Chapter 13: The Devil's Hands on Me

The night had worn thin, leaving behind only a raw, unsettled silence within the shadowed corridors of the Costa estate. The aftermath of the masquerade had given way to moments of isolation—a time when even whispered secrets seemed too loud. Seraphina, alone and restless, walked these deserted halls, her mind churning with the echoes of last night's fragile truce and the storm of conflicting emotions that still roiled within her.

She paused by a narrow window, staring out at a city that had already forgotten the revelries of the evening. The corridor's only light came from a solitary overhead bulb that sputtered and danced, casting jittery shadows against timeworn walls. It was in this uncertain liminality between night and dawn that destiny chose to disrupt her solitude.

Before she could retreat into her thoughts, a presence emerged from the darkness—a silent, deliberate step that spoke of both inevitability and provocation. Damian's silhouette materialized at the far end of the hall, his eyes burning with an intensity that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

"Seraphina," he intoned, his voice low and commanding, yet threaded with a tremor of something dangerously tender.

Her eyes snapped to him, a flash of defiance igniting within. "What do you want, Damian?" she demanded, her tone a mixture of warning and weary curiosity. She instinctively moved a step back, but before she could retreat further, he was upon her.

In one fluid motion, Damian closed the gap between them. His hand shot out, seizing her wrist with a firmness that brooked no refusal. In the same breath, he pulled her toward the cold stone wall, pinning her with a force that was both physical and emotional. The contact was jarring—his heated skin against hers sent electric shocks through her, and yet the way his touch lingered, almost reverently, belied the threat in his eyes.

"Don't struggle," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Tonight, I intend to show you exactly what it means to feel." His voice, though laced with a promise of ruin, carried an undercurrent of worship—a reverence that made every touch feel like a confession.

Seraphina's heart pounded fiercely as her pulse thundered in her ears. "Damian—let me go," she protested, her voice a fragile tremor between anger and something unspoken, something like desperate longing. "This isn't the way."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Oh, but it is," he said, tightening his grip just enough to make his point. "I want to claim every secret, every scar, every hidden part of you. I promise you, I'll ruin you… and yet, when I touch you, it feels like I'm worshiping every fault and every beauty you hide."

Her eyes flashed with indignation even as a part of her trembled at the admission. "You think that justifies—" she began, but he cut her off with a sharp, urgent tone.

"Justifies nothing," he whispered fiercely. "I'm not here to absolve or to save you, Seraphina. I'm here to shatter the illusions that keep us apart. You say you want control, but every time you defy me, every time you resist, it only makes me want to break through that wall you've built around yourself." His fingers slid from her wrist to trace a slow, deliberate path along the line of her jaw, the roughness of his touch both a caress and a command.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the wall behind her faded into irrelevance as she became acutely aware of the fire in his eyes. "Damian," she murmured, voice thick with conflicted emotion, "this isn't—"

"It is," he interjected, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as if admiring a sacred relic. "Every time I do this, every time I press my lips against your skin or run my fingers through your hair, I feel as though I'm surrendering to the only truth that matters: we are bound by our sins, by our scars. And yes, I promise I'll ruin you—but maybe, in that ruin, we'll both find a freedom we never knew existed."

The intensity of his declaration left her momentarily speechless. She felt the pressure of his body against hers, felt the delicate interplay of dominance and devotion in his every touch. "You're playing with fire, Damian," she whispered, a plea tangled with defiance. "Every time you say you'll ruin me, I'm left wondering if I'll ever be whole again."

He leaned in closer, his eyes locked onto hers, searching for a flicker of surrender amid her guarded defiance. "Sometimes," he said softly, "ruin is the only way to rebuild. I don't seek to destroy you without purpose—I want to dismantle every lie that has kept you imprisoned. I want to see you, all of you, laid bare before me." His hand slid slowly down her arm, every movement imbued with a reverence that transformed his rough command into something almost sacramental.

A tumult of emotions surged within her—anger, desire, fear, and a spark of something deeper that she wasn't ready to name. "You call it worship," she said bitterly, her voice shaking slightly. "But all I feel is the weight of your promises. Promises to break me, to reshape me, and to leave me in pieces."

"And those pieces," Damian replied, his tone almost tender, "will be the mosaic of a woman who refuses to be defined by anyone but herself." His grip softened just a fraction, a silent question lingering in the space between them: Was this love, or was it simply the lure of the forbidden?

For a long, suspended moment, neither spoke, the only sound their rapid breathing mingling in the charged silence. The cold stone of the wall pressed in around them, grounding them in a reality that was as brutal as it was intoxicating.

Finally, with a voice that trembled on the edge of surrender, Seraphina whispered, "I don't know if I can let you—if I let any of this in." Her eyes, glistening with unshed tears and unspoken truths, searched his for a sign of mercy, or perhaps understanding.

Damian's response was a quiet, determined vow. "Then let me be the one to show you that even in ruin, there can be beauty. I may be the devil in your nightmares, but maybe I can also be the salvation you never expected." His hand cupped her face once more, gentle now, as if to mend the fragile barrier between them with each tender caress.

In that charged darkness, where every whispered threat blended with the promise of salvation, the line between destruction and redemption blurred. The devil's hands, rough and uncompromising, had become instruments of both ruin and adoration—a duality that neither of them could deny.

As the night stretched on, their breaths mingling in the dim light, Seraphina felt the resolve she'd clung to begin to waver. Here, pinned against the cold, unyielding wall, with Damian's fervent declarations echoing in her ears, she found herself teetering on the edge of a precipice. The promise of being ruined was terrifying, yet the possibility of being reborn from those very ashes shone like a dangerous beacon.

"Maybe I'm ready to risk it," she finally confessed, her voice barely audible, a fragile admission that danced on the border of fear and desire.

Damian's eyes softened, and in that moment, his rough insistence turned into a vow of something neither of them had dared to dream. "Then let me hold you in your ruin, and together we'll find the strength to rise anew."

In the fragile space between hate and desire, between ruin and redemption, they remained—two souls intertwined in a dangerous ballet, their every touch a step further into a destiny they could no longer escape.