The instant she was released from the influence of Ashford's power, the first thing Fiona heard was a scream. Instinctively, she stepped back, her movements cautious and wary.
Yet the enemy standing before her already looked utterly helpless.
Ashford had collapsed in on himself, his face twisted in pure horror, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. Beside him lay his partner, eyes wide open and unblinking, a massive circular hole torn clean through his chest and down to his lower abdomen. His organs had been completely destroyed, and blood flooded across the floor beneath him.
Before Fiona could fully process what she was seeing, something tapped her on the shoulder. She glanced sideways.
It was a hand—unnaturally bluish in color. Like the hand of someone long drowned, its nails blackened, veins swollen as if they were about to burst through the skin.
Run!
Any rational living creature would have obeyed that instinctive command without hesitation.
However, like other S-Class Hunters—or perhaps this was simply her own flaw—Fiona had long since discarded common sense.
So instead, she spoke softly. "Cain?"
The sensation was deeply familiar. Yet it did not remind her of Cain alone, but of another presence entirely, a figure regarded as the very embodiment of a nightmare.
The grip tightened. Then came a sharp, pungent stench.
Her consciousness slipped away, almost,
Fiona should have known that the incident in Riverdale was merely the beginning. The Syndicate had given her numerous, thorough warnings.
But judging by this pressure, by this suffocating atmosphere …
His evolution was not yet complete.
That meant there was still hope. There was still something that could be done to save Cain.
But what needed to be done went beyond simply saving him. This was a public place. Ashford's screams would inevitably draw attention. At the very least, they would alert others nearby. So the first thing that had to be done—
THWICK!
A switchblade embedded itself in Ashford's throat. His whimpering cut off abruptly, replaced by desperate gasps as he struggled for air.
And though Ashford fell completely silent moments later—forever—his screams had likely already been heard. Two other rooms were close by. Someone would wake. Someone would step out.
Once they saw the scene, panic would spread rapidly. Before that could happen, Fiona needed to 'silence' 'Cain'
She asked again—but this time, she did so in a way that 'Cain' would understand. In a way that all demons preferred.
Fiona slowly bowed, nearly prostrating herself, then turned with deliberate care. "Paying respects to Your Excellency."
The grip loosened gradually. The oppressive pressure in the air eased. It was a sign—her approach was having a positive effect. This was the demon-hunting trinity.
The first step: offer respectful homage.
Then came the second step: become the wise servant. "Speak, Your Great Excellency. Is there anything this lowly creature can do to satisfy your vast desires?"
The rough hand shifted, sliding from her neck to her cheek, then to the crown of her head. Fingers tangled in her hair and pulled until Fiona was forced to look up at him.
The figure still bore the appearance of the Cain she knew—pale skin that seemed to devour him from within, and eyes cold and lifeless.
'Cain' stepped closer, just as she had anticipated.
That allowed her to initiate the third step: elimination. A demon's weak point lay at the neck, between the ear and the shoulder. Even the Demon King himself shared this vulnerability.
Of course, Fiona intended only to strike deeply enough to render Cain unconscious. But—
"…IT'S OVER."
The words came too fast. Like a whisper filled with temptation—one she felt compelled to follow. No, had to follow.
If there was one thing utterly unpredictable, it was the way his grip slowly softened, transforming into a gentle caress. Careful. Tender. As though he were touching a newborn child. His other hand rose, stroking Fiona's cheek.
For a fleeting moment, the yellow eyes with blackened sclera faded—replaced by Cain's familiar onyx gaze.
And in that brief instant, Fiona was completely hypnotized. Cain's lips moved once more. "IT'S ALL OVER …"
"… NOW REST.".
***
What followed was surreal. A thick fog filled my mind, scattering my thoughts and pulling me under completely.
Yet within it, a vision surfaced—strange, vivid, like a bizarre dream.
I felt it again—the warm brush of Fiona's lips. Hers were the ones I loved: thick, full, and luscious, like a pair of million-flavored candies made just for me.
Then our tongues met. It seemed she hadn't been drinking alcohol, smoking, or using any of those nauseating substances.
Her kiss tasted of mint; refreshing and exhilarating, leaving me craving more. And more I took.
One hand gripped the back of Fiona's neck, urging her forward to deepen our kiss. My other hand roamed down her neck, caressing her chest. Fiona rose onto her tiptoes. The sensation was like an electric shock, making her writhe, tremble, and moan momentarily. Her breathing grew even more erratic.
I attacked her more fiercely, squeezing her firm breasts and occasionally twisting her nipples. Fiona's trembling intensified, her moans escaping in a pitiful 'resistance'. "D-don't..."
In response, my kisses assaulted her neck, tasting every inch and mark along its slender length, punctuated by playful bites.
The other hand, which had been around her neck, slid down to her shoulder, then her back, before settling on a pair of mounds so large they barely fit in both my hands.
I slipped my fingers into the waistband of her pants.
"Ungh?" she groaned in surprise, a weak protest. But I ignored her, pushing my fingers deeper, moving them in and out with a rhythm almost synchronized to our breathing.
Still not satisfied, I inserted another finger. Fiona's body tensed, and a warm liquid pooled inside her. A stifled cry escaped her lips as the sticky fluid soaked through her pants.
I slowly withdrew both fingers and stood up to observe Fiona's disheveled state.
Her face flushed crimson, her eyes glazed over, caught between an inexplicable euphoria and a futile sense of morality. Her lips trembled.
I remember grinning then and resuming my 'devouring' . Fiona gasped, this time letting out a clear moan. Meanwhile, my hands stripped away her clothes, or at least what remained of them.
I remember pushing her down onto the bed, pinning her between long, messed, impatient kisses. Just when I wanted to, I stopped.
Fiona's eyes fluttered open, a silent protest escaping her lips. I whispered in her ear, "I'm going to put it in."
Her eyes widened in shock, wavering. That other side of her—the one I always wanted to remember—made me lose control even more.
So I did it. I was only halfway in when Fiona's hands gripped my shoulders, her eyes brimming with tears.
I stroked her hair and licked away her tears before pushing until we were fully joined. It was so warm. So tight. So comfortable. As if every muscle contracted with each small movement I made.
I slowly pulling out, and Fiona arched again, the same spasm that had gripped her during her first orgasm.
Without warning, without giving her a moment to recover, I thrust back in. Fiona made a choking sound, moaning, completely losing control.
My movements grew faster. With each repetition, I discovered new spots that brought Fiona the most pleasure. Every time I hit them, her inside would tighten, and I could barely restrain myself.
It didn't take long before I reached my limit. The pent-up tension gathered at the tip of my member, ready to explode at any moment.
I whispered in her ear, "I'm going to cum."
"No—"
But the precaution was futile. I released it—a fluid whiter than milk, thick, and warm. I was certain it had filled her completely. I was certain it was at least enough to make her pregnant.
That thought consumed me, driving me to thrust deeper, ensuring every drop spilled into her womb, ensuring every seed of mine was submerged within her.
Ensuring a part of me would live on within her.