Chapter-9 the Devouring Hunger

At 3 AM, the museum stood silent — no humans, no animals, only him.

The priest stepped inside, his boots echoing against the marble floor, the sound magnifying the tense stillness of the night.

I know you're here, Teresina... but where are you? We need you, he wondered, his senses sharp.

He moved closer to the ancient statue that loomed under the pale glow of the moonlight, standing so still it almost seemed alive.

The priest stared at it, waiting, almost expecting it to speak.

As he raised his hand to touch the statue, a jolt of instinct struck him.

He stopped immediately — centuries of dragon instincts screaming at him — and took a careful step back.

The sound of his boots against the stone floor grew louder, harsher, as if warning him.

Suddenly, a shadow lunged from the darkness.

"There you are," he muttered coldly, grabbing the figure's neck before she could even react.

Clara.

She didn't even flinch — instead, she smiled devilishly, her voice silky.

"Of course... I'm impressed, sugar priest. Should I call you that? It suits you better. You're a little too young to be a priest, don't you think?"

He tightened his grip around her throat slightly, drawing her closer until their noses almost brushed.

"Mmhmph... you know," she purred, her breath warm against his skin, "I could end you right here, and no one would ever know the third upper knight of the Shadow Lord disappeared."

Their smirks mirrored each other — two predators circling, daring, challenging.

"What do you think?" Clara whispered, her fingers trailing up to his long fringe, tugging playfully at his hair and brushing his ear. "You dragons always smell so... intoxicating."

Her touch was mocking — or maybe tempting.

"Now..." she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, "tell me — where is your Lord? And where is that sixth sword?"

The priest smiled darkly.

In one swift movement, he spun her around, pressing a dagger to her throat.

Their reflection glinted in the grand mirror behind them, the moonlight washing over his silver hair, making him look almost divine — or diabolical.

"You really thought you trapped me, my little demon?" he murmured against her neck, his voice low, dangerous.

"No, little demon. Not even close."

He dragged the blade teasingly across her lips, drawing a thin bead of blood.

Watching it glisten, he licked his lips slowly, like a starving beast.

Clara tried to resist — she chanted a spell, kicked — but nothing worked.

The priest chuckled darkly.

"I told you... here, at the Capitoline Museum, no one's powers work. Not even your precious ninth knight who fought Nara could escape that rule."

Clara's eyes widened — realization dawning too late.

He pinned her to the cold stone wall, devouring the blood from her lips with ravenous hunger.

Licking, biting, sucking — a slow, helpless moan escaped her lips as his aura overwhelmed her senses.

He pulled away, admiring the blood trickling down her neck and lips.

Slowly, almost reverently, he unbuttoned the top of her blouse and sank his teeth into the tender flesh near her collarbone.

"Aghh... no...!" Clara whimpered, her voice cracking under the intensity.

"You must be wondering why you can't move..." he whispered against her skin, a wicked smile curling his mouth.

"My dagger... and my poisonous bites... that's why."

He tilted her head back, admiring his work — the trembling, the blood, the broken pride.

"And by the way," he added, voice thick with hunger, "you demons... you taste exquisite. I've never had the chance to savor a demon's blood before. But when I saw you... I knew I had to taste you."

Before Clara could curse him, darkness closed in.

She fainted, crumbling helplessly into his arms.

The priest caught her easily, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"You're mine now, little shadow," he whispered, carrying her deeper into the museum's dark halls.

"You were not like this... once, long ago. Someone has poisoned you against us. But don't worry..."

"I will protect you. Even if I have to keep you as my prisoner."

Under the cold gaze of ancient statues, he disappeared into the darkness — the only sound left was the faint echo of boots, and the silent beating of secrets in the night.