Zamora lay quietly on her bed, her sobs finally subsiding into silence. Her eyes, still red and puffy, gazed out through the open window, where the golden hues of the setting sun painted the sky in soft melancholy. She took a deep breath, willing herself to feel safe—but her fear lingered.
She was terrified that Dante would come to her again that night.
It was already unbearable being chased in her dreams, but now he had crossed into her waking world. The line between nightmare and reality was blurring, and Zamora was slipping into its cracks.
Knock! Knock!
"Zamora! Zamora!" a girl's voice called out, sharp and irritated, almost angry.
Zamora swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood shakily. She walked toward the door with sluggish steps, still trying to steady her heart.
Standing in the doorway was a girl around her age, hands on her hips and eyes glaring fiercely.
"Where's the dye I asked for?" she demanded, extending her hand expectantly.
"Oh no! I forgot, Maggie," Zamora exclaimed, slapping her forehead lightly.
"You what?! You know I need that by tomorrow morning!" Maggie barked, her voice loud enough to make Zamora wince.
"Do you want me to get in trouble for this?!" she snapped, stepping closer.
"I'm sorry, Mag! I'll go get it now," Zamora replied hastily and turned back into her room to grab her jacket from the hook.
"Make sure it's the exact one I asked for. Just you dare bring the wrong one!" Maggie huffed before storming off.
"Alright, Mag," Zamora muttered as she slipped into the jacket.
Just then, Aunt Merry walked past. "Zamora, get these spices too. Here's the list," she said casually, handing her a crumpled piece of paper.
In that house, saying no was not an option. One refusal meant a skipped dinner.
Zamora stepped outside after ensuring the neighborhood was still busy. The fear from Dante's sudden appearance in her room hadn't fully left her. She still trembled thinking about it.
"Out at this hour?" a warm voice called.
Zamora turned her head and offered a gentle smile. "Good evening, Mrs. Lucy."
The middle-aged woman approached with a concerned look. "Where are you going, dear? It's getting late."
"I just need to grab a few things from the minimarket across the street. Aunt Merry and Maggie asked me to."
Mrs. Lucy frowned. "Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? You've heard about those girls disappearing lately, right?"
Zamora shook her head with a soft smile. "Aunt Merry won't like it if I delay. But I'll be careful, thank you for worrying about me."
"That woman is always too harsh," Lucy muttered under her breath. "Just be careful, alright? While it's still crowded."
Zamora nodded and picked up her pace.
The air was neither too cold nor too warm—just enough for a breeze to brush gently against her cheeks and lift strands of her loose hair. She spotted the minimarket ahead, but her steps came to a halt.
Someone stood in the middle of the path, facing away from her.
A tall man, wearing a flowing cloak that billowed slightly with the wind. A scent—intoxicating and strangely comforting—drifted from his figure.
"E-excuse me… you're in my way," Zamora stammered, her throat suddenly dry.
Cold sweat dripped from her forehead in heavy beads, warning her something was terribly wrong. Her instincts screamed at her, and without another word, she turned around.
"I—I'll take another way," she muttered.
"You're not allowed to leave me," came a growl behind her.
She froze.
In a heartbeat, the busy street vanished. The world around her twisted violently into a dark, endless forest. Her knees gave out, and she dropped to the ground.
The man stepped forward. It was him—Dante.
Zamora's cries erupted as she tried to scramble away, but her body wouldn't move. She was paralyzed by fear. He wasn't human—he looked like one, but he was something far more sinister. A demon. A predator.
When Dante advanced, she pushed herself to her feet and ran.
Through branches and fallen leaves, she dashed, but her small legs could not carry her far. Behind her, a shadow moved with inhuman speed, overtaking her in moments.
Zamora halted as Dante reappeared directly in front of her, eyes glowing a violent crimson.
She gasped. Her face drained of color. He bared his fangs, growling low, then shoved her hard against the trunk of a thick tree.
"Argh!"
Zamora writhed in his grip, but it was no use. Dante held her pinned, his piercing gaze fixed on her pale, terrified face. His hand reached out, brushing the mark on her neck.
"No! Stop it—it burns!" she screamed, her voice raw.
He leaned in closer. His breath chilled her skin as the searing pain intensified.
"Please! Stop—please!" Zamora begged, her vision beginning to blur.
Dante ignored her. Seconds later, darkness consumed her.
---
Chapter Two: The Castle of Desire
Dante strode through a grand corridor lit by soft golden lanterns, the Incubus castle gleaming with decadence. Guards bowed respectfully as the young master passed. But he stopped in his tracks when a woman appeared before him.
"You brought her here, didn't you? Where is she now?" the Succubus demanded.
He said nothing.
"Is she pregnant yet?" she continued, unfazed by his silence.
"And what business is that of yours?" Dante snapped.
"I just don't like her here. This is our domain, not some place for a human plaything."
Dante narrowed his eyes. "Do you think this castle is yours, Alice?"
She scowled. "You know how I feel about you! Why choose her over me?"
"Stop asking questions you won't like the answers to," Dante growled.
"Just one chance—that's all I ask!" Alice's voice cracked.
"You and I are of the same race, but that doesn't give you rights over me," he said coldly.
Alice fell silent, overwhelmed by her jealousy. Still, she didn't back down.
"I will have you, Dante. No one else," she hissed.
Grinding his teeth, Dante turned away. "Leave. I don't want to argue with you."
"Give me a chance!" she pleaded, sinking to her knees.
But he was already gone.
"I won't let her be the one who breaks through your heart…"
---
Chapter Three: Awakening in the Unknown
Zamora stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the blurred vision. As clarity returned, she bolted upright.
She was in an enormous, pristine room, wrapped in silk sheets atop a luxurious bed.
Her eyes darted to the marble-white walls accented with golden trim. The castle was grand—too grand. It felt like she was trapped in a dream... or a gilded cage.
She pushed the covers off and gasped. She was wearing something sheer, delicate—and revealing.
"What is this outfit?!" she whispered, pulling at the thin fabric.
Panicked, she rushed to the large mirror in the corner. Her reflection showed a girl she barely recognized—shoulders and legs bare, clothed in a dress she'd never choose to wear.
Before she could gather her thoughts, another reflection appeared behind her.
Dante.
Zamora spun around, arms instinctively covering her chest.
He walked toward her, his footsteps loud in the silence. Her heartbeat raced as he drew closer, his cold blue eyes locking hers. She couldn't look away.
Dante's hand rose again, touching the mark on her neck.
"Argh! Please—stop! It hurts!" she sobbed.
"Why should I stop?" he said flatly.
"Because… it's killing me," she whispered.
"You disobeyed me, and this is your punishment."
"I'm sorry! I'll do whatever you want—please!" she begged, trembling.
"Can you really obey?" he asked darkly.
Zamora nodded quickly. Anything to end the pain.
A slow smirk curled on Dante's lips, and his hand fell away. The burning vanished instantly.
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed.
"No more running," he warned. "If you try again, your life will be far from peaceful."
"I—I won't," she murmured.
"Good. You need to get ready."
"For what?" she asked, confused.
"For your next task. You'll stay here until it's done," Dante whispered, his breath tickling her ear.
Her heart skipped. His fangs were visible when he smiled.
"I'll come back later. Rest. You'll need your strength tonight."
"Wait—tonight?" she echoed.
And in that moment, it hit her—she was truly gone from her world. Aunt Merry, Maggie… they were waiting, and Zamora wasn't coming back.
For the first time in her life, she wished to be home again—even if it meant being yelled at. Anything was better than this.