In the molten halls of Hell, Malevola drifted toward the lone stranger who somehow stood unscorched, her ember-lit eyes studying the anomaly with a curiosity she rarely granted mortals.
She let her voice curl like smoke around him—half challenge, half invitation—testing whether he flinched before the aura of a demoness known for turning manipulation into an art.
When he met her gaze without fear, a slow, intrigued smile crossed her lips, and the fires around them bent subtly in her favor, hinting that whatever came next would depend entirely on how he handled her interest.