The Devil Himself

Lying on his stomach beside her, half-shielded by the wreckage, was a man.

Pale—almost ghostly—with short, silvery-blonde hair that shimmered faintly under the moonlight. His skin was so bloodless, so cold-looking, it felt like she was staring at someone caught between life and death.

A chill raced through her spine. She shuddered involuntarily as he turned his head toward her.

Then she saw his eyes—crimson and burning, luminous in the dark. They seemed to slice straight into her, reading her from the inside out. There was a twisted beauty to them. She didn't know whether to flinch in terror or stare in fascination.

"I suppose I startled you," he whispered. His voice was low and smooth—like silk gliding over a blade. It echoed faintly in her mind, like it didn't belong entirely to this world.

Ahmi barely nodded, paralyzed under his gaze.

"Excellent," he said, flashing sharp white teeth. His canines gleamed beneath the moonlight. "Just goes to show I'm still the monster they say I am."

And she believed him—without a single doubt. Every inch of her screamed that he was right.

"Help!" she cried out, her voice tearing through the night air. It rang louder than she expected, drawing startled gasps and a sudden halt of galloping hooves in the distance.

The heavy slab of cement pinning her down suddenly flew off—ripped away by something unseen. She barely had a second to gasp before his hands closed around her neck.

Large. Cold. Unyielding.

"I thought you were a quiet cat," he murmured darkly, his grin close and cruel. "Turns out you're a tiger. Roaring when danger's near."

Her reflexes kicked in. Pure panic set her body ablaze, and she clawed at his wrist, thrashing beneath him despite the burning pain screaming from her injured limbs.

"Constantine!" a voice barked—loud, sharp, commanding.

He didn't answer. But something in the air changed. Ahmi could feel it—the tension, the hesitation. She was costing him. She was more trouble than he'd expected.

More hoofbeats thundered in. The number of riders had grown—what started as two had multiplied into nearly a dozen. They circled fast, boots pounding against the earth.

Constantine shifted his grip, sliding his hands from her throat to her waist, pressing himself hard against her to keep her pinned.

Their bodies locked. She could feel their heartbeats—his fast, steady, predatory. Hers frantic, fluttering. Her entire body went cold, her skin prickling as his breath ghosted along her neck.

Then he inhaled—slow and deliberate—nose trailing just under her jaw. His pupils shrank to pinpoints. The red in his eyes bloomed into bright, vivid vermilion.

An unreadable emotion passed through his expression. And then... he looked at her. Truly looked.

"Don't," came a voice from beyond them.

Ahmi strained to see. A man stepped forward. His dark brown hair blew with the wind, his stance controlled but trembling with alarm.

He looked like a leader. His eyes locked with hers.

"Help me," she whispered, her voice fragile but unwavering. "Please."

The silence that followed was like the space before a storm breaks.

"Constantine," the man said again, lower this time. Steady. "You've gone without this for years. Don't start now."

"That depends," Constantine murmured against her skin. "On how you've treated me all these years." His voice was soft now, almost intimate. His breath, hot. The tip of his nose dragged slowly along her throat—memorizing her, savoring her. "This… isn't exactly new."

Ahmi's heart lurched. She understood the words, but not the meaning. Not the weight of them. She shook her head, trembling harder.

What was happening?

Why her?

And then, as if none of it mattered—none of the warnings, none of her begging—he reached up and brushed her hair aside with care that didn't match the violence in his touch.

His lips parted. His head dipped lower.

And slowly, deliberately, he dragged his tongue along the tender skin just above her vein.

Ahmi felt his breath hitch against her skin.

A pause.

Not like hesitation—but hunger.

Something shifted in him, deep and primal. His hands tightened slightly at her sides, fingers twitching as if barely containing themselves. His jaw clenched, and she felt it—subtle, but visceral—as though he were restraining the urge to bite down hard and tear something away.

Her whole body tensed. A strange wave of heat flooded through her chest—not from arousal, but the raw instinct that screamed predator. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She didn't know what he wanted—but her nerves sparked with the terrifying realization that he did.

Constantine exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring as if he were breathing her in. His eyes—those molten vermilion flames—roamed across her face, down her throat, lower.

He licked his lips.

A flicker of something wild danced in his eyes—starvation, need, madness.

But not for blood.

Not only blood.

Ahmi didn't move. She couldn't. Her breath caught in her lungs, trapped beneath the weight of something she didn't understand. Her mind raced. What had changed? What had she done?

What did he see in her?

He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear.

"You smell like ruin," he whispered, voice raw and thick with something more than violence. "Like you're meant to be broken slowly. Carefully. Thoroughly."

She flinched, finally, instinctively. But his grip only softened—as if her fear delighted him.

She had no idea what part of her drew that look from him. No idea what part of her made him look like a starved wolf, poised at the edge of control. No idea what it was in her—blood, scent, soul—that made him want her not just silenced, but devoured.

And somehow… she feared that even death wouldn't be the worst thing he'd do.

Not by far.

"What do you mean?" she asked, voice trembling. Panic surged like wildfire through her veins. "I don't understand. Whatever it is you're planning to do, please—please have mercy!"

Constantine tilted his head. There was something unreadable in his expression—something almost curious.

"I'm giving you an easy time, woman," he said, voice quiet, as if tasting the word. "Life is hell once they capture you." He motioned to the tense men ahead. "You shouldn't have seen me."

Her heart stumbled again. A sick twist churned in her stomach, rising to her throat like bile.

"If—If that's the case, I won't tell anyone," she whispered. "I swear. I don't even know what I saw. Whatever happened—I'll forget it. I'll bury it in the back of my mind. Just let me go…I'm begging you. Please!"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it never reached his eyes.

"You already know I exist," he said, tone disturbingly soft. "That's enough reason to end your life. Am I right, Lord Vanriche?"

Constantine looked toward the brunette man, who stood rigid at the edge of the room, jaw clenched like stone.

"Stop this. You don't know what the hell you're doing, Tino! You're dragging an innocent person into this mess."

"That's right," Ahmi said, tugging at Constantine's arm. Her entire body trembled. "I won't say anything, I promise—"

He reached for her with eerie calm. "Like I said, you've seen me. You've heard my name. And people like me… we don't leave witnesses." His eyes flicked toward Lord Vanriche. "He called me a monster. And monsters don't leave trails."

Her breath hitched. Her hands shook violently at her sides. "I can forget," she said desperately. "I will forget. I swear—"

"I believe you," he murmured, smiling gently.

For one terrifying second, she almost hoped. Her heart fluttered—not with relief, but with the ache of something left undone.

A memory flared in her mind—her grandmother laughing on the porch at dusk, the Baguio wind tangled in her hair. She remembered that sound. She remembered light.

Then, his hands moved.

Fast. Precise. One hand under her chin. The other at the back of her head.

"You'll forget everything once you die."

"No—please—!"

CRACK.

The sound was soft. Clean. Sickeningly final.

Her body went limp instantly, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. Her eyes widened for a heartbeat—just one—and then dulled as the light vanished from them like the last star before dawn.

Constantine held her for a moment longer, cradling her weight as if it meant nothing, his expression calm—almost serene.

"Mercy," he said again under his breath, lowering her gently to the floor. "You should've run when you had the chance."

In her last seconds, Ahmi believed him.

He wasn't just a monster.

He was the devil himself.