“Daemonium divitiarum, audi vocem nostram.”

“Demon of riches, hear our voice.”

A chill swept across the room, curling around Cerise like invisible chains. The air grew heavy, almost wet with an unseen presence. Despite the searing pain in her palm, she tightened her grip around the blood-slicked demon idol, her fingers trembling not with fear, but rage.

Let it turn into a blade, she thought bitterly. Let it cut through these ropes. Let me kill them all.

She couldn’t help but feel the anger she had piled up through the years. They forced labor on her since she was a child. They made sure she knew her place as they emotionally, verbally, physically, and even sexually abused her growing up.

She even thought if karma exists! Because if it did, then why isn’t karma not getting in their way?

Has she done something sinful in the past for her to deserve such hell living with this wretched family?

If this so-called God is real…then please…save me. Fucking save me. She struggled, shaking her hands. And if so, then I’ll sin again…and kill them!

“Hostiam tibi damus, sanguinem purum.”

“We give you a sacrifice, blood pure.”

They stepped forward, one by one. Each slit their palm and let their blood drip down onto her body, smearing across her skin, her clothes, her hair. It was warm, yet cold. Alive, yet soulless. The mix of iron and incense stung her nose.

Their chanting grew louder, more twisted—like a hymn dragged from the underworld.

“Pro opibus aeternis, accipe donum nostrum.”

“For eternal wealth, accept our gift.”

Cerise’s jaw clenched and a random thought suddenly crossed her mind: Is this what they did to my mother?

She had never known her. She never even knew what she looked like. The patriarch of the family was indeed her biological father, but she only inherited being brunette.

She had looked at herself countless times in front of the mirror. She hated looking at herself—the fact of her living boiled her blood. However, it did cross her mind that she maybe looked more like her mother, if she’s nothing like her father other than the color of the hair.

Maybe…maybe this is what they did to her that’s why I never met her! Or…was she sane enough to leave my father? What if she left me alone and never cared about me?

Only the sneers, the whispers, “bastard,” they called her. She had long suspected something darker beneath their wealth. A deal. A ritual. A curse, maybe.

Maybe it is true after all. This type of generational wealth…she thought it was only seen in movies and read about in books.

Was I born into blood-soaked gold?

“Veni, accipe, dona nobis aurum et potentiam.”

“Come, receive—grant us gold and power.”

She had begged for death many times. Prayed for it. Tried. Failed. And yet here she was…still breathing, still bound, still burning with defiance.

Their cruelty hadn’t killed her. It had forged her.

“In aeternum ligamur, voluntate tua.”

“Forever we are bound, by your will.”

Cerise almost laughed.

After all this time...was this what they were keeping me alive for? To hand me over like cattle? To sell me off to the devil himself for another few years of fortune and luxury?

The patriarch lifted his hands, his voice ringing with finality.

“Andras Caelum…we offer this woman to you, Cerise Whitlock, as your bride!”

And like puppets, the rest of the family echoed him.

“Andras Caelum…we offer this woman to you, Cerise Whitlock, as your bride!”

The temperature dropped. The candles around them flickered violently. Then, all at once, extinguished, as if snuffed out by an unseen wind.

Darkness fell.

Even through the blindfold, Cerise knew…this was no ordinary night. Her world turned pitch black, inside and out.

She felt it. Something was here. Someone was listening.

And for the first time…she wondered… Is the ritual actually real?

“Soon...he will come and take her as his bride,” the head of the Lyons family said, a twisted grin stretching across his face. His voice dripped with malice as he let out a low, wicked laugh. “And then, he’ll end her life.”

“With that, we’ll be rich for another 25 years, right, dad?” one of the sons asked eagerly.

Their mother answered instead, her voice cold and venomous.

“Yes. And she deserves it—just like her whore of a mother, for seducing my husband.”

Cerise chuckled under her breath. It’s as if they read her mind, what they said confirming her guesses regarding her mother.

So…they killed her after all!.

Still, it was a relief for her to know that her real mother didn’t leave her because she was selfish. But it was because of them!

“So that’s it,” she murmured. “You’ve just been feeding off us. Pathetic.”

“Huh? What did you just say?”

It was the daughter’s voice, sharpened by offense, already trembling with rage. Cerise turned her face toward her, a smirk tugging at her bloodied lips.

“I said you’re pathetic. All of you. Living off the very blood you hate.”

“Shut up, you filthy bitch!”

It was the second son this time. His boot slammed into her ribs, then a fist followed. Cerise curled slightly, coughing up blood. Her body ached, but her grin only widened.

“Aww...is that all?” she rasped. “How cute.”

“Tsk—”

“Enough!” the patriarch barked. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.

Everyone fell silent. Despite being blindfolded, Cerise rolled her eyes as it’s the only command of their father that they followed.

“Let her be. The demon will take care of her now.” He moved toward the window, staring up at the full moon glowing like an omen in the night sky. “Besides, tonight is a night of passion. We burn this place down next, just as the ritual requires.”

One by one, their footsteps echoed as they exited, laughter trailing behind them like poison in the air. Their cruel voices called out mock goodbyes:

“Enjoy your wedding, Cerise.”

“Don’t miss us too much!”

“Burn well, sweetheart.”

The door slammed shut. And silence fell.

Cerise remained still for a moment, her breath ragged, blood dripping from her mouth. Then her shoulders began to tremble. But not from fear. Not from helplessness. And never from self-pity.

She was shaking from rage.

Pure, uncontrollable, suffocating rage.

“Hmph. They really went to all that trouble…just to make her look presentable?”

Cerise froze. That voice.

It was masculine—smooth as silk, yet dark as ash. A voice laced with arrogance, as though it could strip a soul bare with just a word.

Andras Caelum? she wondered. That’s the name of the demon they called to earlier, right?

The soft patter of bare feet echoed closer. Then, warmth. A hot breath whispered across her cheek. She flinched as a low chuckle brushed the shell of her ear like a kiss made of smoke.

“My, my…they didn’t have to dirty you like this.”

As if summoned by his words, fire began to blaze outside the storage room, casting flickering shadows through the cracks. Then, the blindfold was torn from her face.

Cerise winced, her eyes aching from the sudden flood of light after hours in darkness. She blinked, and the world came into focus.

There he was.

Naked. Unashamed. Glorious.

A demon carved out of desire and wrath, his body sculpted for sin, veins shadowed beneath perfect skin. Pointed ears peeked through tousled ash gray hair, and long black nails tipped his elegant fingers. His eyes glowed faintly, wicked and ancient, yet coldly amused.

He was aroused. She noticed.

And yet…her rage burned brighter.

She met his gaze with steady defiance, unbothered by the strangeness or beauty before her.

“And you are?” he said, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Cerise Whitlock,” she answered, eyes narrowing. “You must be Andras Caelum.”

He tilted his head, as if intrigued by her boldness. Then he laughed, not loudly, but with low delight, like someone savoring a rare delicacy.

“A human dares speak my name.” He stepped closer, crouching before her. “How audacious.”

She didn’t flinch when he touched her, when his hand moved behind her to untie her restraints. Her skin stung where the ropes had burned, but her expression never faltered.

He freed her…only to slam her to the floor in the next instant.

Pinning her beneath him, Andras caught both her wrists in one powerful hand and raised them above her head. His body loomed over hers like a shadow given form, but she held his gaze, even as pain flickered through her eyes.

He noticed the twitch of her fingers. She was hurting…but not afraid.

Not even close.

He studied her in silence. No trembling. No begging. No tears.

Just that furious, burning stare.

“Why aren’t you afraid, Cerise?”

She arched a brow, voice cool.

“Me? Afraid?”

“You’ve been sacrificed,” he said, his voice dipping low, almost reverent. “You are my bride, soon to be my wife. Your life is mine. You will die.”

She stared at him. And then…laughed.

Andras blinked. It wasn’t hysteria. It wasn’t madness.

It was scorn.

“Death?” she scoffed. “Please.” Her eyes narrowed like blades. “I’d rather kill them first…before I become your wife. Before I die.” She then leaned in, her smile daring.

“So…will you help me?”