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??The Devil You know

Ember

Every night, it was the same.

He came in with food, I told him to kick rocks, he laughed and told me to eat or else. He didn’t give me a choice because he stood there and gawked at me until I took several bites of everything on the plate.

I wondered who supplied these meals because there’s no way Dorian Vale cooked. I snickered at the thought as the mic hummed softly in front of me, waiting. Just like he was.

I know he’s listening.

He never let me leave the room he first brought me to, still the same four walls, the same locked door.

But now, it held a desk, a mic, and everything I needed to keep Dead Wrong alive.

It wasn’t freedom. It was control dressed as kindness. A cage with perfect acoustics.

Wrapped in luxury. Caged in velvet. Imprisoned by obsession. And yet… He let me speak.

The rule was simple: Don’t tell the truth. But he didn’t say I couldn’t sharpen the edge. Didn’t say I couldn’t turn the blade slowly.

I took a breath. Pressed record. “Good evening all you ghostly gals and ghouls. You’re tuned in to the one and only…

Dead Wrong .” My voice slid into the mic like smoke into lungs.

“Boy do I have a show for you tonight.” I whispered into the mic, letting my words caress the ears of those tuning in.

“They say evil wears many faces. Sometimes it looks like a monster hiding under your bed. Sometimes it looks like the man who just saved your life in court.”

I paused.

Not fear.

“But the most dangerous ones? The ones who cut the deepest? They don’t scream. They whisper. They wear suits. They wear charm-like armor. They let you believe you’re safe right up until they show you the knife.”

The shadows shifted behind me. I could feel them.

I kept going.

“This isn’t about the ones who got away anymore. It’s about the ones who never had to run.”

I lowered my voice, let it curl dark.

“Imagine a man who kills with intention. Not for blood, but for balance. A man who makes monsters disappear and calls it justice. ”

My heart was thundering now. Because I wasn’t just talking to my audience.

I was talking to him.

To Dorian.

“You might even start to wonder... is he cleaning up what the system left behind? Or is he just carving out space for something even worse?”

The red light stayed on. I haven’t broken the rules.

Not technically.

“Some say the Devil doesn’t exist. But I think he does. I think he walks in daylight. I think he speaks softly. I think he listens to this podcast.”

There was a hum in the floor. The walls. The air.

Magic.

It’s alive now.

He’s feeling this.

Good.

“And to the Devil,” I whispered, lips nearly touching the mic, “I hope you’re enjoying the show.”

I ended the recording with a click and sat back in my chair. The silence after felt heavier than it should.

The shadows didn’t just flicker now, they crawled. Writhing up the walls like vines made of smoke and spite. I could taste them on the back of my tongue.

He was close.

The door didn’t slam open.

It opened slowly.

Dorian stepped inside like a thunderstorm walking on two legs. Shirt rolled to the elbows. Eyes pitch black. Power bleeding off of him in waves.

“That episode,” he said, voice low, “wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

I smiled. Sweet. Sharp. “But it wasn’t the truth either. I didn’t say your name.”

“You painted it in blood.”

I stood. Slowly. Deliberately.

Let the silk of my robe fall open just enough to show skin, nothing obscene, but enough to make his gaze twitch.

“You said I could speak. I spoke.”

He crossed the room in a blink. One hand grabbed the arm of my chair. The other landed beside my throat, not touching, but close enough that the air flared.

“Do you like this, Ember?” he whispered. “Poking the monster and pretending you don’t want it to bite?”

My pulse fluttered, but I didn’t flinch.

“I think you want me to poke,” I breathed. “I think you like it.”

His eyes burned into mine. The air thickened. Warped. His power, which could be mistaken for magic, was clawing at the walls, pushing at the edges of his restraint.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

“Then show me.”

A beat.

Then two.

His hand closed around my throat, not tight, just enough .

I didn’t flinch. I leaned into it.

His lips were inches from mine. Heat radiated between us. His breath smelled like blood, bourbon, and control that’s about to shatter.

“You want to know what I am?” he growled.

“Yes.”

His grip tightened.

“Then beg.”

“No.”

He let go, violently. Spun away, fingers buried in his hair like he’s trying not to tear himself apart.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he muttered.

I crossed the room, slowly. Bare feet. Bare skin. Bare honesty. “Maybe,” I said. “But you’ll burn me first.”

He turned back.

And this time, he didn’t step away.

The air thickened between us like fog before a storm. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then rose, slow, calculating, hungry.

“I don’t regret what I did,” I whispered, chin tilting up, voice steel-wrapped in glass. “But I should hate you for it.”

“You will,” he said, stepping closer. “But not yet.”

His hand came up, two fingers beneath my chin, lifting it just enough. Just enough to make me feel small. Or fragile. Or seen.

Then he kissed me.

No warning.

No hesitation.

Just the sharp press of lips and the quiet groan of something unraveling deep inside both of us.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t soft.

It was a promise disguised as a mistake.

And it stole the air from my lungs.

He pulled back before I could chase it, before I could ruin it with thought.

My breath caught.

His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth like he was erasing evidence. Or savoring it.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice frayed at the edges.

Then he turned and left.

And I stood there… Wanting him to come back and do it all over again.