Chapter 15

Chapter 15 – Conditions (2)

The blood dripping from the tips of her fingers fell in slow, steady beads, heavier and darker than the red pigment that had stained her lips. It was thicker, richer, and far more alluring than any cosmetic she had ever worn. Gabriel knelt on one knee before her, head tilted just enough to look up—though only barely.

“Don’t you dare look down on me without my permission. It disgusts me.”

He did not know why that old memory resurfaced at this moment. Perhaps it was simply because she was looking down on him now—and somehow, he did not dislike it. The height difference, the angle of her gaze, the cool indifference in her eyes… it stirred something disturbingly pleasurable.

He lowered his eyes again to her hand and the blood she had offered so casually. Only that blood—only hers—held such an intoxicating sweetness. No poison, no spell, no elixir in the world could compare. A single drop gathered at her fingertip, round and perfect, before falling into the small space between his parted lips.

He wanted—no, needed—to extend his tongue, to sweep across her skin and taste what was left. The sweetness spread through his mouth like bursting fruit, a flavor so overwhelming it nearly chased away all thought. Without hesitation, without restraint, he lifted her blood-wet fingers and pressed his lips to them, drinking greedily as if he could never get enough.

The taste that had merely brushed his lips before now flooded his mouth in full force, burning, rich, and horrifyingly addictive. He kissed from her fingertips to the curve of her palm, and finally to her wrist, where the blood still welled in a slow, steady line. He parted his lips, drew her wrist in, and drank more deeply.

Her healing ability was too strong. The wound began sealing far too quickly for his liking. Gabriel growled low in his throat, raised his head just enough to angle his teeth, and reopened the cut with deliberate pressure. Her blood surged again. Warm, fresh, glorious.

Gulp.

His throat moved with a sharp, visible motion. Even after swallowing mouthful after mouthful, he felt no satisfaction. Every drop only sharpened the hunger further, urging him—tempting him—to go for other places. Her throat. Her thigh. Places untouched by anyone, places he wanted to bury his face in and leave marked.

He wanted to drag her close by the hips and taste the soft underside of her jaw. He wanted her breath to break, wanted to hear the subtle hitch when his tongue pressed to sensitive skin. He wanted—

First day, he reminded himself. It’s the first day. Don’t be greedy.

It took all the discipline he had honed over centuries to restrain himself. He focused only on her wrist, the only place she allowed, and repeated that limit to himself with every lick, every breath, every swallow. He drank for a long time, until at last he forced himself to stop.

His lips came away with a wet, reluctant sound. He glanced down at her wrist. The wound had nearly sealed again, leaving it frustratingly unmarked as if he had never touched her at all.

It bothered him. Deeply. But he would not push his luck.

Two days from now, he reminded himself. She must keep the contract. I will drink again in two days.

For now, he would savor the faint warmth still lingering in his mouth and the sweetness clinging to his tongue. He bent again, gave her wrist one final, lingering sweep of his tongue. The wound sealed instantly beneath the touch.

He wanted more. He always wanted more. But he pulled back, forcing the craving down, and instead lifted her hand to his cheek like a cat seeking affection. His expression softened, but his eyes glittered with the same bottomless hunger.

“Then,” Gabriel murmured, still brushing her hand along his cheek as if savoring every last trace of her warmth, “we shall meet again in two days.”

The dizziness hitting her wasn’t troublesome—it was expected, natural after losing so much blood. What unsettled her was the sensation beneath her palm: the warmth of his skin, the absurd softness of his cheek, the subtle tremor concealed beneath that practiced elegance. She could break his neck right now. She truly could. And he knew it.

Their contract did not forbid her from killing him.

So why did he bend so easily to her hand? Why did he look up at her like this—unguarded, fearless, almost taunting in his confidence?

‘You can’t kill me.’

That was what this posture said.

That was why she refused to answer him when he said see you in two days. Silence was all he deserved. And he didn’t seem to mind.

Her expression remained blank as she asked, “Tell me. How does one kill a Demon God?”

Gabriel’s lips curved. Her blood still stained his mouth, giving it the appearance of painted rouge. It suited him far too well.

“Destroy the Night Demon’s heart,” he said softly.

“That hardly narrows it down. Every monster’s weakness is the heart.”

He laughed—gently, as though amused by her irritation. She nearly scowled. But he relented enough to explain:

“The Night Demon is… different.”

That was all he would say. She had fed him once today; perhaps he believed she owed him nothing more. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed withholding information.

Still, the implication was clear.

The heart is not inside its body.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Erin had heard enough. She turned without a word and left the cell, not bothering to grant him a parting glance. The warmth of his cheek in her palm faded quickly, evaporating like a fog against morning air. 

She didn’t look back—didn’t even consider it. Whatever face he wore now was irrelevant.

She glanced down at the wrist he had bitten and sucked. It still pulsed faintly as if sore, though not a single scar remained. Everything about the encounter whispered that this was an awful dream.

A nightmare she could not wake from.

If only it were a dream, she thought. If I open my eyes… would I return to that day with Grandmother?

No. She already knew the answer.

Even if she closed her eyes, even if she forced them shut hard enough to leave bruises, she would never return to that day. Reality did not bend. Reality did not pity. Reality only hollowed and hollowed until nothing was left.

She reached for the door of the prison cell and shoved it open.

“Commander!”

Ten was on her in seconds, eyes glossy with worry. Neo hovered behind him, uncertain whether to step closer or wait for permission. The sky had shifted while she was inside. It had been late afternoon when she entered. Now, the sun was sinking, and the air was colder.

They had waited the whole time.

Erin blinked once. Slowly. The weight of a blanket suddenly settled over her shoulders. She looked down. Ten had wrapped her in a thick, winter-grade layer far warmer than necessary for the mild weather.

She stared blankly.

Inside that chamber—inside the demon god’s presence—it had been freezing, filled with the biting aura of monsters. But she hadn’t felt cold. Not once.

Love didn’t keep her warm. Rage did.

Rage, simmering steadily in the place where her heart used to be.

She exhaled a faint laugh.

“Are you all right? Did you come out unharmed?” Ten asked, voice trembling.

“…Perfectly fine,” she answered.

She reached out and mussed his hair, then walked forward without looking back. The exhaustion hit her all at once. Her limbs felt heavy, not with fear but with the simple need to sleep. Desperately, deeply sleep.

Ten and Neo didn’t say a word. They followed her in silence, knowing better than to prod.

“I’ll see you in two days.”

If only nothing happened before then. If only—for once—something small went her way. But reality never indulged her.

Better to rest now. She would need strength for whatever tomorrow brought.

Erin looked briefly at the wrist holding the blanket closed around her shoulders, then looked away.

Even after washing up and returning home, even as she finally collapsed into sleep, she never once looked again at the place where Gabriel had drunk her blood.

***

As expected—her bleak intuition proved flawless. The next morning, chaos erupted.

The Commander of the Holy Knights, offered to a demon.

Even the headline alone spread like fire. The Holy Knights belonged to the Pope; naturally, he was said to be livid. His rage made sense—the emperor had handed over what belonged to the Church, as though it were his own to barter.

Erin didn’t care what the Pope said to the emperor. In fact, she thought it would be satisfying if the Pope killed him outright.

“Erin Ferr. This is blasphemy. Did you make this decision knowingly?” the Pope demanded.

A pleasant delusion, but it changed nothing. Erin forced herself into a neutral expression. In front of the Pope, she at least had to pretend to maintain decorum. She couldn’t very well laugh in his face.

But the more he spoke, the harder it became not to. She listened to his tirade with great effort, pressing down the urge to scoff.

“He is a demon! No matter what the Emperor says, you should have refused! How can a knight of the divine be offered as a sacrifice—h-how can this—!”

His face reddened scarlet, seconds away from bursting. Would he explode into holy light if he did? The image amused her far more than it should have.

She soothed him gently, though exhaustion weighed on every word.

“There’s no need to worry. I can use the demon to resolve the situation.”

“You intend to borrow the power of a demon?” he sputtered.

It was simple logic—fight fire with fire. Or in this case, replace one demon with another. Perhaps his hearing had worsened with age. Erin restrained the frown threatening to crease her forehead.

The emperor was a fool, and so was the Pope. Erin felt wedged between two idiots, her patience fraying at the edges.

“I made a spoken contract with him,” she explained. “I give him blood, and in exchange, he tells me how to kill the Night Demon.”

The Pope clearly found her decision distasteful. He was the type who believed only divine power could solve anything—everything else was lesser, unworthy, impure. A relic of a past age.

As if anyone wanted to join hands with their worst enemy.

Who was more miserable in this arrangement—the Pope or herself? Anyone with sense would say her.

Still, she served under him. Calming him down was simply part of the job.

“I will resolve everything quickly,” she said, “so that no one has grounds to call this blasphemy.”

Erin held his gaze with a perfectly blank face.

Remarkable, really. The Pope and the emperor were nothing alike, yet somehow they exuded the same suffocating aura. Family resemblance in spirit, if not blood.

I should have named two people instead of one when I made that contract, she thought.

A mild regret, but a regret nonetheless.