A nervous scrawl. But it steadied at the end. Sharpened. As if Ruby had reached a profound, irreversible decision mid-sentence.

Lucifer read the entry again. And again. Five times he consumed the same short lines. The words did not change. His reaction was a seismic shift.

A long exhale scraped out of him. His jaw locked. Muscle straining against bone. High above the bridge of his nose, his third eye—usually cool, analytical crimson—began to pulse with slow, heavy, angry gold light.

"She saved the girl."

His voice sounded foreign. Stripped bare. Almost human in unexpected vulnerability. The simple sentence hung in the vast silence of the Archive. The great shelves of damned knowledge listened. Files shifted in their slots. The sound like settling bones.

That detail. That single line Ruby had probably scribbled without thought cut straight into the Devil's core. Ruby hadn't just sought vengeance to settle a score.

The file's echo deepened. Filled in the blanks. She had monitored the girl's school schedule. Tracked the new wife's travel dates. 

Executed the act only when the child was guaranteed out of the house. She ensured the girl would never experience the quiet, soul-annihilating horror Ruby herself had endured.

And the final piece: Ruby had dialed 911. Not from a burner phone miles away. A calculated call to guarantee the girl would be found immediately. Protected. Documented as a survivor.

Lucifer rubbed the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers. His rage manifested as a fine tremor. "That's not evil," he muttered. Barely audible against the oppressive silence. He hated the quietness of his own voice. "That's not even vengeance. Vengeance is messy. Selfish. Incomplete."

A surge of energy erupted from him. His vast sable wings unfurled slowly. Feathers lifting. Snapping with crackling static.

"That's justice delivered," he declared. The full weight of his authority settling on the word. "Delivered by someone who had nothing left to lose."

He closed the worn journal page. His touch careful. Unnaturally delicate. He handled the paper as if it were a fresh, bleeding wound. His claws began a slow tap-tap-tap rhythm against the bone armrest.

Lucifer lifted his head. The third eye fully opened. Flooded the cavernous Archive with blinding, incandescent gold. His voice, though not a shout, carried absolute, cold conviction.

"Where the fuck was Heaven?"

The words echoed. A shocking sacrilege that made the shelves tremble. Files rattled loose. Fluttered to the floor like frightened white birds.

He didn't need to shout. The quiet fury was exponentially worse. He spoke again, louder. Each syllable a focused blade. "Where were the angels when she was fourteen and bleeding?"

His wings flared completely. Stirred the ancient dust into violent golden spirals. "Where was divine intervention when her own mother closed that door and walked away?"

Silence followed. Not peaceful quiet. A heavy, choking vacuum that pressed on the walls. Made the air taste metallic. Like blood and ozone. No voice answered. Neither Heaven's nor Hell's. This place was only witness.

Lucifer exhaled through his teeth. A long, frustrated hiss older than continents. He looked down at Ruby's file. Now resting on his lap. Eight hundred forty-seven pages thick. Beneath his touch it felt warm. Pulsing faintly like a damaged, wounded heart.

"You shouldn't be in Hell, Ruby," he muttered. His voice a promise.

Another silence. Sharper. Anticipating action. Lucifer's grip tightened on the file. He turned the page. The Archive braced itself for fallout.

“Kissed By a New God” book 5 Free Read Sample here!

Chapter 56

"So what now, Detective? What happens when two immovable objects meet?"

"Now we save our daughter," Strauss said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were still shaking from adrenaline. "After that… we figure out how to survive each other."

The hallway reeked of smoke and iron. Bodies lay where they had fallen, some still twitching, some already cold. 

Strauss wiped her blood-slicked blade on her sleeve and stepped over a man groaning on the floor. Vlad didn't bother stepping over anyone—he walked through them, boots crunching bone.

The sound made her stomach turn. Not from disgust. From familiarity.

She remembered when that sound used to bother her.

They watched the compound where Damien was held from a rooftop vantage point. The building squatted in the industrial district like a concrete tumor, ugly and forgettable. 

Perfect for hiding a kidnapped half-vampire.

Strauss checked her weapons. Gun loaded. Blade sharp. Stakes secured. Everything a responsible monster hunter needed.

Vlad stretched beside her, his neck cracking with wet pops as vertebrae realigned.

"You take left flank," Strauss said. "I'll—"

"No." His hand caught her wrist. Cold fingers. Strong grip. "We go together. Like old times."

She jerked free, skin tingling where he'd touched. "There were no 'old times.' Just lies and corpses."

"Semantics." He smiled, fangs catching moonlight.

Strauss wanted to argue. Wanted to remind him that their 'partnership' would end sooner or later.

But Damien was down there.

Their daughter.

The one thing they'd somehow created that wasn't completely fucked.

"Fine," she bit out. "But if you go for unnecessary kills, I'll stake you myself. For the second time."

"Promises, promises."

They dropped from the rooftop in perfect sync—Strauss using a grappling line, Vlad just falling and landing like gravity was a suggestion he chose to follow.

The assault should've been harder.

The Anti-vampire cultists poured out of the compound like roaches from a kicked nest, all wearing the same stupid ceremonial robes and wielding the same cheap swords bought in bulk from some dark web supplier.

Strauss and Vlad moved through them like synchronized death.

She ducked. He struck. He feinted. She finished.

Twenty years apart and their bodies still remembered the rhythm. Like a deadly waltz they'd practiced until muscle memory carved it into their bones.

Except Vlad kept going for kill shots.

A cultist swung at Strauss. She dodged. Vlad grabbed the man's head and started twisting—

Strauss hissed, “Incapacitate,” dragging Vlad back so hard he slammed into the wall with a bone-deep crunch that spider-webbed the concrete. 

Vlad’s neck bent at an angle that should’ve required a funeral. “Don’t obliterate,” he added, voice edged like a blade dipped in menace.

The cultist staggered backward, choking on his own breath. Strauss shot him in the kneecap. He collapsed, shrieking.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Vlad sighed, casually twisting his head until the jutting vertebra slid back into place with a wet click.

“We’re here for Damien,” Strauss growled. “Not to host your sadistic game show.”

But here's the thing about Vlad—the thing Strauss had tried to forget for twenty years—he didn't just feed on blood. 

Blood was an appetizer. Suffering was the main course.

Pain made him stronger. Fear sharpened his senses. Every scream was a shot of adrenaline straight to his ancient, fucked-up heart.

Vlad lived on agony like normal people lived on oxygen.

And Strauss's mercy was an all-you-can-eat buffet.

She killed clean when she had to. Quick. Efficient. A bullet to the head, lights out, no encores. End the threat, minimize suffering, move on.

Vlad was the opposite. He savored pain like vintage wine. Drew it out. Made it last.

And every enemy Strauss disabled instead of killing became his personal feast.

Every broken limb. Every shattered knee. Every cultist she left screaming on the ground because she refused to execute wounded prisoners.

Vlad absorbed it all.

His eyes brightened from red to crimson. His movements grew smoother, faster, more fluid. The air around him thickened with something dark and satisfied—like reality itself was bending to accommodate his growing power.

A cultist Strauss had shot was sobbing behind them, crawling toward an exit with one functioning leg.

Vlad inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was breathing in the finest incense.

"You choose to cripple them rather than end their life," he murmured, voice dropping an octave. "How thoughtful of you. Very romantic. I’m touched."

His pupils dilated. His skin seemed to glow from within.

"This suffering is exquisite." He turned to her with a smile that was pure fucking nightmare fuel. "Thank you for exquisite dinner, my love."

Strauss felt fury spike through her chest.

The kiss wasn't just a savage consumption; it was a vortex. A brief, hellish space where years of control dissolved. When her teeth chewed his lip, Vlad didn't just seize her; he became a vice.

His fingers dug past flesh and muscle, hooking under her hip bone. The pain was a white-hot needle—a momentary, necessary substitute for sanity. Strauss threw herself into the agony. 

Her arms, locked around his neck, became a death-grip, pulling his large body down, molding their weight together.

Vlad's control imploded.

A sound—part animalistic cry, part despairing prayer—was ripped from his throat, shaking her to the core. 

Chapter 57

His free hand slammed against her spine, crushing her waist into his. Every nerve ending screamed with the contact.

Strauss's hands ripped his shirt open. The buttons became tiny, irrelevant shrapnel. The expensive cloth tore like paper. 

Her palms burned as they connected with his bare, furnace-hot chest. She raked her fingers over the ridges of muscle and scar tissue. 

She needed to feel the truth of him beneath the facade.

Her fingers clawed into his thick neck, twisting their mouths together for a final, drowning kiss. 

The blood was now a salty, thick mask over their faces, a shared ceremonial mark.

When she broke the kiss, gasping, the air was a choking, toxic cloud.

"I've hated you," she hissed, her voice a shattered pane of glass. "I hate that I missed you. My damned one. My only poison."

His smile was a slow, crimson crescent. His eyes were no longer molten; they were dead, vacant space, filled only with reflection of her chaos.

"My bride, my wife, you are the love of my life," he breathed, the sound a low, velvet threat. "Submit to me. Confess it. Tell me you adore the darkness I drag into your world. Whisper that you belong to only me, your Master, your God."

Her chest was heaving, her lungs screaming for air that didn't feel tainted by the metallic tang of his blood and her own frenzy. 

She was ready to say it—ready to throw the last shred of her sanity into the fire just to keep him close for one more second.

Then the sound tore through the night.

Shriek.

Not a cry, but a raw, piercing shriek.

Damien.

The sound was a physical blow that ripped her out of the blood-drenched haze.

Strauss's entire body seized. Her vision snapped from the blurred, scarlet focus of Vlad's face to the razor-sharp clarity of the surrounding darkness. The blood on her mouth instantly felt cold.

"Move," she snarled, the voice not entirely her own, and shoved him with the full, instinctual force of a mother whose child is in danger.

They tore apart with a violent, sickening sound—the wet sound of fabric and skin separating. 

Both of them stumbled for balance, adrenaline instantly spiking from lust to terror.

They ran.

 

The floor shook under Vlad's steps. Strauss's boots pounded beside him, her blade catching flickers of overhead lights as they sprinted down the corridor.

The hallway ahead filled with more guards, all drawn by the noise of their daughter's scream.

Neither of them slowed down.

Because Damien was behind that door.

And anyone standing between them and their daughter was already dead—they just didn't know it yet.

Strauss hit the first guard with a flying knee that caved in his sternum. Vlad grabbed the second by the throat and threw him into a wall hard enough that the concrete cracked.

They tore through the remaining guards like paper.

Strauss's movements were precise—trained, efficient, every strike calculated for maximum damage with minimum energy.

Vlad's were pure chaos—grabbing, breaking, throwing bodies like they weighed nothing.

They broke past the metal barricade and kicked open the reinforced door.

The inner chamber was thick with smoke. Emergency lamps flickered weakly. 

Bodies were scattered across the floor—some unconscious, some groaning, some completely still.

And in the center of it all stood Damien.

Her small boots were planted firmly. Her hands were still raised in a defensive stance. 

Someone else's blood streaked her cheek in a diagonal line, but her eyes were bright and steady and completely unbothered.

She looked like she'd just finished an annoying workout.

"Mom. Dad," she said, raising one eyebrow. "You got back together just to save me? That's sweet."

The word 'sweet' dripped with so much sarcasm it could've corroded metal.

Strauss froze.

Relief hit her so hard her knees almost buckled. Her chest went tight. Her throat closed up.

For a second, she couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at her daughter—alive, safe, standing in a room full of unconscious kidnappers like she'd been waiting for room service.

Vlad followed Strauss's gaze.

His expression shifted—sharpened like a blade, then softened in a way he rarely allowed. He took in everything with those too-old, too-knowing eyes. 

The broken restraints on the floor. The knocked-out guards. The scorch marks on the walls where someone had clearly used some kind of explosive.

Understanding hit him.

"She tricked us," Vlad murmured, voice caught between admiration and exasperation. "She staged her own kidnapping."

Strauss clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached.

Damien's smirk grew wider. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

“For my defense, I’m busy seducing your long-lost mom.” Vlad stepped closer, studying his daughter like she was a particularly interesting specimen. Or a bomb that might go off.