Page 28 of Virgil's Demons

But as I leaned closer to the mirror, the voice returned.

You really think he'll want you like this?Looking like a whore.

No amount of makeup can hide what you really are. Ugly.

I froze, the lipstick hovering near my lips, my breath catching in my throat.

He's going to see right through your mask. See how weak you are. And when he does… you'll wish he'd never touched you.

I shook my head, trying to push the voice away, but it grew louder, more insistent.

What do you think he really wants from you, huh? You think it's love? Don't be so naive. He wants what all men want… blood, pain, to rut in a hole. And then he wants to see you suffer.

An image of Virgil flashed in my mind then—dark and confusing. He wasn't the man I'd imagined. He wasn't gentle or tender. He was rough, brutal. His hands gripped me with a force that made my bones ache. His eyes burned, not with desire, but with hunger—something predatory.

I saw the knife in his hand, the blade glinting as he slid it into my chest. I felt the sharp pain as it slid through, the warm blood gushing down my body. And then he was there, drinking, tasting it, his lips smeared with crimson and when he looked at me, it wasn't him, his eyes were empty and glowing red.

My breath hitched, and I dropped the lipstick, the tube clattering against the vanity. My heart raced, the pulse in my neck pounding as the images lingered, vivid and sickening. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push them away, but they clung to the edges of my mind.

"No," I whispered, my voice shaking. "That's not real. It's not real."

But the voice only laughed.

It's what you want, isn't it? You crave the violence, the pain. You want him to hurt you, to make you bleed. Deep down, you know it's true.

I gripped the edge of the vanity, trying to steady myself, the world spinning slightly around me. I couldn't let this take over. Not now. Not when I was so close to seeing him again.

You're a sick, twisted little girl. You disgust me.

The voice continued to growl at me, whispering that I would give everything to him, and in return, I'd be left broken. Bleeding. Alone.

Dead.

I forced myself to open my eyes, glaring at my reflection. The woman staring back at me looked pale, fragile. But she wasn't weak. I wasn't weak.

I picked up the lipstick again, determined to finish. The red glided over my lips and a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I stared at my reflection. The devil stared back at me.

"Not tonight," I whispered, barely audible.

I grabbed the devil horns from the dresser, placing them on my head, completing the transformation. I might feel like I was being torn apart from the inside, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. And when I saw Virgil, none of this darkness would touch me or him.

I checked the clock—it was almost time to leave. The anticipation thrummed through me, a strange mixture of fear and excitement. Maybe Virgil could chase away the nightmares. Maybe, for a few hours, I could pretend I was whole.

But I couldn't help but wonder—were the dreams a warning? Was Virgil truly burning, trapped in a hell only I could save him from?

As I stepped out of the bathroom, I could still feel the weight of the demon's whispers, lingering like a shadow. But I shoved them aside, focusing on one thing.

Virgil.

Tonight, I would see him. And tonight, nothing else mattered.

BARYTHAYA

The wind whipped around me as I parked in front of The Black Pagan, the bite of the October cold seeping through the costume's leather, cutting down to the bone. The bike engines roared in the distance, a constant growl that blended with the chatter of men stationed outside the clubhouse. I stared at the bar, trying to summon the nerve to get out of the car.

My stomach was a twisted, a knot of nerves, and my anxiety was acting up. Bikers crowded the front of the building, all leather-clad, inked-up, and unapologetically intimidating. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered above them, rising into the black sky. Their eyes tracked me as I stepped out of the car, boots crunching against the gravel. Some leaned against their bikes, others stood in small groups, passing bottles between them. The laughter was sharp, the kind that cut through the cold air like a blade, and I could feel their gazes on me, heavy, as if they were dissecting and undressing me with every step I took.

"Look at this one," someone muttered.

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