The devil's little bride

Chapter One: The Girl Marked for Fire

They dragged Selene from the river.

Naked. Shivering. Mud staining her thighs. Her wrists, bound in thorn-twined rope, bled from her struggling, but no one looked at her with pity. Only relief.

As if evil had finally been caught.

As if the world could breathe now that the Devil's favorite had been found.

"Witch," hissed one of the elders, spitting at her bare feet. "You bewitched the wheat. You turned the sky against us."

"I didn't-" Selene tried, but her voice cracked against the wind, raw from screaming. "I'm not-"

They silenced her with a backhand.

Blood filled her mouth. Metallic. Familiar.

Her mother's sobbing came from somewhere behind the crowd. But no one looked at her, either. Grief was dangerous when justice demanded spectacle.

Selene stared up at the men who once praised her for her healing hands, her kind words, the way she sang to the village children. Those same men now held stones.

And smiles.

How quickly love rotted into fear.

"You walked the forest alone," someone called out. "You speak to shadows. You draw symbols in the dirt when you think no one's watching."

"You don't bleed," said another.

Selene blinked through blood and tears. "I-what?"

The oldest among them stepped forward. Her hair was white and braided like rope, and her eyes were sharp enough to slice through bone.

"The Devil does not bleed," the woman said softly. "Nor do his brides."

Selene's stomach turned cold.

She bled every month. She bled when she tripped and skinned her knees. She'd bled when she cut her palm trying to peel an apple. She bled now, wrists raw, mouth split, dignity torn.

And yet, they looked at her as if her blood wasn't red enough. As if her pain wasn't human.

Because it was easier than admitting they were scared.

"Bind her for the Moon Rite," the woman said.

And just like that, Selene was no longer a girl.

She was a sacrifice.

---

They scrubbed her skin with salt until she burned.

They poured oils over her head until she stank of lavender and ash.

They dressed her in a white robe thin enough to be transparent, the fabric clinging to her skin like a ghost's final breath.

She wasn't allowed to look anyone in the eyes. Not even her own reflection.

Mirror shards had been covered.

Because the Devil could reach through glass.

That was what the priestess whispered as she braided red thread through Selene's hair. "If he sees your soul before the Rite, he'll devour it. You must go to him clean."

Clean.

Selene wanted to laugh. To scream.

There was nothing clean about this.

---

The altar stood on the cliff's edge, jagged and ancient, carved from blackstone that didn't belong to their lands. No one knew where it came from. It had always been there-older than the village, older than the mountains, older than the gods.

It pulsed when the moon rose. Not light. Not sound.

Something else.

Something that made your teeth ache and your skin feel too tight.

They tied Selene to the stone with red rope. Each knot cinched tighter than the last, not for security, but ritual. She wasn't allowed to move.

Not when the Devil came for her.

And he would come. He always came.

One bride each blood moon.

One girl to keep the fires of Hell away from their homes, their crops, their children.

Peace, in exchange for innocence.

Selene felt the moment it happened.

The air shifted-cracked around her like glass. The wind stopped. The earth held its breath.

And the world turned its face away.

---

He didn't walk from the trees.

He didn't rise from smoke.

He was simply there-where he hadn't been a breath before.

Tall. Barefoot. Dressed in a robe darker than night, open at the throat. His hair was black as oil, brushing his jaw. His skin was moon-pale, but not cold. There was heat radiating from him, invisible waves that made her lungs seize.

His eyes-Gods, his eyes-

They were wrong.

Not glowing. Not red. Just dark. Deep. Endless.

Like the moment before drowning.

Like the silence between lightning and thunder.

He didn't speak.

Didn't touch her.

Just looked at her. Long. Unblinking. As if memorizing her.

As if he'd seen her before.

As if he'd lost her before.

Selene's breath hitched. She was supposed to be afraid. To cry. To beg for mercy.

But she didn't.

She stared back.

"I'm not a witch," she whispered. Her voice was raw, but steady. "I bleed. I cry. I want to live."

He blinked slowly. Tilted his head.

The wind returned, soft at first-then hard enough to whip her hair around her face. The stone beneath her vibrated. Not with fear.

With recognition.

The Devil stepped closer.

Selene flinched-but he only raised one hand.

And with a flick of his fingers, the ropes vanished.

Just... disappeared.

She gasped. Her limbs fell slack, weightless. The marks on her skin were already fading, disappearing like smoke in sunlight.

"I didn't summon you," she said, her voice shaking now. "I didn't ask for this."

Still, he didn't speak.

He reached out slowly-like she might shatter-and brushed a single knuckle down the side of her face.

Warm. Real.

Gentle.

Not lustful. Not monstrous.

But unbearably... human.

A sound escaped his throat-low, aching, broken. Like a man seeing a grave he thought he'd buried himself in.

And then, for the first time, he spoke.

His voice was velvet and fire. Worn and deep. It clung to her ribs.

"You were not supposed to be chosen," he said. "Not this time."

Selene stared. "You know me?"

His gaze locked onto hers. Something shifted in his expression. Something raw.

"Not yet," he said. "But I will."

Then, the cliff vanished.

And so did she.