The Devil Of My Dreams

Forbidden Desires

Azelior

"A virgin? How did you even manage to slip into a virgin's dream? Is that not forbidden?" Azazel, my youngest brother, demanded, his crimson eyes narrowing. He was lounging carelessly in the corner moments ago, but his tone betrayed the unease threading through him now. Azazel looked every inch the tempter he was born to be. His lean frame was draped in shadows, his obsidian-black hair tumbled carelessly into his eyes, and his lips curved in a smirk that rarely reached his gaze. But beneath his arrogant posture, he carried the restless energy of the youngest son, quick to mock and quicker to fear.

Before I could answer, Astarte, my younger sister and the last surviving succubus of our bloodline, let out an exasperated sigh. She rose gracefully, the dim torchlight glinting across her sinuous form. Astarte was beautiful in the way only a demon could be: her skin gleamed with a faint pearlescent sheen, her hair cascaded in a waterfall of silver-black waves, and from her temples curved delicate onyx horns adorned with gold rings. Her eyes were the color of liquid night, fathomless and dangerous, framed by lashes that could ensnare any mortal fool. Even her movements dripped seduction, yet her voice cracked like a whip when she scolded me.

"It is not only forbidden, it is suicide, Azelior," she said, her words sharp, her full mouth curling in disdain. "Feeding on a virgin's fresh lust is perilous. Their essence is too raw, too consuming. It is why our kind forbade it in the first place. You may think yourself invincible, brother, but even you are not beyond consequence."

I leaned back in my seat, unfazed by her lecture. Rules. Warnings. Fear. None of it mattered to me. I was a demon, and more than that, I was Azelior, the strongest of our bloodline. The hunger clawed at me, gnawing like wildfire in my veins. I had not tasted the lust of a human in five centuries, and the virgin's sweetness was an agony I could not deny.

Astarte's gaze sharpened as though she could read every treacherous thought. "Especially you," she pressed, her tone low and dangerous. "You are the last who should dare it. Half a millennium without feeding has already left your control hanging by a thread. To take a virgin's essence now… it could unravel you completely. It could devour you."

From the corner, Azazel finally pushed himself upright, his lazy smirk fading into rare sobriety. "She's right," he muttered, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his dagger. "I agree with her, brother. You know what happened to Soryn." His voice dipped, heavy with a shadow of dread. Even speaking Soryn's name seemed to curdle the air, a memory of ruin none of us wished to revive.

My head snapped toward him, my voice cold and cutting as a blade. "Do not," I hissed, "compare me to Soryn." My eyes locked onto his until he flinched back, his bravado slipping. "I am not weak. I will never be weak."

Astarte dared to snigger, unshaken by the edge in my voice. She was the only one among us who never flinched before anger. "That is exactly what Soryn used to say, Azelior," she replied, her tone laced with mockery, though her eyes betrayed something deeper. "And look what became of him." Her smirk faltered, softening into something almost vulnerable. "We are not warning you because we think you are weak, brother. We all bear the same chains of restraint. But you… You are dear to me," she paused, the faintest flicker of sorrow passing across her gaze, "You are the one I cannot bear to lose as well."

Her voice fell quiet at the end, almost swallowed by the shadows of the hall. With a weary sigh, she turned away, the sway of her silken hair catching the dim torchlight as she drifted toward the door, leaving the faint echo of her sadness in her wake.