Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Life was indeed a mystery.'

Selene muttered the thought under her breath as she slid the final book back onto its shelf, fingertips lingering against the worn spine as if to scold it for daring to topple yet again. The library smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and dust—the scent she usually found comforting—yet it was laced tonight with a bitter trace of smoke. The walls had rattled earlier, the ground trembling as if Fortuna itself were groaning, and her carefully organized shelves had collapsed in surrender. For the fourth time this month, she’d had to pick them all back up.

Her shop had survived another battle nearby. Barely.

She rubbed her temple, listening to the faint hum of the city outside. Somewhere not too far away, a sword had been roaring again—that strange weapon wielded by the man with short silver hair. A weapon that sounded less like steel and more like a chainsaw tearing through the night. She didn’t need to see him to know who he was; Fortuna spoke often enough of him. The ghostly protector who cut demons down in the streets, vanishing before anyone could ask too many questions.

And then there was the woman. Selene’s lips twitched faintly at the memory. A southern drawl, cigarette smoke clinging to her coat, driving around in a van patched together with equal parts genius and rust. She would come poking her head through Selene’s door, demanding literature of any sort—ancient demonology one day, a battered copy of When to Know How to Quit the next. Selene had given up trying to guess what she needed.

Yes. Fortuna had its guardians.

And Selene had her books.

With a sigh—the tenth that day, though she wasn’t counting—she stepped back, hands resting on her hips, and surveyed the rows she had just finished straightening. Neat. Ordered. Whole. At least something in this city was.

After the Roots destroyed Fortuna two years ago, not much had survived. Buildings lay cracked and hollow, entire districts were abandoned, and the people left behind still carried the weight of the dead in their eyes. Rebuilding had been a miracle, starting over even more so. But somehow Selene had managed. A library below. An apartment above. A fragile bubble of normalcy she had stitched together one brick, one book, one lonely evening at a time.

Sometimes, though, she wished for more. A bigger mystery than fallen shelves and scattered paper. Something—anything—to shake the monotony.

Not that I’d handle it well anyway, she thought, turning heel and heading for the narrow staircase in the back.

“It’s not like I don’t try,” she muttered to herself, but even her voice sounded hollow. A lie she repeated often.

Because the truth was simpler, darker: Selene Himeno didn’t do well with people. Not in large groups, not in close company. She avoided both with practiced precision, not because she hated them but because she carried something she could never share.

The secret.

She saw things—things no one else saw. Shadows that twitched where shadows shouldn’t, curling at the edges of her vision. She heard whispers sometimes, murmurs that seemed to ride the wind at night, low and pressing like half-remembered words in a forgotten tongue. If she confessed such things, they’d lock her in a padded room and throw away the key.

And yet, those same visions had once saved lives.

Two years ago, when Fortuna had still been bustling, Selene had felt it—the weight of darkness coiling through the air like a storm no one else could sense. A suffocating pressure pressing against her chest, drowning her lungs, threatening to swallow her whole. She had tried to warn the people around her. Tried to explain what was coming. But when the Roots tore through the city, she had been right. And still… hundreds had died.

Her gift, her curse—whatever it was—hadn’t saved anyone.

So she shut herself away, burying her visions beneath books, behind locked doors, and inside white lies whispered to herself at night.

Her feet carried her up the creaking stairs, the wood groaning beneath her weight like it wanted to protest being walked on again. The moment she stepped into the small apartment above, she shut the door with a firm click, leaning against it for a heartbeat before moving further inside.

The place was modest. Worn. A secondhand sofa, a table with one leg propped up by an old dictionary, and stacks of books that had never made it back downstairs. The smell of tea leaves lingered faintly in the air.

Selene drifted to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peer down at the streets below. Evening was settling fast. The last of the vendors were closing up shop, their calls fading into the chatter of neighbors heading home. Children darted between broken cobblestones, their laughter quick and fleeting before they were called indoors.

The city looked alive. Normal, even. But Selene’s skin prickled. Her fingers tightened against the window frame as a familiar dread crawled beneath her skin like static. The sun dipped lower, washing the sky in bruised shades of violet and orange, and she knew what came next.

Night.

The hour she hated most.

The time when the whispers grew louder.

A sound—faint, almost imagined—slid past her ear. She froze, heart hammering, staring at the reflection of her own wide eyes in the glass. Nothing in the street below had changed. Nothing moved out of place. And yet she swore she’d heard it—just for a breath, a voice without words curling against her mind.

She pressed her hand to the glass, cold seeping through her palm, and whispered, “Not tonight. Please, not tonight.”

But dread gnawed at her all the same.

Nighttime was never easy for her.

And the darkness was waiting.

Chapter Text

The streets of Fortuna had changed.

Two years of rebuilding had stitched the city into a strange patchwork — gleaming new stone pressed against old scars, scaffolding leaning against buildings that would never quite be whole again. By day, the people walked these streets as if determined to pretend they were healed. By night, the pretense faltered. Shadows lingered too long in the alleys. Lamps flickered like weary sentries. The silence itself felt fragile, like glass stretched too thin.

Vergil walked these streets anyway. Yamato hung at his side, the weight of it both anchor and burden. His stride was measured, his posture unyielding, as if every step was a declaration that nothing here could move him. He had been gone for too long, submerged in the endless abyss of the Underworld, drowning himself in pursuit of power. Returning to the world above had not felt like triumph. It had felt… unfamiliar.

Dante walked at his side, boots scuffing against broken cobblestones with that irreverent rhythm that grated against Vergil’s precision. Dante blended into humanity easily, greeting passersby, trading smirks with the vendors who dared keep their stalls open late. He carried himself like a man who had never left the world behind.

Vergil was not so fortunate.

His eyes swept the street, cold and calculating, noting every shadow, every flicker of movement. He did not walk among humans so much as he walked near them. Their laughter, their hurried steps, their lives — they were threads weaving together a tapestry he did not belong to. Once, he would not have cared. Once, he had called them fragile sparks, brief and meaningless. Now he studied them too long, his thoughts sharpening in uncomfortable ways.

Perhaps it was not envy. He would not permit himself that weakness. But it was… awareness.

They reached the river district where the air carried the scent of rust and damp stone. The water, slick with moonlight, flowed sluggishly beneath the bridges, carrying with it the faint tang of ash — a reminder that Fortuna’s veins had run black with corruption once, and perhaps always would. Vergil paused at the railing, Yamato glinting faintly in the dim light. His reflection looked back at him from the water: pale skin, silver hair, sharp lines carved deep. Human and demon both, though the surface betrayed nothing.

“City’s too quiet tonight,” Dante said beside him, resting both elbows on the rail with casual ease. “Almost makes me nervous.”

Vergil’s gaze did not move from his reflection. “You mistake quiet for safety.” His voice was calm, clipped. “You should know better.”

Dante smirked, the same infuriating curve of lips that had haunted Vergil since childhood. “Still the poet, huh?”

Vergil let the words pass without reply. Silence was his ally. Words rarely served him well — only Yamato did.

They moved on.

The cathedral had been their destination. Another contract. A hollowed-out shell of a building that had once housed prayers and now housed something else entirely. Demons had nested within the collapsed arches, drawn to the faint hum of corruption that still clung to Fortuna’s bones. Vergil cut them down without hesitation, each strike of Yamato efficient and final. He moved like a blade made flesh, each motion precise, each step calculated. The lesser demons fell quickly.

Dante made noise of it — guns barking, quips tossed into the night. Vergil did not. To him, victory was silence.

And yet, when the last of the creatures bled ichor onto the shattered floor, Vergil did not feel the satisfaction he once had. There was no surge of triumph, no whisper of vindication. Only the cold echo of emptiness.

He sheathed Yamato slowly, his gaze sweeping the desecrated altar. Once, he would have mocked this place, its fragile faith, its powerless walls. Now he only felt the faint stirrings of thought he did not care to name.

Emptiness was not victory.

Perhaps Dante was right. Perhaps forgiveness lingered beneath his silence, an unspoken desire he refused to name. But forgiveness was not a blade. It could not be wielded, mastered, or sharpened. And Vergil had never known how to reach for something he could not conquer.

So he stood, sword in hand, on the thin line between man and monster.

The world around him moved forward.

Vergil remained himself.

And himself was a man who did not forgive.
Not others. Not himself.

The thought lingered like steel pressed to flesh, sharp and inescapable. Forgiveness had no place in his world. He had traded it long ago, bartered it for strength, for the illusion of control, for the hollow promise that power could fill the void left in him.

And yet — the void had never been filled.

He had come close to losing everything to it. Close to erasing the last shred of himself, swallowed whole by the very hunger he had nurtured. He remembered that moment well, the brink where Vergil ceased to exist and something else, something monstrous, had begun to take shape.

But fate — or perhaps folly — had split him instead.

V.

The memory was a bitter taste on his tongue. That fragile shadow, that fractured half of himself that clung to poetry and riddles, to books and ink-stained words. V had been weakness made flesh, trembling under the weight of borrowed strength. Vergil had hated him at first. Hated that he carried fragments of humanity Vergil had scorned for so long. Hated that he could look at Nero and Dante not with disdain, but with something bordering on… affection.

Yet V had seen clearly what Vergil had buried: the truth that humanity was not frailty. It was persistence. It was choice. It was the ability to endure even when all else was lost.

V had died so that Vergil could live. A death Vergil could not dismiss, for it had been his own.

In that dissolution, he had seen himself as he was — a man stripped of pride, clinging to regrets he had never named. It was not redemption. It was recognition.

And then, the Underworld.

He closed his eyes, the memory pressing in. He and Dante, standing amidst the collapse, the Qliphoth torn asunder, the world above saved at last. For once, they had fought side by side — not as rivals, not as enemies, but as brothers. The roots had burned, the sky had opened, and their blades had sung the same song.

But victory had been a prison.

The Underworld had not let them go. Its claws dragged them down, binding them to its endless dark. Together they had stood there, the echoes of battle still ringing in their blood, and Vergil had felt the weight of it settling on him: this was where he belonged. Not in the world of men. Not under the sun. But here, chained to the abyss he had chosen long ago.

Dante had laughed, of course — even then, even there. His twin had spoken of purpose, of holding the line, of balance. Dante bore the burden like a shield, refusing to bend. Vergil had borne it like a sentence, silent and unflinching.

And in that silence, he had wondered if it would be the end of him. If the last remnants of humanity V had revealed would be swallowed whole by the Underworld’s endless hunger. If, in staying there too long, he would cease to be a man at all.

The thought had gnawed at him. That this was justice. That this was the final retribution for every sin he had carved into the world. That he had wanted power so badly, so desperately, that he had become the very thing he once despised.

That he deserved to remain.

And yet, he had not.

He was here now. Returned. Freed.

Not by power. Not by will. By chance, by timing, by Dante’s stubborn refusal to let go. And perhaps — though he would never say it aloud — by something even greater than chance. By the thread of humanity that had refused to sever entirely, no matter how deeply he had cut at it.

That thought unsettled him more than the Underworld ever had.

Because if there was still humanity in him, then there was still something left to lose.

And Vergil had lost too much already.
And he vowed to never lose more.

“Oi.”

Dante’s voice pulled at him, distant at first, as if spoken through water. Vergil’s jaw tightened, but he did not turn. His brother had always been like this — laughter against silence, noise against order, dragging him from thoughts he would rather keep.

“Don’t tell me you’re praying,” Dante said lightly from behind, his boots scuffing against broken pews. “Never figured you for the church type.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, fixed on the marble cracks. “Silence does not require your commentary.”

He expected Dante’s laugh, but instead felt it — a ripple. Subtle, elusive, threading through the air like a note almost too high to hear. His breath stilled, senses sharpening into a blade. Not dark. Not heavy. Something else.

His hand brushed Yamato’s hilt unconsciously.

Dante stopped mid-step, his grin fading just a fraction. “...You felt that too?” His tone was casual, but his posture betrayed alertness.

Vergil’s gaze cut toward him, sharp and cold. “Barely. Your senses are dulled by carelessness. You grasp the echo, not the source.”

Dante’s smirk twitched back into place, though his eyes still scanned the shadows. “Eh. Close enough.”

Vergil ignored him, his focus lingering on the fading pulse. It had touched him directly, brushing against him like light through smoke — a sensation wholly unlike the Underworld’s suffocating hunger. It unsettled him precisely because it did not threaten. It called.

And he did not know why.

For a long moment, neither twin spoke. Only the rain filled the silence, dripping through the rafters like time itself counting down.

Finally, Dante clapped a hand against a column, forcing a break in the tension. “Whatever it is, it’s gone now. And if it’s not? We’ll cut it down like the rest.”

Vergil turned from the altar, coat shifting in the damp air, his expression unreadable. “You lack caution.”

“And you lack faith.” Dante shrugged, holstering Ebony and Ivory. “Guess that makes us even.”

Vergil did not dignify the remark with an answer. Yet as they stepped out into the rain-soaked street, he carried the memory of that pulse with him, sharper and more haunting than the battle just past.

For the first time in years, Vergil had felt something he could not name.

And that disturbed him more than any demon ever had.

Chapter Text

The nights always broke her.

Selene thrashed awake with a cry caught in her throat, her body slick with sweat, sheets twisted around her legs like chains. Her chest heaved, lungs dragging air that refused to soothe her. She pressed trembling hands to her skin, as if to rub away the fire that lingered there. But it clung. It always clung.

Because it wasn’t a dream.

Dreams were fleeting, shapeless, forgotten in the morning. This was different. It was sharper, more intimate, carved into her as though branded. She had not simply seen something in her sleep — she had been touched.

Hands had held her.

She could still feel them, even now: strong and deliberate, moving over her arms, her waist, her throat. They were not frantic, not hurried. They explored as if mapping her, as if she were something to be catalogued, studied, claimed. Fingers slid against her jaw, tilting her head back until her pulse raced beneath his unseen touch. A thumb pressed against her lips — not tender, but testing. Mine, it seemed to say without words.

Her body betrayed her. She had arched into the phantom heat, her breath shortening, her thighs trembling, the core of her body tightening with every deliberate caress.

And then came the voice.

Low. Refined. Sin woven into every syllable, yet spoken with the elegance of command. It had not begged. It had not coaxed. It had declared.

"You pretend at solitude. But you were not made for silence."

The words had curled into her ear like smoke, hot and cold all at once, sliding down her spine until she shuddered.

"You lie to yourself, little one. You ache to be undone."

Selene had shaken her head in the Vision, had whispered no, but her body had convulsed with the treacherous need to hear him again. She had felt his lips brush against her ear, against the curve of her throat, the whisper turning darker.

"I will unmake every wall you’ve built. Piece by piece. Until nothing remains but the truth of you, laid bare beneath me."

Her knees had buckled in the dream. The sound of her own breathing had filled the space, harsh and quick. She had wanted to scream, to fight, to run — but the more she struggled, the more the voice seeped into her, coiling tight like a hand around her heart. Her body screaming for release, her core throbbed as she tried to raise her hips, trying anything to feel his hand on her where she needed him the most, but the mans hand reached for her throat as darkness seeped in her vision.

It poured around her, swallowing her whole — not shadows of simple fear, but an overwhelming, living presence. It pressed against her chest, seeped into her bones, invaded her lungs. A darkness so vast, so merciless, she thought it would swallow her until nothing of Selene remained.

Yet beneath the terror, beneath the suffocating weight, something else rose within her. Something shameful.

Want.

The dark pinned her in place, the unseen man’s voice wrapping around her like chains of silk and steel.

"You will not run from me. You will call for me. And when you do… you will not resist."

Her body had convulsed with heat, her hands trembling as if reaching for someone who was not there. She had never known desire like this — carved from terror, sharpened by sin. The worst of it was not his promise. It was the ache inside her that whispered she wanted to know what it would mean.

Selene ripped herself from the vision with a violent cry, collapsing forward onto her mattress. Her body was slick, her nightshirt clinging to her in damp patches, her throat raw as if she had been begging aloud.

“No,” she gasped, shaking her head against the sheets. “No, no, no—”

But her own pulse betrayed her.

It hammered wildly, not just within her chest, but outward. She staggered from the bed, clutching at her sternum as if to hold it in. The air crackled around her skin, charged, sharp, unfamiliar. It was as though something inside her had burst free, rippling through her veins, surging outward into the night beyond her walls.

Her reflection in the window confirmed what she feared: wide eyes glowing faint with something she could not name, hair clinging to her cheeks, lips parted as if caught mid-prayer.

And then — she felt it.

An answering touch.

Not close. Not clear. But something brushed her consciousness, taut and unmistakable, as if a tether had snapped into place between herself and another.

She staggered back from the glass, spine colliding with the wall. Her entire body shook, torn between terror and a hunger she could not admit aloud.

This was not like other nights.

Tonight, she had not only been hunted.

Tonight, she had reached back.

And in the dark, someone — something — had felt her.

But as of right now?
Her body would not settle.

Selene pressed her back hard against the wall, knees drawn to her chest, trying to still the tremors wracking her frame. Her lungs fought for air that refused to soothe her; every breath came uneven, shuddering, as though the dream had burned itself into her bones. Sweat clung to her skin in a cold sheen, her nightshirt plastered to her body, damp and suffocating.

But it wasn’t just sweat that made her shake.

It was hunger.

Her chest still ached where the phantom weight of his hand had pressed her down, her lips tingled with the ghost of his thumb brushing across them. Every nerve remembered the way he had tilted her face, the way his sinful voice had threaded into her ear like silk ropes she hadn’t asked for but had nearly begged to keep.

She squeezed her eyes shut, nails biting into her knees until her skin screamed. The tremor that rippled through her was not only fear. It was need. An ache deep in her stomach, low and relentless, that shamed her even as she couldn’t deny it.

“Stop,” she whispered into the dark, her voice hoarse. “Stop, stop, stop—”

But her body didn’t listen. Her body remembered.

And worse, it wanted.

Selene slammed her head lightly back against the wall, a desperate motion, as though pain could drive out what the dream had planted. Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and angry. She had endured visions of slaughter, of shadows, of cities collapsing under dark roots. She had borne the whispers of the damned, nights filled with the press of doom heavy enough to choke her.

And yet none of them had broken her like this.

She would have preferred another catastrophe. Another glimpse of devastation. Another scream clawing through her skull that she could dismiss as the curse she had long learned to bear. That pain she understood. That dread was familiar.

But this?

This sinful presence that had touched her so intimately, spoken to her as if he owned her already, unraveled her in ways she had never prepared for. It had not threatened to kill her. It had threatened to want her.

And that was worse.

Selene buried her face against her knees, sobs breaking silently through her chest, her body shuddering with a guilt she could not articulate. Because beneath the horror, beneath the shame — she had wanted it too.

She had wanted him.

She had avoided men her whole life. Not from shyness, not from lack of offers. She had learned early that touch was dangerous. That closeness opened the door to visions, to whispers, to truths no one wanted to hear. The few who had tried — who had brushed her hand, who had leaned too close — she had pulled away before the connection could spark. She had lived untouchable, encased in silence, because intimacy for her was not pleasure. It was ruin.

Until tonight.

Until this mystery man who came to her not in flesh but in darkness, who stripped her bare in her own mind and left her trembling with an ache she despised herself for.

She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, rocking slightly, as if motion alone could calm the storm clawing through her. But her body still pulsed with that strange outward surge, the echo of something leaving her and reaching into the night. She could not stop it, could not pull it back, and that terrified her as much as the vision itself.

Her breath caught again. His voice lingered, sharper now in memory, every word dripping with sinful certainty:

"You ache to be undone."

She slammed her palms against her ears, rocking harder, shaking her head as though the movement could rattle him loose. But the voice stayed. It seeped into her, low and smooth, leaving her skin flushed and her stomach coiled in shameful need.

Tears finally broke free, streaking down her cheeks.

“Why?” she choked out, her voice cracking. “Why this? Why not… why not something else?”

Her body folded tighter, as though trying to disappear into itself. She had lived a life avoiding touch, avoiding closeness, convincing herself she was safer alone. Better alone. Now, in one night, her walls had not been breached — they had been obliterated. And not by disaster, not by darkness threatening lives. By one man’s presence, woven of silk and sin.

She would have given anything to trade it for another vision of catastrophe. Anything to bear the familiar weight of doom, instead of this unbearable ache in her chest, her stomach, her skin.

But she could not choose.

And as the night pressed on, the guilt and despair only thickened, tangled with the hunger she despised herself for. She curled tighter against the wall, shaking with a need she had no name for, no permission for, no escape from.

Tonight, she realized with dawning horror, she did not only fear the darkness.

Tonight, she longed for it.

~~~

The dawn did not bring relief.

Selene had not slept again once the vision tore her awake. She had sat curled in the corner of her room until the blackness thinned to gray, until the first faint blush of sunlight slipped between the curtains. Her body felt leaden, heavy from exhaustion yet restless, trembling with a nervous current that refused to fade.

When the sun finally broke through the window in earnest, flooding her modest room in pale gold, it felt like mockery. The warmth touched her skin, but she remained cold inside. Her eyes burned from the long hours of sleeplessness, lashes still damp from tears she would not admit to.

With a groan she forced herself upright, every muscle stiff from the night’s vigil. The sheets still bore the twisted imprint of her thrashing, damp with sweat. She stripped them off the mattress as though trying to erase evidence of her own weakness, shoving them into the basket by the door.

Her legs carried her to the small bathroom. The mirror above the sink showed a woman she barely recognized — pale cheeks, lips pressed thin, sapphire eyes rimmed with red, long black hair plastered damp to her temples. Selene averted her gaze quickly, unwilling to stare too long into those eyes, afraid she might see the truth of the night reflected back.

The shower hissed to life. She stepped beneath the spray, tilting her face up into the cascade of water. Heat poured over her skin, sliding down her shoulders, her back, her thighs. She pressed her palms flat against the tiled wall, eyes closing, and let the water strike her until her skin ached.

But it was not enough.

The phantom hands lingered. She could still feel them, sliding against her hips, curling around her throat, brushing her lips. The memory of his thumb tracing her mouth was sharper now under the water, as if the steam conjured him closer. She shuddered, her forehead thumping softly against the wall.

“Gone,” she whispered to the empty air, voice breaking. “You’re gone. You were never here.”

But the words rang hollow, drowned in the hiss of water.

She lingered far too long, as though heat might burn him out of her, before shutting the shower off and wrapping herself in a thin towel. Every movement felt mechanical — dressing, combing her damp black hair, opening the curtains to let light fill the room. Normalcy by rote.

Downstairs in the library, the scent of old paper and dust usually calmed her. Today, it only reminded her of solitude. She moved through the motions — boiling water, steeping tea leaves, carrying the cup to the counter — but her hands trembled, and the porcelain rattled faintly against the saucer as she set it down.

Steam curled upward, catching in the sunlight. She wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into her cold fingers, and stared into the pale surface of the tea.

But even here, even in daylight, she remembered.

The whisper against her ear. The certainty in his voice. The way her body had betrayed her with want.

She hated herself for it. She hated the ache that pulsed low in her belly even now, hours later. Guilt laced every sip of tea, every shallow breath. She wanted catastrophe, the familiar horror of dark visions that threatened the city. That she could bear. That she could fight.

But this? This intimacy woven of shadows and sin? This unraveling of her body, her will?

She did not know how to fight this.

And yet beneath the guilt, beneath the exhaustion, something else coiled in her gut: a pull. Not toward catastrophe, not toward doom, but toward something unnamed.

As sunlight spilled across the shelves, painting her library in gold, Selene gripped her tea tighter, staring past her own reflection in the glass of the window.

The city moved as it always did. Vendors setting up their stalls. Children darting in the streets. A woman hanging laundry in the early warmth. Ordinary. Safe.

But she felt it.

Today, something was different.

Something was coming.

And she no longer knew if she feared it — or longed for it.

Chapter Text

Vergil had not slept.

He had sat through the long hours of night with Yamato resting against his knees, watching the city lights flicker out one by one until only the black horizon remained. His thoughts, disciplined as they were, refused to order themselves. What had happened in the cathedral lingered in him like a splinter beneath the skin — not festering, but impossible to ignore.

That pulse.

That foreign surge of energy that had brushed against him, light but insistent, unlike anything he had ever known. It had not been demonic. It had not been human. It had not threatened his life. It had unsettled his balance.

Worse — his body had reacted.

His breath had caught, his hand had tightened on Yamato’s hilt, his pulse had quickened as though some part of him had been summoned. He had mastered every emotion, silenced every weakness, but in that moment, control had slipped. His own flesh had betrayed him. And even now, hours later, he remembered too clearly the sensation of something reaching for him, finding him, touching him across a divide that should not be crossed.

He despised not knowing what it was.

And so he sat now in Nico’s van, arms folded, gaze fixed on the blur of countryside rolling past the rain-speckled windows. Demons had been sighted outside Fortuna, an encroaching nest that required swift eradication. He could have ended it in moments with Yamato, cutting a rift and stepping through the world itself. But Dante had insisted otherwise.

“We’re taking the van. Family outing.”

The words had been spoken with a grin, half-jest, half-needle. Vergil had not replied. He had only endured, climbing into the cramped vehicle where the air smelled of oil, cigarettes, and the faint sweetness of coffee Nico had spilled on the floorboards days before.

Dante sat in the passenger seat, his boots shamelessly propped on the dash, humming tunelessly as if silence offended him. Nico drove with one hand on the wheel, the other flicking ash from her cigarette into an overfull tray, muttering at every pothole and swearing at every passing car. Her voice filled the van whether she spoke to them or not — irreverent, brash, alive.

And Nero.

He sat opposite Vergil, arms crossed tight, his posture rigid. His arm rested against the seat, scarred but whole, tapping faintly as though betraying the agitation he tried to conceal. His eyes darted to Vergil and away again, quick as a blade withdrawn before it could cut.

Vergil felt the weight of his son’s unease and ignored it. He had no desire to ease the awkwardness, no interest in feigned warmth. The boy’s silence was expected. What was unexpected was the thread of… restraint? Hope? Even Vergil could not define it, lingering in Nero’s gaze before it broke away.

The silence pressed thicker than smoke.

Nico finally broke it with a sharp laugh, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Well, damn. I think I’ve driven corpses livelier than this lot. Somebody say somethin’ before I drive us off a cliff just for fun.”

Dante chuckled, tilting his head back against the seat. “Don’t waste your breath, Nico. You’ll never drag a word outta him,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Vergil. “Man’s been moody since the womb.”

Vergil’s eyes slid to Dante, cold and precise. “If silence unsettles you so deeply, perhaps you should examine your own weakness rather than project it onto others.”

Nico barked a laugh. “Ooooh, icy. Love it.”

Dante only grinned wider, unbothered. “There’s the brother I know.”

Nero shifted, his jaw working, eyes flicking between them as though testing the edge of words he could not force out. His throat moved as though he might speak, but the words withered before they reached the air. He turned his gaze back to the window, his reflection a fractured shadow in the glass.

Vergil noted it. Noted the way the boy’s silence pressed heavier than Dante’s noise. But he said nothing.

Instead, his mind betrayed him again, drifting back to the night before. The van’s hum faded beneath the memory of that surge — light, steady, unnatural. He remembered how it had slid across his senses like a hand brushing his shoulder, unbidden, unseen. He remembered the strange tightening in his chest, the flicker of heat in his blood.

Control. He demanded control. And yet he could not master the memory.

Yamato sat at his side, its presence usually a steady anchor, but even its weight felt… altered. As though it had been touched as well, stirred by something Vergil could not name.

He folded his arms tighter, gaze fixed outward at the horizon unspooling into mist. He despised distractions. He despised weakness. Yet he could not deny the truth that gnawed at him.

Something had reached him.

Something had awakened a response he could not contain.

The van rattled over a crack in the road, jolting the frame and drawing a low growl from Vergil’s throat before he could smother it. The sound was faint, almost swallowed by the roar of the engine, but Dante caught it, of course. He always did.

“Careful, Nico,” Dante drawled, his grin audible even without turning his head. “Another bump like that and Vergil might actually speak. Can’t have him wasting words this early in the day.”

Vergil’s eyes slid toward him, a cutting glance that promised nothing good. Dante smirked wider, satisfied.

“Don’t take it personal, sunshine,” Nico chimed, flicking her cigarette into the tray. “He’s just pissed he’s stuck back there with the rest of us instead of slicin’ the air with that fancy letter-opener o’ his. Patience ain’t exactly his strong suit.”

From the corner, Nero finally let out a sharp exhale, his arms folding tighter across his chest. “For the record, this is torture for the rest of us too.”

That earned a quick look from Nico in the rearview mirror, her grin flashing. “Aw, c’mon, sugar. Torture’s when I make ya listen to country ballads the whole ride. Consider this mercy.”

Nero snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Mercy? You drive like the devil’s on your bumper. Wouldn’t be shocked if half the demons out here are running the other way just from hearing this heap coming.”

“Heap?” Nico slapped the dashboard with her palm, the van rattling in protest. “Don’t you dare insult her. She’s art. She’s got character.”

“She’s got rust,” Nero shot back.

Dante barked a laugh. “Kid’s not wrong.”

“Both of ya can walk,” Nico said with a shrug, though her smirk never faded. “Pretty sure even the moody one’d beat ya there on foot.”

Vergil said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

The van groaned as it hit another patch of uneven ground, the suspension creaking, and Nico cursed under her breath. The air smelled of gasoline and smoke, the faint tang of coffee Nico had spilled long ago clinging stubbornly to the leather seats. The walls of the van felt too close, pressing against Vergil’s patience, grinding against his thoughts.

The laughter of the others burned like static against his ears. Not because it carried any weight, but because it filled the air he would have preferred empty. They could speak of rust, of engines, of nothing at all — and it would grate the same. The closeness, the noise, the living hum of humanity itself pressed into his ribs until it itched at his skin.

His hand flexed once, fingers brushing Yamato’s sheath, the temptation sharp. One strike, and silence would open before him. A step, and this stifling air would be gone.

But he remained.

He stared out at the blur of wet grass and stone, jaw tight, posture unbending. To leave now would mean conceding to the irritation. To admit, if only to himself, that their presence unsettled him. And Vergil did not yield to such weakness.

Still, he wished the road were shorter.

The van rattled to a halt on the edge of the countryside, its tires crunching over loose gravel. Nico killed the engine with a flourish of her wrist, leaning back in her seat and blowing a plume of smoke toward the open window.

“Alright, boys,” she drawled, tugging her cap lower over her eyes. “This is where y’all hop out an’ play scout. Intel says the critters been stirrin’ up trouble around here. Farmers been losin’ livestock, and there’s been a couple o’ folks gone missin’. Nothin’ big enough to make the news, but you know how this goes — if there’s a nest, it don’t stay small for long.”

Dante was already out before she finished, stretching his arms above his head with a groan that carried more ease than weariness. “C’mon, little brother,” he said with a smirk tossed back toward Vergil. “Let’s go shake hands and make friends.”

Vergil followed slower, sliding from the van with Yamato at his hip. The countryside opened around them, wide and green, the land scarred in subtle places — a barn half-collapsed, a field left fallow, grass burned black at the edges as if fire had licked there not long ago. The smell of damp earth lingered beneath the sharper tang of ash.

Nero was last to climb out, his steps brisk, eyes scanning the quiet hills with restless purpose. He carried himself with that particular tension Vergil recognized — the effort of looking composed when the weight of everything beneath it was still unsteady.

The locals gathered quickly. Country people, weathered by years of hard work, cautious but not ignorant. They eyed the van with suspicion, their gazes lingering longer on the men who emerged from it. Dante greeted them first, as if he’d grown up among them. His voice was easy, his posture loose, his grin disarming.

“Afternoon, folks. Heard you’ve had yourselves some trouble out here. We’re here to help.”

A few nodded, relief slipping into their features. But then their eyes slid past him.

Toward Vergil.

Where Dante’s presence soothed, Vergil’s cut. He stood silent, coat shifting faintly in the breeze, posture unyielding, expression unreadable. His gaze swept the crowd with the precision of a blade — not warm, not welcoming, but searching, weighing. His stillness unsettled them more than any threat could.

A murmur passed through the small group. A woman clutched her shawl tighter, her eyes darting to Dante again as though seeking reassurance. A man’s hand lingered near the handle of his tool, not raised in defense but hovering with unease.

Vergil ignored them. He had no interest in easing their fear. Humanity had always recoiled from him — even before he had become the creature he nearly lost himself to. He neither needed nor wanted their comfort. Still, he noted their shifting stares, the way his very presence seemed to bend the air colder.

Dante carried the conversation easily, drawing details from them with practiced charm. Livestock torn apart at the edges of fields. A family that had not returned from gathering wood. Strange lights in the treeline at night. The usual whispers of superstition tangled with enough truth to demand investigation.

Vergil listened, but did not speak.

Nero, meanwhile, broke away from the group. He moved toward a collapsed fence, crouching low to examine the ground. The soil was churned, claw marks raked through the dirt. He trailed further, his sharp eyes picking up broken branches, faint scorch marks leading into the underbrush. He was thorough, methodical, his jaw tight with focus.

Vergil’s gaze followed him briefly, taking in the way the boy moved, before turning back toward the locals. He felt their eyes on him still, skittish and wary, as if he were the very thing they feared had been prowling their fields. They whispered around him, glancing sideways, speaking softer when his shadow fell near.

He stood unmoved, Yamato’s presence steady at his side, his silence louder than their murmurs.

When Dante finally wrapped up his questions, clapping one man on the shoulder with that infuriating ease, Nero returned, brushing dirt from his hands.

“Found tracks,” he said shortly. “Heading east, into the trees. Looks like a pack. Could be nesting deeper in.”

“Good eye, kid,” Dante replied, his grin quick and genuine. “Looks like we know where we’re goin’ next.”

Nero gave the faintest nod, his gaze flicking toward Vergil before breaking away again.

The three of them regrouped, Dante spinning his pistol once before holstering it, his smirk as alive as ever. The locals lingered, watching them with a mix of hope and fear. Their eyes flicked again toward Vergil, uncertain whether he was their salvation or something darker still.

Vergil neither moved nor spoke, his silence a wall between them. He only turned when Dante motioned forward, his coat shifting with the breeze as he followed.

Behind them, Nico leaned against the van, watching with a smirk that said she noticed everything — the way people looked at Vergil like he was a storm on the horizon, the way Dante filled the silence he left, the way Nero’s words carried a weight he didn’t yet know how to wield.

The countryside stretched ahead, quiet but heavy with the promise of what lay hidden in its shadows.

Vergil walked at his brother’s side, the murmurs of the locals fading behind him. Their fear clung to him still, as natural as the weight of Yamato at his hip. He neither welcomed nor dismissed it.

It was the way of things.

The villagers had been quick to withdraw once their questions were answered, relief mingling with wariness as they retreated to their homes and barns. None dared linger in Vergil’s shadow. It suited him well enough. He had no desire to stand beneath their stares any longer than necessary.

The three of them left the gravel road behind, cutting across a stretch of uneven pasture where the grass grew tall and unkempt. Beyond it, the woods waited, dark and silent, their branches clawing at the sky as if eager to conceal whatever lurked within. The trail was narrow, beaten down by livestock that no longer passed this way. The air smelled of damp earth, and beneath it, faintly, the acrid tang of something not natural.

Dante, of course, broke the silence first.

“Man, did you see the way those folks looked at us? Like we were gonna eat their kids or somethin’. I swear, you’d think we’re the monsters.” He smirked as he adjusted Rebellion across his back. “Guess I can’t blame ’em, though. We do make one hell of a first impression.”

Vergil’s jaw flexed as he stepped over a gnarled root. “Your theatrics invite their suspicion.”

Dante let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. You stand there all broody and silent, and I crack a smile, suddenly I’m everybody’s best friend. Balance, brother. Works every time.”

“It works,” Vergil said coolly, “because you distract them. Not because you are competent.”

“Ouch,” Dante grinned wider, clearly pleased to have drawn a retort at all. “There’s the Vergil I know. Cold as ever.”

Vergil didn’t answer. He lengthened his stride, letting Dante’s chatter fall behind him like debris in the wake of a storm.

For a time, the only sound was the crunch of their boots against the earth and the faint whisper of wind through the tall grass. Nero walked in step a few paces back, his expression pinched, his eyes shifting often toward Vergil. He had kept silent through the locals’ questioning, watching, listening, his posture stiff with unease.

The woods thickened ahead, shadows crowding closer with every step. The air grew heavier, quieter, as if the world itself held its breath. Dante cracked his knuckles, grinning wider at the tension. Nero straightened, his expression hardening into focus.

And Vergil walked at their side, his silence sharper than any blade, his irritation simmering beneath the surface as his brother’s noise and his son’s persistence pressed against him from either side.

The world of men had never known how to speak to him. And he had never cared to speak back.

The forest swallowed them quickly, the air turning damp and heavy beneath the thick canopy. Roots jutted like bones from the earth, and the path twisted in ways that forced them single file. The silence was broken only by their boots on the soil, the distant groan of wood shifting overhead.

Dante, naturally, couldn’t leave the silence alone.

“Love the ambiance,” he said, stepping over a root with exaggerated grace. “Thinkin’ maybe after this, I’ll buy a little summer cabin out here. Nothing says ‘peace and quiet’ like being one step away from a demon ambush.”

Vergil’s gaze cut through the shadows ahead, his hand brushing Yamato’s hilt. His reply came flat, but with the faintest curl of dry disdain. “For once, Dante, you’ve found a place suited perfectly to you — loud, unwelcome, and infested.”

Dante barked a laugh. “There it is. Almost like a sense of humor. Careful, brother, people might start mistaking you for human.”

Vergil didn’t answer, his eyes narrowing against the shifting dark between the trees.

Behind them, Nero let out a short huff, his tone edged with impatience more than complaint. “You do realize you scare the hell out of people, right?”

Vergil did not turn. “And this concerns me because?”

“Doesn’t concern you,” Nero shot back, his voice clipped, steady. “Just saying — standing there like a damn statue while Dante plays the friendly act… makes you look like you’re the thing we’re here to kill.”

Dante grinned over his shoulder. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Vergil’s stride never faltered, but his tone cooled. “Better they fear me than underestimate me.”

Nero stepped up, matching his pace now, his eyes sharp despite the shadows. “Or maybe you hide behind that fear because it’s easier than proving otherwise.”

That earned him a flicker of Vergil’s attention — a glance, brief but cutting. “You presume much for someone who barely understands the weight of silence.”

Nero met the look without flinching. “Maybe. But I’d rather speak and risk being wrong than stand there pretending the whole world’s beneath me.”

For a beat, there was only the sound of the forest. The kind of silence that stretched taut, sharp enough to cut.

Then Dante, unable to resist, broke it with a chuckle. “Look at that. Kid’s got your edge, Vergil. Guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the broody tree after all.”

“Silence, Dante,” Vergil snapped, his composure fraying for the briefest moment.

But Nero smirked faintly at that — not triumph, not victory, but something smaller. Proof that he’d gotten under his father’s skin, if only for a heartbeat.

The trail narrowed, the canopy pressing tighter. The smell of sulfur thickened, faint but undeniable, seeping from deeper within the woods. All three fell into sharper focus, the easy rhythm of words giving way to the measured cadence of hunters.

But though Vergil’s eyes remained on the shadows ahead, his thoughts flickered briefly, unwillingly, to the boy at his side.

And for the first time, he found himself weighing Nero’s words more heavily than he cared to admit.

The forest opened suddenly into a clearing blackened by fire. The air reeked of sulfur and rot, heavy enough to sting the throat. Three women’s bodies lay sprawled across the dirt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their throats torn so deep the earth drank what life remained.

But this was no simple slaughter.

Symbols had been carved into the soil around them, circles of ash and jagged lines filled with blood gone black. Stones, stacked carefully, bore Latin inscriptions burned half-legible into their faces. Whatever had been done here had been done with purpose.

Nero stopped short, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing at the sight. Dante stepped closer, crouching low, brushing dirt from one of the stones with his gloved hand. He let out a long, low whistle.

“Well, if this doesn’t scream cult, I don’t know what does.”

Vergil moved slower, his eyes sweeping over the ground, scanning each carved mark. He crouched, fingers brushing the grooves of the Latin text, lips pressing thin. The words swam familiar and foreign at once. He recognized fragments, half-phrases — blood, vessel, root — but the meaning slipped just out of reach, like smoke between his fingers.

“It is not clear,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. “The script… it is incomplete. Obscured.”

Dante rose, dusting his hands on his coat, his voice sharper now though the grin still played faint at the edges of his mouth. “Doesn’t take a genius to know what went down here. Bunch of lunatics callin’ on something they shouldn’t. Looks like they didn’t exactly finish the job.”

Nero turned his head away, his jaw hard as he stared at the treeline instead of the bodies. “Judging by how they were cut up…” His voice was clipped, tight. “This wasn’t random. It’s like they were… setting something up.”

Vergil’s eyes flicked back to the mangled women. Their placement, the careful carving of symbols around them. The sacrifice was deliberate. Chosen.

“A ritual,” he said at last. His voice was flat, certain. “One that required women as offerings. Not just to appease, but to bind. Judging from this arrangement…” His eyes narrowed. “…a woman was needed for something greater.”

The words hung like smoke in the still air.

Dante’s smirk faded, his gaze sweeping the perimeter of the clearing. He kicked aside a scorched scrap of cloth, scanning the trees. “Question is, did the cult finish what they started and run, or did something else finish them?”

The silence answered for him. No chanting, no footsteps, no voices. Only the crackle of scorched earth beneath their boots.

Nero shifted uncomfortably, his eyes falling once more to the bodies before dragging away. “Either way… whatever this was, they were after someone. One woman, not just any.”

Before Vergil could reply, the trees shuddered.

The first howl split the clearing, raw and guttural, tearing through the silence like a blade. Shadows burst from the treeline — demons, their forms twisted, their eyes burning with hunger. Their screeches rattled the air, but it was their words that froze the breath in the clearing.

“Bring us the maiden!” one shrieked, its voice shrill and warped, claws raking the dirt.

“Pure flesh! Pure soul!” another screamed, its maw frothing black ichor. “The vessel! The vessel!”

The pack swarmed, their cries weaving into a single wordless demand.

Vergil’s hand closed over Yamato’s hilt in a single, fluid motion. His jaw tightened, though not at the sight of the demons. Their words echoed too close to the script he could not fully read. Pure maiden. Vessel. Bind.

The meaning that had eluded him struck colder now, spelled out by the mouths of beasts.

Dante grinned as he drew Rebellion, his tone grim despite the humor laced in it. “Well. Guess that answers what they were after.”

The forest erupted into chaos.

Chapter Text

The demons came howling from the treeline, but it was over almost before it began.

Yamato sang through the dark, silver light cleaving bodies apart before they could land their strikes. Vergil moved with precision honed to an art — no wasted motion, no hesitation, each cut final, each body dissolving into ash before it had time to scream again.

Dante cut wide arcs with Rebellion, his grin sharper than his blade. He moved like a storm against paper walls, his laughter carrying above the shrieks as demons fell one by one, cleaved in half or blown back in pieces from his shots.

Nero’s fury made up the third strike in the circle, his blade carving through ribs and throats with merciless efficiency. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning, his movements heavy with disgust at the mangled women they had found only moments ago. Every strike landed harder because of it.

The clearing stank of sulfur, sweat, and blood, and then it was silent again. A silence almost louder than the fight.

Ash settled over the scorched soil where the bodies had lain. The faint glow of the symbols etched into the ground flickered once, then dimmed to nothing, like a fire burned cold. The Latin scrawled across the stones remained, jagged words half-devoured by flame and time.

Vergil slid Yamato back into its sheath with a sharp click, his gaze fixed on the markings. His mind traced them, dissecting their fragments. Sanguis. Vas. Radix. Blood. Vessel. Root. Pieces of meaning, but no whole. His frown deepened as he turned them over, the language familiar and yet slipping from reach. He despised the gaps in his knowledge more than he despised the weak creatures they had just cut down.

Dante broke the silence first, his voice lower now, lacking the buoyant humor he usually carried after battle. “Well, that was pathetic. They were barely worth the effort.” He glanced at the ground, his smirk thinning. “But the whole setup? That’s not demons. That’s people. Cult. No question.”

Nero kicked at one of the scorched stones, sending it tumbling into the dirt. His teeth clenched, voice tight. “Doesn’t take a genius to see this wasn’t random. They didn’t just kill those women. They carved them up for a reason.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the bodies before jerking away again. He swallowed down the disgust, staring into the treeline instead. “That was ritual. Every cut, every mark. All of it meant something.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed at the women’s remains. Their positioning, their lifeless faces turned upward as if awaiting something they would never see. “A sacrifice,” he said at last, his tone cold, carved from stone. “But not for sustenance. This was preparation. They were attempting to call something forth.”

Dante folded his arms, scanning the blackened ground. “Figures. These bottom-feeders weren’t in charge. They were errand boys. Guard dogs, maybe. Real question is what their master wanted bad enough to bleed out half a village for.”

Vergil’s eyes lingered on the stones. “A vessel.” The word dropped sharp and final into the quiet. “The script is incomplete. But what I can read speaks of binding. Blood spilled to pave the way for one woman — not dead, but alive long enough to be remade into something else.”

Nero’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “So they’re not done. They’re still looking.”

Dante exhaled through his nose, his usual smirk gone. “And if they’re looking, it means they haven’t found her yet.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath around them. The bodies, the markings, the air thick with sulfur and smoke — all of it spoke of something unfinished. Something larger waiting.

Finally, Dante turned, his coat brushing against the ash. “We’ve seen this kind of crap before. Idiots playing with matches in a house soaked with gasoline. Only this time, they’re calling for more than a bonfire. They want something big.” He adjusted Rebellion across his back, his voice edged with unease. “Bigger than these trash mobs, that’s for damn sure.”

Vergil did not answer. His thoughts returned, unwillingly, to the pulse he had felt in the cathedral. The strange, alien tether that had reached him. Vessel. Flesh. Pure. The words scraped against the memory like claws.

They left the clearing without another word, retracing the trail through the darkened woods. The forest seemed heavier now, every step dragging with the weight of unanswered questions. No laughter from Dante this time. No muttered curses from Nero. Only silence, broken by the crunch of boots and the occasional groan of the trees above.

The van waited where they had left it, Nico leaning against the hood, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette pinched between her fingers. She lifted her head as they approached, her eyes flicking over their faces. Whatever she saw there erased her grin in an instant.

“Well,” she muttered, flicking ash into the dirt, “I’m guessin’ you didn’t just find wolf tracks.”

Dante rested Rebellion against his shoulder, the humor in his voice dulled. “Bodies. Three women. Laid out for a ritual. Latin carved into the stones. And a pack of weaklings screamin’ their heads off about some ‘pure maiden.’”

Nero’s voice was clipped, sharp. “They weren’t just scavengers. They were hunting. Whoever the cult’s after, they’re not done. They’ll kill until they get her.”

Vergil’s eyes lingered on the gravel beneath his boots, though his voice carried clear, cold certainty. “The ritual was incomplete. But the intent was obvious. A vessel. A woman. Not random. Specific.”

Nico stilled, tapping her cigarette against the van. “Pure maiden…” she muttered, almost to herself. Then she gave a low whistle. “Sounds like somethin’ nasty brewin’.”

Dante tilted his head. “You know somethin’?”

“Maybe,” Nico said, squinting as she tried to recall. “There’s this little bookstore in Fortuna. Old place, crammed with all kinds of weird texts nobody else touches. Folklore, cult crap, even Latin scraps that’d make your heads spin.” She paused, frowning. “Owner’s name always slips me… Selina? Selena? Somethin’ like that. Timid little thing, keeps to herself. Pretty, though. Pretty in that quiet way that don’t try too hard.”

She smirked faintly, though her eyes stayed sharp. “Point is, if there’s a clue to what these bastards are tryin’ to pull, I’d bet you’ll find it there.”

Vergil’s gaze flicked toward her at that, sharp as glass. His silence lingered long enough for Dante to clap Nico’s shoulder and break it. “Well, there you have it. Guess we’re hittin’ the books. And hey—if she’s pretty, I’ll let you two do the talking.”

The van door groaned open, the air inside thick with the scent of oil and smoke. They climbed in, gravel crunching as the tires bit into the road. None spoke much on the ride back — not about the ritual, not about the word maiden, not about the women left broken in the dirt.

The countryside peeled away behind them in strips of shadow and fading light, the van rattling with every bump in the road. The smell of smoke and sulfur clung stubbornly to their coats, a reminder of the clearing they’d left behind. Inside the cabin, the hum of the engine filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional rattle of loose bolts in the dashboard.

Nero broke the quiet first. He leaned back, arms crossed, brow furrowed as though something Nico had said was still gnawing at him. “Hold on. A bookstore in Fortuna? Since when? I grew up there. Knew every alley, every side street. Don’t remember ever seeing a place like that.”

Nico flicked ash out the cracked window, smirking faintly. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. Most folks never noticed it. Hell, I didn’t either, ‘til I stumbled in by accident. Needed a manual once — somethin’ on old forging techniques for a barrel mod I was tinkerin’ with. Figured I’d be wastin’ my time, but bam, there it was. Tiny little place shoved between two dead shops, lookin’ like it’d been there since the war. Inside though? Different story. Books stacked floor to ceiling, some in languages I couldn’t even name. Place has the kind of smell that tells you the walls’ve been breathin’ ink for decades.”

Dante tipped his head back against the seat, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Figures. Only you could go lookin’ for blueprints and come out clutchin’ ghost stories.”

Nico ignored him, drawing on her cigarette. “Met the owner too. Quiet girl. Pretty thing, but she stays outta the way. Never seen her without gloves, even when she was restockin’ shelves. The type that talks soft and only if you ask her somethin’ direct. Not the kind to shoot the breeze. You get the feel she’d rather melt into the wallpaper than hold a conversation.”

Nero frowned. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of person who’d run a shop on her own.”

“Yeah, well,” Nico muttered, smoke curling from her lips, “she does. Keeps the lights on, keeps the shelves full. Folks pass by without even noticin’ her, which is probably the way she likes it. But don’t let that fool ya. She knows her collection inside and out. I tossed her a half-assed description of what I was after, and she put the right book in my hands like it was nothin’. Didn’t even have to think.”

Dante chuckled, stretching his legs out. “Sounds like Vergil’s dream date. Silent, useful, and surrounded by Latin. He’ll be head over heels before she even says hello.”

Vergil’s eyes lifted from the window, his stare like a blade turned sideways. He said nothing, but the weight of his silence was sharp enough that Dante’s grin widened.

Nico tapped her cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, her tone matter-of-fact. “Name’s Selene, or somethin’ close. Always slips my head. Point is, if these cult freaks are leanin’ on old rituals or scrap texts, chances are she’s already got ‘em sittin’ on a shelf. Might be the only lead we’ve got before the trail goes cold.”

The van bumped hard over a rut in the road, jostling them in their seats. No one spoke for a long moment after that. The countryside slipped into night, the only light ahead the thin stretch of road caught in the van’s beams.

Nero shifted, arms still crossed, but his jaw set harder than before. “If this bookstore has even a chance of telling us what those bastards are planning, we’d better get there fast. Every woman out there’s a target until they find the one they’re after.”

The words hung heavy, choking the air more than the smell of smoke. Even Dante let the silence settle this time.

Vergil kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, though the road ahead was little more than a ribbon of black broken by the van’s headlights. His jaw tightened, his hand resting on Yamato’s sheath as though the weight steadied him.

The demons’ shrieks gnawed at him still — pure maiden, vessel, bind. But more than that, something deeper unsettled him. The arrangement of the women’s bodies, the ritual symbols half-burned into the ground, the fragments of Latin he could not fully translate — all of it whispered of intention, of a design larger than what they had cut down tonight.

And in the marrow of it, he could not ignore the echo that stirred within him. That moment in the cathedral. The surge that had reached him, clean and alien, sparking through his body before his mind could master it.

At the time, he had despised it — the lack of control, the unfamiliar quickening of his pulse. But now… now he wondered.

Was it chance? Or was it connected?

His silence deepened, his gaze hard on the horizon as though the answer lay somewhere ahead, waiting.

The van pressed toward Fortuna, carrying them closer not only to the answers they sought — but perhaps to the very source of the spark that had already touched him.

~~~

Chapter Text

The little bell above the shop door chimed faintly as the last customer left, leaving only the hush of paper and the low glow of lamps against the shelves. Selene stood in the center of the room for a moment, her gloved hands pressed to the spine of a book she had just reshelved, listening to the silence settle like dust.

It should have comforted her. This was her world — quiet, predictable, safe. Yet her chest ached with a restlessness she could not name, her mind returning again and again to the vision that had ripped her from sleep the night before.

She had woken drenched in sweat, trembling, every inch of her body alight as though someone had touched her, gripped her, unraveled her. The memory was as sharp now as it had been then: phantom hands roaming her skin with an ownership that left her breathless, the press of a mouth near her ear, a voice that wound like smoke into her marrow. Sinful, commanding, soft in ways that burned.

Even now, she could hear it. Words she could not repeat aloud, every syllable spoken with a dark certainty that should have repelled her — but instead had set her blood alight with need she despised in herself.

And beneath it all, the truth she had not been able to deny: the man in her vision was no man at all.

She had felt it in the marrow of her bones. Darkness clung to him like a second skin. Not the gnawing chaos of lesser demons, but something older, sharper, refined. It wrapped around her even as his phantom hands had held her close. It frightened her, thrilled her, left her reeling.

Selene pressed her hands harder against the book, trying to force her thoughts back into the familiar rhythm of her work. The routine had always been her refuge. Dusting shelves. Sorting spines by language and age. Repairing fragile bindings with delicate precision. Each task should have anchored her, yet tonight her hands trembled, her cheeks flushed hot every time her memory betrayed her with the echo of his voice.

She forced herself to move, circling the room slowly, her boots soft against the wooden floor. A small stack of returns waited near the counter. A thin volume of folklore, borrowed by a timid young man who never met her eyes; a battered manual on herbal remedies; a book of poetry that smelled faintly of rosewater from the woman who had carried it with her daily. Customers came rarely now, but they came. Fortuna had rebuilt itself in fragments after the Roots tore the city apart, and those who wandered into her store did so by instinct, curiosity, or accident.

Selene always greeted them with a nod, a quiet smile, her voice soft and measured. Most did not linger. That was how she liked it.

Yet even now, as she slid the books back into their places, she found her thoughts drifting, her gloved fingers tightening against the spines. Why me? she wondered, breath hitching. Why that vision? Who was he?

She knew she should dismiss it as she always had — another unwelcome gift of her visions, her curse. But this one had felt different. Real in a way that rattled her. Her pulse had not calmed since. Her body still remembered the phantom weight of those hands, the press of lips against her ear, the command in that sinful voice.

And as much as she wanted to run from it, some part of her dreaded the possibility that it had not been just a vision that wouldn't come true.

She drew the curtains across the windows, locking the latch with trembling fingers. The night pressed heavy against the glass, darker than it should have been. Selene stood for a long moment at the counter, the quiet lamp casting her in gold and shadow, her reflection faint in the pane.

The shop was her sanctuary. Her armor against the world. Yet tonight, it felt less like safety… and more like waiting.

The shop was quiet, the kind of quiet Selene usually cherished. Tonight it pressed too heavy. She drew the curtains across the front windows and turned the latch, her gloved fingers lingering longer than they should. Her reflection caught faintly in the glass — pale, drawn, eyes shadowed by lack of sleep. She looked like a ghost pacing her own sanctuary.

The lamp’s glow painted the counter in warm amber, but it felt fragile, like it could be snuffed out at any moment. Selene tried to focus on the ordinary — books stacked on the desk, returns waiting to be shelved, the familiar scent of paper and leather that usually grounded her. But her hands shook as she touched the spines. Her body still remembered the dream from last night: the phantom hands that had roamed her, the sinful voice curling against her ear. The memory alone was enough to make her breath stumble.

She tried to bury it in routine. Dusting shelves. Straightening volumes. Simple tasks. Safe tasks.

But the silence grew heavier still. The air seemed to thicken until her pulse stumbled in her throat.

And then the world dropped away.

The lamplight vanished. The floor tilted. She clutched at the counter but it was gone.

Darkness swallowed everything.

She stood in a clearing drenched in ash and blood. The stench of sulfur hit her so sharp her stomach lurched. The earth beneath her pulsed like something alive, its breath seeping through the soil.

Three figures in heavy cloaks circled a jagged sigil carved into the ground, the grooves already filled with blood that smoked in the night air. Their voices rose low, guttural, scraping against her ears. Not speech, not melody, but something between — ritual.

She didn’t know the words, yet fragments cut into her like shards. Latin twisted, broken.

“Sanguis… corpus… vas… radicem vinculi… anima devincta…”

Blood. Body. Vessel. Root bound. Soul entwined.

The syllables hammered through her chest, each one vibrating against her ribs. Her breath stuttered, her body trying to recoil even though she couldn’t move.

Another scream ripped across the clearing.

Selene’s eyes snapped toward it — and horror clamped down on her throat. A woman lay pinned to the dirt, wrists and ankles wrenched down by two of the cultists. She thrashed, heels digging furrows into the soil, sobbing so raw it shredded her voice. Another corpse already lay nearby, throat cut, eyes glassy, discarded like refuse.

Selene’s knees trembled. She tried to lunge forward, to shout, to do something, but her body refused. She was frozen, prisoner to the vision. Forced to watch.

The tall figure at the head of the circle lifted his arms higher, palms bleeding from ritual cuts. His voice swelled until the chant was no longer human sound but a roar that cracked the air. The ground shuddered beneath them.

The blood in the carved grooves began to boil. Heat rolled off it in waves, sulfur choking the clearing.

“Sanguis in terram! Vas in tenebris! Anima ligata… anima ligata!”

Blood to the earth. Vessel into shadow. The soul bound. Bound.

The soil split open, a fissure yawning wide. Claws burst upward from the breach, black and crooked, dripping with tar. A maw followed, snapping at the air, jagged teeth too many to count. The first demon heaved itself into the clearing, its body blistered and splitting as though torn raw from the pit. Its howl shook the ground.

More followed, dragging themselves through, howling in broken voices.

Selene’s heart seized. She felt the word hit her bones.

The cultists forced the struggling woman toward the burning sigil, her screams rising, cracking, breaking. The demons’ hunger roared louder. The tall figure bellowed the final words of the rite, his voice triumph made flesh:

“Anima devincta!”

The bound soul.

The chant split Selene open like a blade. Her body convulsed with the woman’s final scream — then silence collapsed over the clearing as the beast fell upon her.

The vision shattered.

Selene stumbled back into her shop, gasping, nearly falling against the counter. The lamp still burned, but her world tilted, her knees buckled. She braced herself on the wood, her gloved hands trembling so violently she thought her bones would break through her skin. Sweat slicked her temples, her breath tearing ragged in her throat.

It hadn’t been a dream. Not imagination.

Every sense screamed at her that it had been real.

The blood. The chanting. The women’s terror. The word vessel.

Her body still shook with it, her heart still galloping in rhythm with that impossible chant. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing breath into her lungs, but the words coiled in her mind like chains.

Not random killings. Not chaos.

And someone — some maiden — was the key.

Selene clung to the counter as though it were the only thing tethering her to the world. Her breath tore in jagged gasps, shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping her throat raw. She tried to command herself to slow down, to take air in deep and steady, but her chest rebelled — it locked tight, burning, refusing to listen.

Her gloves squeaked faintly against the polished wood, her fingers splayed wide as if bracing for an impact only she could feel. Her body shook violently, the tremors starting in her hands and spreading up her arms until her shoulders quaked beneath the weight of panic. Her vision pricked with white at the edges.

“Breathe,” she whispered, the word trembling. “Just… breathe.”

But the chant still pulsed through her. Sanguis… corpus… vas… anima devincta. The syllables lodged themselves in her chest, repeating in time with her racing heartbeat until it felt like her own body was chanting them against her will. She couldn’t shut it out. Couldn’t escape it.

The bell over the door chimed.

Selene didn’t hear it.

A familiar voice — a southern drawl, casual and easy — spilled into the air, followed by two others, deeper, heavier. But the sounds slipped past her. The world outside her panic did not exist.

Her body was betraying her. Her lungs stuttered in rapid bursts, her hands gripped so hard she thought the counter would splinter beneath them. Sweat gathered at her temples, sliding down her cheek, cold against skin that burned hot from the panic boiling under it. She bent forward, hunched, like someone bracing against drowning.

Then the air shifted.

It wasn’t sound that cut through her spiral — it was weight. Presence. The sensation of being seen.

Her head lifted. Slowly, as though dragged.

And her gaze locked on his.

Steel-blue eyes, pale and cold widen at the sight of her. The rest of the room fell away. Her body recognized him before her mind could form the thought. The man from her vision. The one who had touched her in the dark, whose sinful voice had curled against her ear, whose phantom hands had made her tremble in ways she hated to remember.

Her pulse spiked so violently it hurt. Heat and ice clashed in her veins, her stomach dropping as recognition carved its way through her. These were the same eyes — exact, unmistakable — the very ones that had unraveled her in the dream she couldn’t escape.

Her chest seized. Her body, already on the edge, crumpled beneath the weight of it. The panic broke through into something more devastating — shock, recognition, terror, need — all crashing at once until she felt hollowed out.

Her legs gave. The shelves, the counter, the lamp all tilted away into blur.

The last thing she saw was those eyes, staring into her as though he already knew. The last thing she felt was arms wrapped around her, the warmth seeped through her clothes on her skin before her world turned black.

****

Vergil had never cared for places like this. Shops that smelled of old paper and dust, narrow aisles crammed with forgotten things. To him, books were tools—repositories of knowledge, not objects to be revered. Yet the moment the bell above the door chimed and he stepped inside, he sensed this was no ordinary store.

The air was heavy. Too heavy for a simple bookstore. It carried not just dust and ink, but something beneath, a subtle pull that stirred uneasily in his chest.

Dante strolled in first, his boots clattering against the wood floor, Nico sauntering behind with smoke curling from her lips. Nero came next, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the shelves like he was half-expecting something to leap from them. Vergil entered last, silent as a shadow, Yamato balanced at his hip.

His gaze swept the room, cool and efficient. Shelves rose high, laden with volumes in every shape and age. Lamplight burned low, casting long shadows that stretched across the floorboards. Everything about the place spoke of quiet solitude, of a world cut off from the noise outside.

And then his eyes fell upon her.

She stood at the counter, both hands braced against the wood, her shoulders hunched as though under invisible weight. At first glance she was unremarkable—pale, thin, her hair pinned up but loosened by strands clinging to her damp temples. But something in the stillness of her form drew his attention. She trembled, her breaths ragged, shallow, audible even in the hush of the shop.

Emerald eyes lifted.

And the world narrowed.

The shelves, the lamps, even his companions beside him—everything else fell away until there was nothing but the lock between her gaze and his. Fear burned there, raw and unflinching, but beneath it lay something more dangerous: recognition.

Her beauty was not loud, not the sort that demanded attention. It was quiet, veiled in the subtle grace of one who kept the world at arm’s length. And yet, undone by terror, she was striking—every line of her trembling form carved sharper by the lamplight. It unsettled him more than it should have.

Then it struck.

Not memory. Not thought. Intrusion.

The instant her gaze met his, it tore something open, and her terror spilled into him. Images cut jagged across his vision, violent and raw.

A circle carved into earth, its grooves boiling with blood. Cloaked figures moving in cadence, chanting in fractured tones that scraped his bones. A woman’s scream splitting the air, shrill and endless, before it collapsed into silence. Demons clawing through the fissure, eyes burning as they howled for a vessel.

And the chant—Latin twisted and broken, yet undeniable.

“Sanguis… corpus… vas… anima devincta…”
Blood. Body. Vessel. Bound soul.

The words reverberated in his skull, searing themselves into him even as the vision tore away.

When he looked at her again, she was swaying, lips parted in a rasp that never found voice. Her gloved hands slipped from the counter, her body folding in on itself.

Vergil did not move. His muscles coiled as if to step forward, to catch her, but he strangled the impulse into stillness. He remained where he stood, rigid, Yamato steady at his side.

Dante cursed, darting forward to catch the woman before she hit the ground. Nero was at his shoulder, jaw tight, reaching instinctively to help. Nico’s cigarette slipped from her fingers and hissed out against the wood.

Vergil stayed still, his expression unreadable. But his hand flexed once against Yamato’s hilt, and his jaw set taut.

Because what he had just seen was not his own memory. It was hers. Somehow, impossibly, her soul had forced its vision into him the moment their eyes locked.

Her recognition of him was not madness. It was truth.

And the echo of her vision still lingered in him—the boiling blood, the broken chant, the word vessel.

He did not know her name. He did not know why her gaze had tied itself to his.

But Vergil knew one thing with absolute certainty.

This was no coincidence.

Chapter Text

Dante lowered the woman carefully to the floor, her limp form folding into his arms with disconcerting ease. Nero crouched down at once, his brow creased, his voice clipped with urgency.

“She’s burning up,” he muttered, pressing two fingers to her throat. “Pulse is all over the place. What the hell’s wrong with her?”

“Hey—” Dante tapped lightly at her cheek, his tone roughened by impatience but threaded with concern. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t check out on us now.”

Vergil did not move.

He stood just within the threshold of the shop, Yamato at his side, posture straight and cold. To anyone else, he was a shadow against the lamplight, unbothered, removed. But inside, unease wound tight around his chest.

The moment replayed itself again and again—the second her eyes had lifted to his. The force of recognition. The terror. And then the flood of images, slamming into him unbidden.

He had not imagined it. He could not have. The blood-filled grooves, the guttural chant, the screaming of a maiden dragged into shadow—none of it belonged to him. Those were not his memories. They were hers. Forced into him in the instant their eyes met, as though her soul had reached across the distance and branded him with its visions.

A curse. That was the simplest explanation. She had bewitched him somehow, ensnared his mind. And yet…

His gaze lowered to her where she lay, her gloved hands twitching faintly as though the terror still lived in her body even while unconscious. A loose strand of dark hair clung damp to her temple. Her lips were parted, drawing in shallow, uneven breaths, each one catching as though it fought to stay. Her skin, pale and damp with sweat, seemed too fragile to contain the weight of the power that had just poured through her.

He did not understand why the sight disturbed him.

Concern was not something he afforded strangers. Certainly not frail women collapsing in abandoned shops. And yet he found himself watching every flutter of her breath as though it mattered. As though the sound of it faltering would mean something he could not bear.

His jaw tightened, the only outward sign of the conflict twisting in his chest. He told himself it was suspicion, not care. That she was dangerous, unnatural, a vessel of something meant to entrap him. And yet his body had betrayed him: the flex of his fingers against Yamato’s hilt, the shallow breath he had not meant to take when she had crumpled.

Why should she matter?

She was nothing but a woman he had never seen before tonight. And yet her gaze had cracked him open, spilled her visions into him, and then collapsed under the weight of it.

No ordinary human could have done that.

Dante cursed under his breath again, shaking her gently. “Still not waking. What the hell happened to her?”

Nero’s frown deepened as he looked up at Dante, his voice low and uncertain. “She was already breaking down before we walked in. I don’t think it’s just fainting. It’s like she—like she saw something that… wrecked her.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what she had seen, because he had seen it too. The cult. The blood. The chant. The word vessel. But he said nothing.

His silence pressed heavier than the others’ concern. He stood apart, expression composed, gaze sharp and cold as glass. But inside, he turned it over like a blade in his hand.

And then he felt it—eyes on him.

He shifted slightly, catching Nico’s stare. She crouched lower than the others, her cigarette forgotten, her lips quirking into the faintest smirk. It wasn’t mocking—no, it was sharp, knowing. She had seen the way he had looked at the woman. She had caught the fracture in his stillness.

Of course she had. Nico missed nothing.

Vergil held her gaze a beat too long, then looked away, turning Yamato slightly in his palm as though his stillness were deliberate vigilance. But his composure had already been noted, his unease betrayed.

His eyes returned to the woman. Pale. Fragile. Trembling even in unconsciousness. And yet capable of forcing him to see through her eyes, to feel her terror as if it were his own.

Not chance. Not accident.

Something bound her to him. Or him to her.

And that unsettled him far more than he would ever admit.

Dante muttered another curse as he tapped lightly at the woman’s cheek. “Still not waking…”

Nero shifted beside him, uncertain. “Maybe we should—”

“Move.”

The command came colder than steel, brooking no room for question. Dante and Nero exchanged a brief glance, surprise flickering between them, but neither resisted. They stepped aside as Vergil descended.

He slid one arm beneath the woman’s shoulders, the other beneath her knees, and lifted her in a single, fluid motion. She was light in his arms, too light, her body trembling faintly even as it slackened into unconsciousness.

The spark struck him at once.

It licked across his skin where she touched him, hot and startling, like a live current racing from his chest down his arms. He clenched his jaw, refusing to show it, but his body betrayed him—a shallow breath, a subtle tightening in his hold.

Her head fell against him, hair loose and damp against his jaw. Stray strands brushed his throat with the softness of silk, almost weightless, and yet they burned. He stilled, every muscle tight as though resisting the urge to shift her away, but he did not. Could not.

Her scent invaded him, unbidden. Vanilla—warm, clean, a sweetness he had long thought foreign to his world. Twined with it was jasmine, subtle but sharp, a delicate note that clung to him with startling insistence. Pure. Untouched. Everything he had long abandoned, now bleeding into him with every inhale.

He hated it. And yet he drew in another breath all the same, deeper this time, letting it fill his lungs until it threatened to brand itself into him.

And then he felt it—the subtle change.

Her breathing steadied. The frantic flutter of her chest eased, her trembling slowed, the strain in her brow unwound. In his arms, she quieted, her body yielding as though his presence alone had drawn her back from the edge.

Vergil noticed immediately. He always noticed.

The realization cut him sharper than any blade. Not in Dante’s hands. Not in Nero’s. In his. Only in his.

His grip tightened by the barest fraction. He told himself it was control, that he merely kept her steady, but the truth sank deeper, heavier. She calmed with him. Trusted him, unconsciously, instinctively, without knowing his name.

The thought twisted in his chest. He did not allow others near him, did not tolerate closeness, had never sought the weight of another body against his own. His arms had been meant for Yamato, for battle, for blood—not for holding fragile, trembling women.

And yet here he was, every sense filled with her. Her warmth bleeding into him. Her scent clinging to him. The faint sound of her breath, steadying now, pressing against his chest like a quiet rhythm.

A curse, his mind whispered. A spell. Some tether meant to ensnare him. Better to believe it. Better than admitting what his body already betrayed.

He stared down at her, his face carved into stillness, but his thoughts churned like a storm beneath.

Why this woman? Why tonight? Why should she, of all people, be able to breach his silence, force her visions into his mind, calm in his arms as though she had always belonged there?

It was wrong. Impossible. Dangerous.

And still… he did not let go.

Her body was light in his arms, lighter than it should have been. Vergil shifted his hold by a fraction, not to comfort her but to steady himself. His posture remained rigid, his shoulders locked. The act of carrying another felt unnatural, like wielding a blade with the wrong hand.

He had not touched anyone in years. He had not held anyone in longer still. His body remembered the discipline of steel, the grip of Yamato, the restraint of solitude. Not this. Never this.

And yet he did not let her go.

The others were silent, too silent. He could feel their stares, heavy as weights pressing into his back. Dante, usually so quick with words, remained still—his expression unreadable, but his eyes sharp with something between unease and disbelief. Nero stood rooted, lips parted as though to speak but with no words ready to bridge the moment. Even Nico, ever casual, was frozen in place, her gaze flicking from the unconscious woman to Vergil with a rare sobriety.

Their silence made the air feel thick, unnatural. This was not a sight they had expected to see. Nor was it one Vergil had ever imagined presenting.

His jaw tightened. He kept his eyes downcast, fixed on her.

The details struck him with unrelenting clarity: her lashes dark against pale skin, the faint lines of strain still etched around her eyes, the fragile tremor that lingered even now. She looked breakable. And yet she had forced visions into his mind with the violence of a blade.

That paradox unsettled him most of all. Fragility masking something formidable.

How had she done it? Was it deliberate? Or had she simply bled her power into him without meaning to? Vergil turned it over in his mind, dissecting it as though the right angle would reveal an answer. It made no sense. Humans were not capable of such things.

Unless she was not entirely human.

The thought landed with quiet certainty, heavier than the body he carried.

He inhaled, sharp, restraining it before anyone could see the shift. Still, he felt it—the faint pull toward her, the way her presence unsettled the very discipline he built himself upon. He despised it, loathed the idea of his control bending around another. And yet he felt it all the same.

The silence of the others pressed closer. They were watching. Waiting. And Vergil knew that this moment, however small, would not be forgotten.

He stood straighter, his arms firm around her, every inch of him carved back into stillness. If he could not undo the act, he could at least master its image.

But within, the unease remained, deep and unyielding.

Her lashes fluttered. A faint sound escaped her lips.

Vergil’s body went taut.

Without hesitation, he shifted. One smooth movement lowered her back onto the floorboards, his hands precise, unerring, as though she were as fragile as glass. The moment her weight left him, he drew away, his retreat clipped, deliberate.

By the time her eyes opened, there would be nothing to betray what had just passed.

He straightened to his full height, shoulders squared, hands folding neatly behind his back. His face was carved back into its usual stillness, cold, unreadable.

The room itself had changed. The silence was heavy, thicker than the air had been before. Dante shifted once, boots scraping the floor, but no words came. Nero stood rigid, frown carved deep. Even Nico, cigarette dim between her fingers, was quiet.

None of them spoke. None of them needed to.

Vergil ignored them. His eyes fixed forward, refusing to glance back at the unconscious woman. Yet the memory lingered all the same—the heat that had seeped into him, the whisper of hair against his jaw, the steadying rhythm of her breath pressed faintly to his chest. Ghosts of contact that clung no matter how he forced them aside.

Unacceptable. Unforgivable. He had allowed himself to falter, to step beyond the distance he had built, and he despised the weakness of it.

She stirred again, her brow tightening faintly, breath catching as her body shifted. Soon she would wake.

And when she did, Vergil would be where he belonged: distant, composed, untouched.

He closed himself off, his silence heavier than steel, as though nothing had ever passed between them at all

Chapter Text

The world did not return gently.

It came back in fragments, each one sharp enough to hurt. First the weight in her skull — a heavy, pounding ache that throbbed behind her eyes until even keeping them closed was unbearable. Then the light — blurred, fractured, bleeding across her vision like sun through broken glass. She tried to breathe, but her chest felt tight, every inhale scraping raw against her throat.

Sound came next, muffled at first, then sharpening piece by piece until the words began to form.

“Easy now, sugar. Don’t go rushin’ yourself.”

A woman’s voice. Warm, lilting, but smoky at the edges — one she half-recognized, as if from another time she couldn’t place.

Other voices overlapped. Deeper. One rough, threaded with a kind of restless authority. Another younger, sharper, uncertain. Each tone pressed against her in ways she could not name.

But beneath them all, she felt it.

That presence.

Even with her eyes closed, even half-lost to the pounding in her skull, it lingered at the edge of her senses. Dark. Cold. A weight pressing on the air itself. Not near enough to touch her, but near enough to stir something deep in her chest — recognition. The same darkness that had unraveled her in her vision, that had left her trembling and undone.

Her heart lurched. Panic stirred again, fresh and sharp. She forced her eyes open, lashes fluttering against the haze. Shapes leaned over her. A hand touched her shoulder, steadying, gentle—

She recoiled.

The movement was sharp, violent. Her body jerked back as if the hand had burned her. Breath tore from her throat, shallow and ragged, panic blooming so fast it rattled her chest.

“Hey—easy—” one of the voices said quickly, but Selene hardly heard it.

Her mind spun. The contact had been brief, fleeting, but it was enough to send her spiraling. What if another vision followed? What if the blood, the chanting, the screams came crashing back into her the instant their skin touched hers? She couldn’t bear it. Not again.

Her gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap, leather creaking under the force. They were her shield, her only defense. She had always kept the world at a distance — not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Every touch carried the risk of opening a door she could not close.

The pounding in her skull slowed just enough for her vision to sharpen.

The first face she saw was the woman crouched near her — lean, sharp-eyed, watchful, her hair tucked back, the scent of smoke lingering faintly around her. Nico. Selene remembered her now, fragments of past visits piecing together — always restless, always searching for something buried in the shelves.

Behind her stood two men. One older, tall, broad-shouldered, his stance loose but his eyes narrowed in wary scrutiny. The other younger, leaner, arms folded tight across his chest, tension carved into every line of his frame.

And there.

At the edge of the light, away from the others, motionless.

Her vision blurred, then cleared. Silver hair, steel-blue eyes, posture straight as a blade. The air bent around him, heavy, charged, even though he stood apart.

Selene’s breath stilled. She knew without question.

It was him.

The man from her vision. The one whose presence had pressed into her chest, whose eyes had followed her into her dreams, whose phantom hands she had felt even when she was alone. She felt the memory of him as surely as if he were touching her now.

Her stomach dropped, nausea twisting sharp inside her. She forced her gaze down at once, refusing to let their eyes meet again. She could not. Not now. Not when the memory of his stare had already broken her once.

Her voice broke through her dry throat, thin and fractured, but final.

“Don’t… don’t touch me.”

The words rang louder than her tone. A command, not a plea. A barrier she had drawn her whole life.

It wasn’t mistrust. It wasn’t rudeness. It was survival.

Selene curled her gloved hands tighter, clutching the leather as though it were the only thing keeping the visions at bay. Her pulse still pounded, her head still throbbed, but one truth cut clear through the haze.

She could not risk another vision.
Not from them.
Not from him.

The silence after her words was thick enough to choke on.

Selene’s chest heaved as she clutched her gloves, knuckles white beneath the leather. Every pair of eyes was on her — she felt it in the weight of the room, the scrutiny pressing against her even when she couldn’t bear to meet their gazes.

The woman — Nico, Selene’s memory confirmed now — leaned back slightly, hands raised in quiet surrender, though her sharp eyes never left Selene’s face. “Alright, darlin’. No one’s touchin’.” Her voice was softer than before, tempered.

The younger man straightened, arms still crossed. His frown was cut from stone, but there was something uncertain in his eyes, as though he were debating whether to step closer or hold back. Selene caught the flicker of hesitation before he schooled it into something harder.

The older one, tall and broad-shouldered, adjusted his stance. He had the air of someone who carried charm like a weapon, even if he hadn’t drawn it yet. He kept his distance, his hands easy at his sides, but his gaze studied her with quiet intent.

And then—her mistake.

Her eyes darted too far, catching the figure at the edge of the lamplight. Still. Silent. Cold.

The man staring at her from where he stood by door.

The mere sight of him sent a shiver racing down her spine. He hadn’t moved an inch since she’d woken, but she could feel his presence more than she saw him — the dark weight of it coiled at a distance, pressing against her chest like a remembered touch. Her heart stumbled, and she forced her gaze back down at once.

“Sorry,” she whispered, her voice ragged. She swallowed hard, the dryness of her throat scraping against the word. “I—what you saw before I blacked out—it was… it was nothing. Just a panic attack. Happens sometimes.”

The lie slid out too easily, one she had rehearsed her whole life. People would accept it. They always did. They preferred panic to madness, anxiety to visions. Panic made sense.

But she felt it even before her words had settled in the room.

He didn’t believe her.

She didn’t dare look, but she knew. The mans silence was sharper than the others’, heavy in a way that felt like a blade pressed to her back. He knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew.

Selene pushed against the counter, struggling to stand. Her legs trembled as if they might fold beneath her, but she forced them straight, bracing herself with the weight of her palms against the wood. The pounding in her skull returned, but she held her head high anyway, refusing to show weakness.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. The question came out sharper than intended, more defense than curiosity.

The tall one stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate, his smile easy but softened to something gentler than charm.

“Didn’t mean to spook you, my name is Dante” he said, voice pitched calm, disarming. “We’re not here to cause trouble. Just lookin’ for a little help, is all.” He gestured lazily at the shelves, his hand cutting the tension without breaking it. “Got ourselves some bad writing to translate, maybe a few names that ain’t addin’ up. Thought maybe someone with a collection like yours might have somethin’ to point us in the right direction.”

Selene blinked, disoriented by the normalcy of his tone. He spoke as if they were discussing weather, not blood and death and cults. As though he thought if he kept it light, she might forget the way her body had collapsed in terror minutes before.

Her throat tightened. She wrapped her arms around herself, gloved hands digging into her elbows, trying to mask the tremor in her fingers.

Her eyes flicked up once, briefly — to Dante’s steady expression, to Nero’s rigid stance, to Nico’s sharp watchfulness. And then, despite herself, they slid further — to the shadowed figure who hadn’t moved.

Vergil’s gaze was already on her. Unblinking. Cold. Cutting through her lie as if he’d carved it in half.

Her breath caught. She tore her eyes away, swallowing the tremor before it broke her voice.

“What kind of people?” she managed to ask, her tone quiet, brittle.

Dante’s smile widened a fraction, though his eyes stayed calm. “The kind who get their kicks makin’ life hell for the rest of us. Cults. Groups with too much time, too much blood, and not enough sense.”

Selene’s stomach twisted. The words rang too close to her vision.

Her heart pounded, and again she felt it — that dark weight in the room. Distant but near. Watching.

Waiting.

Selene’s arms tightened around herself as the silence stretched. The man who had spoken—Dante—must have felt it too, because he shifted slightly, his easy posture softening as if to ease her nerves.

“Guess we oughta do this proper,” he said, his voice calm, carrying that smooth drawl that sounded almost too casual for the tension hanging in the air. He gestured lightly toward Nico first. “That’s Nico—you’ve met her before. Engineer, pain in the ass, and probably the only reason this van even moves.”

Nico smirked faintly, flicking ash into a tin by her boot, but her eyes stayed on Selene, sharp and unreadable.

Dante’s hand shifted then to the younger man, whose arms were still crossed, his stance wound tight like a spring. “This one’s Nero. He’s rough around the edges but dependable. When he wants to be.”

Nero gave a short nod, his frown still etched deep, but his eyes flicked toward her with something like wary respect.

Selene forced her lips into the faintest curve of acknowledgment, though her chest was still tight.

And then Dante’s hand shifted again. Toward the edge of the lamplight.

“And that,” he said, voice lowering with a note of gravity that hadn’t been there before, “is Vergil.”

The name struck her like a pulse of heat under her skin.

Selene froze.

Her body betrayed her at once. A sudden rush, low in her chest and curling down into her stomach, fluttered sharp and unbidden. Her breath caught, shallow, her heartbeat stuttering out of rhythm. She tightened her grip on her gloves to keep from trembling, but the reaction surged anyway, impossible to hide.

It was as though her very blood recognized something her mind could not.

She dared a glance upward.

Vergil had not moved, not more than a shift of his shoulders, but his gaze locked onto her with unnerving precision. His nostrils flared faintly, the kind of instinctive reaction an animal might make when it caught a scent. His eyes sharpened, pale and piercing, fixed on her as though she were a riddle laid bare.

He was studying her. Not with casual interest, but with a silent, unrelenting intensity that made her skin prickle.

Selene’s throat worked around a dry swallow. She didn’t understand it—why her body answered his name like a summons, why her chest fluttered as if recognizing something long buried. She didn’t know what she was, why she carried these visions that crushed her into the floor, why her blood seemed to sing in his presence.

Hell, she barely knew herself.

And still, his eyes tracked her as though he did.

She saw him shift where he stood, subtle, almost imperceptible. But she caught it—the tightening of his posture, the way his weight shifted as if preparing to step forward.

Her pulse quickened again, nerves tangling with something stranger, sharper, that she couldn’t name.

For the first time, she truly saw him.

Tall, imposing, his silver hair slicked back to frame the sharp angles of his face. His presence filled the room even at a distance, cold and precise, but beneath it was something else—a restraint so rigid it almost vibrated in the air. He was handsome, undeniably so, though the sharpness of it unsettled more than soothed.

And then her gaze slid, unbidden, to Dante.

The resemblance was impossible to ignore. The same height, the same bone structure, though softened. Dante’s hair was looser, framing his face with an ease that mirrored his manner. Where Vergil was steel drawn tight, Dante was the same steel left unsharpened, tempered by warmth.

Twins.

Her stomach lurched with the realization, her head buzzing as though it might split again. She didn’t know which was worse—the familiarity of Dante’s charm, or the dark, magnetic gravity of Vergil’s silence.

Either way, her world tilted, her gloves creaking as her hands clenched tighter.

Because if his name alone could do this to her—what would happen if their eyes met again?

Selene’s pulse hadn’t steadied since she’d woken. Dante’s voice carried on, smooth and practiced, explaining why they’d come — that they were searching for answers, that her shelves might hold fragments of old groups who’d dealt in blood and ruin before.

But the moment those words left him, her stomach had turned. Groups. Cults. People clawing at powers they should never touch. It was too close to what she’d seen, too sharp a mirror of the visions that had broken her to the floor.

Her hands tightened around her gloves, leather creaking. She tried to keep her breath even, tried to hold her face still, but her body betrayed her with the faintest hitch.

And he noticed.

She felt it before he spoke. That weight in the room shifted, cold and heavy, his gaze sharpening like steel drawn from a sheath.

“You reacted,” Vergil said, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. Not loud, not forceful — just precise, impossible to escape. “When he spoke of them. Of these people.”

Her head snapped toward him before she could stop herself. His eyes locked with hers, pale and unflinching, dissecting her with surgical precision. It wasn’t curiosity — it was recognition.

Selene’s chest clenched. Her lips parted, the beginnings of denial trembling there, but the words faltered in her throat.

Nero’s voice broke in, sharp, defensive. “Vergil.” His glare cut sideways at the older man, his jaw tight. “Ease up. That’s not how you—” He stopped, biting off the rest, but the protective edge in his tone lingered, heavy as a blade unsheathed.

Dante shifted then, one hand raising slightly as if to smooth the crack in the air. His grin was softer now, not playful but steady, coaxing. “What my brother means,” he said evenly, “is that we’re just tryin’ to figure out patterns. Names. Anything that lines up. We’re not here to put you under a lens.”

Selene swallowed, her throat dry. She tightened her arms around herself, fighting the tremor in her hands.

But she had seen it. The way Vergil’s eyes had sharpened when she faltered, the way his nostrils had flared faintly, as though scenting her fear. He had seen through her mask with one word, one look.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She forced herself to glance away, down at the floor, trying to keep her breath steady.

He knew. Not what she saw, not exactly — but he knew she was hiding something.

And worse, she could feel that he wasn’t going to let it go.

Before she could stop herself, as if something in his stare unraveled a part of her, or commanded her in some way. She looked up to the group with a small smile, her voice slightly timid "I'm really really sorry about everything..my name is Selene, of course you can use whatever you find here.."

She missed the way Vergil’s eyes darkened.

Chapter Text

Vergil had watched her carefully from the moment she stirred. The lie about panic had been transparent, but he hadn’t called it out. Not yet. Instead, he listened, silent and precise, as Dante explained why they had come. He had expected her silence, her guardedness. What he had not expected was her reaction.

When Dante spoke of groups — cults, circles who dealt in blood and ruin — her body betrayed her. The faintest hitch in her breath, the tightening of her gloves against her palms, the flicker in her eyes before she forced them away. He had felt it. Seen it.

His own words had been deliberate: “You reacted.” Just enough to test her, to press a blade at the edges of her mask. Nero had jumped in quickly, defensive, his tone bristling like a shield, but Vergil had not missed the way she faltered beneath his gaze.

And then—Dante had named him.

The moment his name fell into the air, she had changed. Not subtly. Not faint. Her entire body had stilled, her breath stuttered, her pulse quickened — he could hear it, sharp as the ticking of a clock in the silence. Her gloves creaked under her grip, but the tremor of her hands gave her away.

Vergil had felt it too.

The air shifted, heavy with a sudden, unmistakable scent. Not just fear. Not just panic. Something else, darker, sharper. Desire. The faint, heady trace of arousal, threaded with embarrassment, rushed out of her in the same breath.

His nostrils flared before he could stop himself, the scent searing into him like fire. His chest tightened, his pulse betraying its steadiness for the briefest instant. A strange heat curled, his cock twitched, stirring instincts he had long since buried beneath iron discipline.

Her eyes had flicked up then, locking with his for only a breath. In them he had seen terror, recognition, and something she clearly didn’t understand herself. And in that instant, he had been certain: she had felt the same tether he had.

Vergil had shifted where he stood, minute, controlled, but the act had betrayed him all the same. He had moved as though to steady himself against something unseen.

Why would a stranger’s reaction affect him so? Why should her body’s betrayal twist through him like a spark against dry kindling? It was absurd. He did not yield to such weakness. Not to anyone.

He smothered the thought at once, forcing his silence back into place, his posture unmoving. And yet the scent lingered in the air, curling around him, heavy and intimate, clinging to his senses as though mocking his restraint.

When Dante’s easy charm pressed forward again, guiding the moment back to calm, Vergil listened only enough to follow. But then, the woman spoke.

Her voice was quiet, cracked faintly by strain, but steady enough to carry as she revealed her name and told them to look for what they needed.

The sound of it struck him harder than he expected. Simple. Clear. And yet when it fell into the air, it cut through him with the same weight his own name had cut into her. His chest tightened, his pulse flickering with a rhythm he despised.

He told himself it was coincidence. That names carried power in moments like these, heavy with tension, strung with recognition. That her name meant nothing.

But he felt it all the same.

Selene.

It settled into him like an echo, lodging in a place he had not realized was still hollow.

Vergil forced his face into stillness, his hands behind his back, Yamato gleaming faintly at his side. Outwardly, he was stone. But inside, unease gnawed at him.

Her body had betrayed her. His had betrayed him.

And he did not yet understand why.

Dante’s voice carried on, smooth as ever, filling the silence she had left behind with her name. “Selene. That’s pretty. Suits you.” His grin was easy, coaxing, though his eyes stayed sharp, measuring her as he spoke. “If it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could point us toward anything on the shelf about… oh, cults, rituals, folks with a history of makin’ life difficult. Doesn’t have to be precise — just somewhere to start.”

Selene hesitated, her gloved hands tightening faintly at her sides, but at last she gave a small nod. She turned away, her skirts brushing against the floorboards as she moved toward the shelves.

Vergil’s eyes followed her.

Her steps were steady, though he could still see the faint tremor in them, the way her weight shifted carefully as though she wasn’t fully anchored in her own body. The overhead light caught in her hair, long dark raven colored hair, swayed just below her hip bone. The gloves she clutched so tightly seemed like more than habit — they were armor, the one barrier she refused to shed even when surrounded.

It should have been unremarkable. She was slim, ivory skinned still flushed probably from exhaustion, her voice still raw from what had overtaken her. And yet… there was something in the way she moved. A quiet elegance, unpracticed, unknowing, but undeniable. Her beauty was not bold or loud. It lived in subtler lines — in the curve of her jaw, the fall of her lashes when she glanced down, the grace in the way her fingers traced the spines of old books as if they were relics rather than mere paper.

Vergil’s jaw tightened faintly. He despised the thought, but it surfaced nonetheless: she was beautiful.

Not in the way others might name beauty. But in a way that unsettled him. Fragile and strong all at once. Withdrawn, yet magnetic. As if the shadows clung to her not to hide her, but to follow where she led.

His eyes narrowed, his hands folding behind his back once more as if the discipline of posture might cage the thoughts pressing against him.

She slid one book free, careful, precise, and set it on the counter. Another followed. The motion was simple, but he found himself studying it nonetheless — the dexterity in her hands, the quiet reverence in the way she handled the worn bindings.

She turned slightly then, her profile catching in the lamplight. For a breath, her lashes lifted just enough to glance at him — not long, not deliberate, but enough for him to see the flicker in her eyes before she looked away.

Vergil inhaled, slow, measured, though his pulse betrayed its steadiness for the briefest moment. Her scent lingered still, faint but unmistakable — jasmine and vanilla woven into the dust of her shop.

Dante’s voice cut in again, steady and easy, pulling her attention back toward him as he asked another question. But Vergil barely heard it.

He was still watching her, silent and unreadable, as though each motion she made carved another question into his mind.

Who are you, Selene?

And why do you affect me so?

She moved again, her hip brushing the edge of the counter as she set another book down. The curve of it caught the light, and his eyes tracked the line of her without intention, as though his body betrayed him faster than thought.

Vergil inhaled slowly, forcing stillness back into himself, crushing the heat into silence. To the others, he was unmoved, distant, unreadable as ever. But inside, unease gnawed sharp at him.

She bent slightly to tug a heavy volume from a lower shelf, the fabric pulling taut across her frame. The sight stirred something low in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. His breath drew shallow, almost imperceptibly, and his jaw tightened against it.

'Fuck.'

He straightened, spine rigid, his hands folding neatly behind his back. His eyes followed her still, pale and unblinking, but his face betrayed nothing.

This..was going to be a long night.

Selene moved with quiet determination, though her hands betrayed the faint tremor she tried to hide. She passed along a small stack of books one by one, their bindings worn, their pages thick with dust and ink. None were trivial. Each bore the weight of forgotten histories — fragments of languages older than most living scholars, records half-destroyed, the kind of literature only someone who knew what to look for would have preserved.

Dante flipped the first open, his voice carrying in that effortless drawl of his. “Not bad. Looks like some kind of record of rites — but half the language is butchered. Old Latin? Or someone pretending they knew it.”

Nero leaned over his shoulder, frowning. “No — that’s not Latin. Look at the structure. That’s closer to pre-Vatican inscriptions. Ritualistic, yeah, but older. Whoever wrote this wasn’t improvising.”

“Older, newer—doesn’t change the fact it’s all blood and guts,” Dante countered, tossing the corner of a page with his thumb. “Doesn’t mean we’ll get any useful answers.”

Nero’s arms folded tighter across his chest. “You dismiss everything too quick. There’s meaning in here. Look at the margins — symbols carried over.”

Nico exhaled smoke and tapped the spine of another book Selene had set aside. “And this one’s even older. Not translations, original script. Whoever had these before knew what they were collectin’.” Her gaze flicked toward Selene briefly, sharp. “Hell, maybe she knows more than she’s lettin’ on.”

Their squabble rose and fell — Dante’s dismissal, Nero’s stubborn insistence, Nico’s cutting observations. It was a rhythm Vergil knew well enough, familiar noise at the edge of his senses. He gave them only half his attention.

The rest was fixed on her.

Selene moved through the shelves like someone trying to disappear into them. She said little, only responding when asked, but her body spoke louder than her words. The care in her hands as she touched each book, tracing the bindings with reverence. The quiet way she bent and shifted, the thin fabric of her gown pulling across her frame, clinging too closely when she reached or leaned.

She carried herself as though she wished to be overlooked, but she was not. Not by him.

Her lashes lowered when she concentrated, and though her lips remained pressed, he saw the faintest tension in them — restraint born of habit, the kind worn like armor.

Vergil studied her with the same precision he gave an enemy, cataloguing every detail. Yet the longer he watched. Not in the practiced way of women who sought attention, but in a quieter, sharper form — beauty that seemed unknowing, unguarded, as though she herself did not realize how she drew the eye.

And then… her scent.

It lingered, growing heavier each time she came near, threaded into the dust of the shop until it filled him no matter how he tried to ignore it. Vanilla. Jasmine. Pure, untainted. But beneath it, something deeper, something instinct told him even if reason refused: untouched.

Vergil’s nostrils flared faintly again inhaling more of her for what it seemed to be the third time, beyond his control, and for an instant, discipline faltered. Heat curled low in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Not only his human blood, but his demon half stirred in unison, recognizing her innocence with a hunger that was older, darker, primal. It unsettled him to the marrow.

The sound that nearly escaped him was not a word but a low, guttural groan. He smothered it in silence, burying it behind clenched teeth and rigid posture. Outwardly, he was still as stone. Inwardly, unease burned through him, dangerous and unyielding.

She was not bewitching him. Of that he was certain now. Her purity left no trace of artifice, no manipulation. She could not have ensnared him deliberately.

Which left only the possibility he despised most.

That this pull was real.

He straightened, folding his hands behind his back, his gaze unblinking on her as she slid another book into Dante’s hands.

She was pure. Untouched. And the realization carved through him like a blade.

It made him want.

And worse than that—it made him want in ways that reminded him too much of the part of himself he had spent years mastering, chaining, and burying beneath discipline.

Vergil exhaled slowly through his nose, steel pressed back into his face, but his thoughts remained undone.

She was dangerous to him. Not because she might bewitch him. But because she did not need to.

“Enough,” he said at last. Calm, cold, deliberate. “We are not here for idle talk. Take what is needed, and make haste.”

The words were precise, clipped, carrying none of the storm raging beneath.

Dante’s grin faltered briefly, though he covered it with a shrug and snapped the book closed. Nero muttered under his breath, Nico only smirked faintly around her cigarette.

Selene’s eyes lifted for the briefest moment, startled by the weight of his voice. A flush rose at her cheeks, and she pressed her lips together, retreating back into herself.

Vergil folded his hands behind his back, spine straight, his face composed into stone. Outwardly, he was control incarnate. Inwardly, the need to escape her presence clawed sharp through his chest.

He had to leave this place.

Not because of what they had found. But because for the first time in years, he felt control slipping through his fingers.

“Alright,” Dante said easily, his voice as smooth as if the tension hadn’t clawed through the room moments before. He pulled a few bills from his coat and set them on the counter with a lazy hand. “Appreciate it, darlin’. We’ll take good care of these.”

Nero muttered something under his breath as he added his share, his movements clipped but respectful enough. Nico flicked ash from her cigarette, smirking faintly as she tossed down her own crumpled notes.

Selene’s eyes lingered on the money but did not reach for it, her gloved hands pressed lightly against the counter as though she needed its solidity to steady herself.

The others gave her their thanks in their own ways — Dante with a grin, Nero with a curt nod, Nico with a wink and a muttered, “Don’t let these shelves bury you, sugar.”

Vergil did not move.

He remained still, watching as they filed toward the door, his posture rigid, his silence heavy. His eyes followed Selene only once, as she smoothed her gloves against her palms, her head lowered.

When the last of them passed through, the door creaking shut behind them, he finally stirred.

He did not turn fully to face her. He did not soften his posture. He merely paused at the threshold, the lamplight catching along the line of his coat. Slowly, his head angled back, just enough that she would see the edge of his profile, the sharpness of his gaze.

“You can lie to them. You cannot lie to me. Whatever festers in you, whatever you have done for me to see your visions and feel this dreaded pull…” His eyes narrowed, cold, unrelenting. “It will be mine to uncover.” The words hung heavy in the air, not a threat, not a kindness. A promise.

And without waiting for her reply, Vergil stepped out into the night, the door closing behind him with finality.

Chapter Text

The night outside the shop was colder than he expected. Crisp, biting, the kind of air that should have steadied him, forced his thoughts into clarity. But it didn’t. His chest was still tight, his blood still thrumming with heat he despised, and every step felt heavier than it should have as he followed the others to the van.

Dante leaned casually against the side panel, arms folded, his weight settled into one hip. The lamplight from the shop spilled faintly onto the street, catching the silver edge of Vergil’s coat as he passed. His brother’s grin was there — faint, crooked — but muted. It wasn’t his usual easy mockery. It was sharper. Studying.

“You’re quiet,” Dante said finally, his voice low, edged with familiarity. “Quieter than usual, and that’s sayin’ something.” He tilted his head slightly, one brow raised. “Didn’t peg a bookstore as the thing that’d shut you up.”

Vergil didn’t answer. His steps didn’t falter, his gaze fixed forward. The silence between them stretched until Dante’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful, though he didn’t press further.

Nero was less patient. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his frown carving deeper across his face as he turned toward Vergil. “What was that?” he demanded, his voice direct, youthful bluntness cutting through the night air. “In there. You—” He hesitated, searching for words, then pressed anyway. “You looked different.”

Vergil stopped, just long enough for the weight of the pause to settle, then turned his head just enough for the lamplight to catch the sharp angle of his jaw.

“You imagine things,” he said, his tone precise, final.

Nero’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His shoulders tightened, fists curling in his pockets, but he said nothing more. The words were a wall, solid and unscalable.

Nico was quieter than both of them. She flicked ash from her cigarette, her smirk lazy, but her eyes — sharp, dark — lingered on him longer than they should have. Coy, silent, as if she knew more than she would ever admit aloud. Smoke curled around her as she leaned against the van, one hip cocked, the picture of ease.

But she didn’t need to speak. Her silence was worse than Dante’s probing or Nero’s bluntness.

Vergil ignored them all.

He climbed into the van without another word, settling into the shadowed corner of the back seat. His coat pooled around him, Yamato resting at his side, his posture carved rigid, every line of him composed. He kept his gaze fixed on the window, the dark countryside beyond, as though the horizon itself could anchor him.

Outwardly, he was control incarnate. Cold. Untouchable.

But inside, his thoughts refused to still.

Her scent still lingered, heavy in his senses no matter how he willed it away. Vanilla. Jasmine. Innocence. And beneath it, the faintest trace of desire — hers and his both — a heat that pressed at him, mocked him, tested the walls he had built.

He had almost faltered. Almost lost control. The memory of her eyes staring back at him, wide and trembling, seared against his mind. The tremor in her breath when Dante pressed too close. The flush in her cheeks when he spoke.

His fingers twitched once against his thigh before he folded his hands deliberately behind his back, concealing the movement, smothering the tell.

He had to master this. He would master it. He was not a man who broke beneath weakness. He had spent his life sharpening restraint into steel. He would not allow a stranger — no matter how unexplainable her effect on him — to undo it.

But the truth gnawed at him, sharp and unyielding.

Dante had seen something. Nero had sensed it. Even Nico’s silence hinted at it.

And for the first time in years, Vergil could not entirely deny it.

Something inside him had shifted.

The van rolled back into the night, headlights cutting through the dark ribbon of road. The tires hummed against the pavement, steady and unbroken, but the silence inside the cabin felt heavier than the engine’s growl.

Vergil sat in the farthest corner of the back seat, Yamato leaning against his thigh, his hands folded neatly in his lap. His posture was rigid, his profile carved into stillness as he kept his gaze fixed on the window. Shadows of treetops blurred by, occasional flashes of lamplight breaking the monotony, but he did not shift, did not speak.

He did not look at them.

Nico exhaled a slow curl of smoke that wound lazily toward the roof. The acrid scent of cigarettes mingled with leather and oil, clinging to the close air. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes flicked to Vergil once, sharp and sly, before returning to the road.

Nero sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, his eyes darting sideways at his uncle with every bump of the van. His frown had deepened with each mile, his jaw clenched tight as though the silence itself was suffocating him.

Dante leaned back, his long legs stretched out, one hand drumming a rhythm against his thigh. He hated quiet. Always had. The fact that Vergil sat there, pale as stone, refusing to give so much as a glance, gnawed at him more than he let on.

No one spoke.

Vergil could feel their stares, the weight of their curiosity pressing into him like chains. But he refused to meet them. His silence was armor. If he turned his head, if he allowed even one moment of their probing, the storm inside him might spill outward. The memory of Selene in his arms, trembling and warm, the way her scent had burned through his control — he crushed it back into the coldest part of himself, behind walls he’d spent years fortifying.

Still, the van felt smaller with each passing mile.

When at last the glow of neon split the night, Dante steered the van into its usual spot. The red letters of Devil May Cry buzzed faintly against the dark, casting the familiar building in its uneven light.

The van door creaked open, and the others spilled out one by one. Dante first, stretching his arms with a long, lazy groan as if shaking off the silence. Nero followed, his boots striking pavement harder than necessary, his frown still carved deep. Nico came last, flicking her cigarette to the curb, the ember glowing faint before dying in the dark.

Vergil stepped out after them, his boots striking the ground with clipped precision. His coat flared faintly with his stride, every line of him rigid, unyielding. He did not linger.

Without a word, he turned and crossed the lot in long, purposeful steps, his pace quicker than usual, his shoulders stiff. The door to Devil May Cry creaked open, the lamplight spilling briefly over him before the heavy thud of it closing cut him off from the night.

He did not look back.

The silence he left behind was almost louder than the slam of the door.

Dante exhaled slowly, his smirk faint but sharp, as if weighing the silence in his mouth before breaking it. “Well,” he drawled, scratching the back of his neck, “that’s a first.”

Nero turned to him sharply, brow furrowed. “What do you mean, first?”

Dante’s grin widened, but his tone was more thoughtful than mocking. “I’ve seen Vergil cut down men twice his size without flinching. Seen him walk through hellfire without batting an eye. But that?” He jerked a thumb toward the door Vergil had vanished behind. “Him holding someone? Carrying them, steadying them — and then setting them down gentle?” Dante shook his head, letting out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d live long enough to see that.”

Nero frowned deeper, crossing his arms. “You’re exaggerating. He didn’t look gentle.”

Dante’s smirk edged sharper. “Kid, you weren’t watching his face. You didn’t hear how still the room got. You didn’t see the way she calmed in his arms.”

Nero’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as though replaying the memory whether he wanted to or not. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. “Doesn’t make sense.”

Nico lit another cigarette with a click of her lighter, the glow briefly illuminating her grin. She blew smoke sideways, sharp eyes glinting. “Doesn’t have to. Man like Vergil ain’t built for sense. He’s built for control. So when that cracks…” She let the thought trail, her smirk coy, deliberate.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Because for all of Dante’s teasing, Nero’s frown, and Nico’s smirk, one truth gnawed at all of them:

They had seen Vergil Falter.

And none of them knew yet if that was a blessing — or a curse.

~~

The room was silent, but the silence gave him no peace. After hearing Dante retreat to his room, nero as well as nico drive off in that god forsaken van.

Vergil had spent hours in the stillness, Yamato at his side, his posture perfect, his breathing deliberate. Meditation had always been the blade with which he cut away distraction, sharpened control, silenced the howling of the demon inside.

But tonight… it failed.

Every time he forced his thoughts to quiet, her face rose in the dark. Selene. Trembling, fragile, her breath pressed against him as though it sought shelter in his chest. Her scent — vanilla and jasmine — clung to him even now, heavy and sweet, threading through the walls of his composure.

And worse, the memory of her body calming in his arms. Not because of discipline. Not because of reason. Because of him.

His hands curled into fists. His breath sharpened.

He could still feel the heat of her skin through fabric, the unsteady flutter of her pulse when their eyes had locked. He could smell her purity. Untouched. Unclaimed.

His demon stirred violently, scratching against the walls of his control. It recognized what his mind would not allow — her innocence, her scent, her body’s betrayal when his name filled the air. It demanded. It wanted. To take. To consume. To claim.

A low growl scraped his throat, and his eyes snapped open.

Vergil surged to his feet, pacing the length of the room in clipped, violent strides. His coat flared at his sides, his boots struck hard against the floorboards, his jaw clenched until his teeth ached.

“Damn her,” he hissed, his voice rough, darker than steel. His fists tightened until leather groaned. “Damn her.”

She had lit this fire in him. She had unraveled him with nothing more than a look, a name, a breath. She had dared to stir something he had buried beneath decades of discipline.

And his body — his cursed body — betrayed him. His chest still ached with the need to hold her, his senses still drunk on her scent. Desire throbbed low and hot, and though he mastered himself, though he would never sink to such pathetic indulgence, the hunger burned unrelenting.

He pivoted sharply at the end of the room, pacing back, movements tight, caged, dangerous. His nostrils flared with each breath, the faint tremor of restraint gnawing at his composure.

The demon in him laughed, cruel and knowing, clawing harder at the surface. His skin prickled, his blood humming, his mind torn between fury and need.

She was pure. Fragile. Untouched. And that truth gnawed at him until it almost hurt.

“Damn her,” he growled again, lower now, the words vibrating in his chest.

Hours bled into the dark as he prowled his room like a predator denied its prey. Meditation was shattered, his composure fraying, his discipline a thin thread strangling instinct.

But still he refused. He would not yield. Not to hunger. Not to desire. Not to her.

And yet, he knew: the storm would not break until he saw her again.

At last his pacing broke. The tight, violent strides had done nothing but feed the storm, every turn sharper than the last, every breath more ragged. With a sharp exhale, Vergil dropped back onto the edge of his bed, the mattress groaning faintly under the weight of his rigid frame.

His hands braced against his thighs, fingers curled tight, nails threatening to pierce leather. His breath came harder now, shallow at first, then deeper, harsher, each inhale dragging the ghost of her scent back into his lungs. Vanilla. Jasmine. Innocence. He could almost feel it coating his skin, clinging to him, suffocating in its sweetness.

Heat spread low in his chest, burning through him like wildfire. It crawled down his spine, across his shoulders, coiling around his ribs. He clenched his jaw until pain shot through it, but it did nothing to smother the sensation.

The scratching inside him grew louder. The demon clawed, furious, eager, rising like a beast scenting prey. His blood thrummed, his skin prickled, and for the first time in years, he felt the crackle of power shimmer just beneath his flesh.

A faint glow flickered across his vision. His hands shook once, faintly, the sharp curl of claws threatening to push through his fingertips. His pulse hammered, and he felt the faint tremor of horns pressing at the edges of his skull, the shift of form lurking just beyond control.

“No,” he hissed under his breath, sharp and guttural. His teeth bared as he bowed his head, silver hair falling over his face. His fists trembled with the effort of restraint.

But the truth mocked him. He could not sit in stillness. He could not cut her from his thoughts. He had two choices: let the demon tear through him and lose himself to it — or take control.

His pride roared at the thought. For a moment, he almost rose again to pace the room, to wear grooves in the floor until his body gave out. But even that would not silence this ache.

Vergil's frustration was a tangible force, a storm brewing within him. His demon side clawed at the surface, a primal urge to claim, to dominate, to take her innocence. He slammed his eyes shut, reeling in the control. He could still see her, Selene, her body encased in that damn gown that clung to her curves, ivory skin flushed with desire, her emerald eyes shining with unshed tears of pleasure. She was a temptation he couldn't resist, a siren's call that echoed through his mind, a melody that played on repeat.

Unable to resist any longer, he released himself from the confines of his pants, his breath hitching as he gripped his cock. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation of his own touch consume him. He imagined how he would take her, how he would destroy her, this woman who was beyond his control. He envisioned her beneath him, her body arching as he claimed her, her cries of pleasure echoing through the room. He could feel her heat, her wetness, her desire. It was intoxicating, a drug he couldn't get enough of.

His strokes were slow, deliberate, as he imagined her beneath him. He could feel her nails digging into his back, her legs wrapped around his waist as she took every inch of him, making her take it all, her body moving in sync with his. He could hear her whispers, her pleas, her demands. He could feel her heart racing, her breath coming in short gasps. He was a man on the edge, teetering between control and chaos, between hate and desire.

The sensation was overwhelming, a wave of pleasure that threatened to consume him. He could feel his body tensing, his breath coming in short gasps. He was close, so close, gripping his cock harder as he stroked faster, releasing a ragged gasp. He could feel it, the edge of the cliff, the precipice of release. He could feel her body, her touch, her heat. He was there, on the edge, ready to fall.

But he held back, a part of him still in control. He couldn't give in, not yet. Not until he had her, not until he had claimed her, not until he had destroyed her. He wanted her to beg, to plead, to cry out his name as he took her. He wanted her to feel the same desire, the same need, the same hunger that consumed him.

'I want to ruin her'.

He came hard, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jets of cum covering his hand as he rode out his release, releasing a deep groan as relief flooded his body. He could still feel her, her touch, her heat. He could still see her, her body, her face, her eyes. He was a man on the edge, a man consumed by desire, a man who was one step away from claiming what he desired most. But he held back, for now. He held back, because he knew that once he claimed her, there would be no going back and he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Not yet. Not until he had explored every inch of her, until he had tasted her, until he had claimed her. Until he had destroyed her for anyone else.

His chest heaved still, each breath ragged, catching faintly in his throat as though even his lungs had not yet steadied. The air was thick, clinging, heavy with the echo of what had just transpired.

Relief came sharp and jagged, carving through the fire that had burned him for hours. His body no longer screamed, his muscles no longer trembled with the ache of restraint. For the first time since leaving her, he felt the storm ease, dulled to a low ember.

But only a little.

It was a hollow relief. Thin. Temporary. The kind that soothed the flesh but left the mind burning hotter than before.

Vergil pulled his gloves back onto his hands, slow and deliberate, as if the leather itself could cover his shame, seal away what he had allowed himself to do. His fingers flexed once within the confines, pale knuckles sharp in the dim light. Outwardly, he was composed again. Inwardly, he seethed.

He despised himself for yielding. For lowering himself to such base necessity. For letting his body dictate when his mind had refused. He had chosen control, yes — but the act had been as close to surrender as he dared walk.

And still it was not enough.

The memory of her lingered as if she had never left. The softness of her trembling against him. The scent of vanilla and jasmine that had seared into his lungs. The way her pulse had stuttered when their eyes met, betraying the same tether that bound him.

His pale eyes opened, glinting faintly in the shadows, fixed on nothing. His voice was low, sharp, carrying only for himself.

“What are you?”

The question had haunted him from the moment she collapsed beneath his gaze, and it burned sharper now. No mortal woman had ever unsettled him so completely. No mortal scent had ever roused the demon in him like that — not with hunger, not with need. He had fought wars, conquered kingdoms, faced gods, and never once had he faltered so deeply.

But she had undone him with a glance. With her name. With her purity.

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding faintly. This was no accident. It could not be.

Was it magic? A curse? A bond carved into him without his knowledge? Or something older, deeper, written into his blood long before he ever saw her face?

The relief he had forced from himself did nothing to silence those questions. If anything, it sharpened them. He felt calmer now, yes — but clearer too. His mind turned, cold and merciless, dissecting, seeking answers as it always had.

He rose from the bed with deliberate precision, his coat whispering as he straightened it. His posture was perfect again, his breath steady, his hands folded behind his back. To any who saw him now, he would be Vergil once more — composed, untouchable, flawless.

But beneath that mask, his thoughts still burned.

He would not rest until he knew the truth of what she was.

And if it meant damning her — or damning himself — he would uncover it.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered weakly through the blinds, pale and hesitant. Selene’s shop smelled of dust and paper as always, the scent usually grounding, usually safe. But today it pressed heavier, as though even the shelves were holding their breath with her.

She moved slowly through her chores, dust cloth in hand, tugging her gloves tighter around her fingers as if leather could anchor her. She wiped counters, straightened shelves, stacked loose books into neat piles. Her motions were careful, methodical, the sort of rhythm that normally soothed her.

But not today.

Her mind was elsewhere.

Again and again, it circled back to the night before.

She hadn’t slept — not truly. Somewhere in the late hours of the night, when the city outside had been utterly still, it had come. That surge.

Selene’s breath caught even now at the memory. The way it had jolted her upright in bed, her lungs seized, her chest burning as though lightning had struck straight through her sternum. It hadn’t been a vision — she knew the difference. Her visions tore her into fractured flashes of what might be. This had been different. It was real. Alive.

It hadn’t belonged to her.

She had felt him.

Her fingers trembled on the feather duster, pressing too hard against the spines of a row of old histories. She had felt his energy flood her, heavy and scorching, an invisible tide crashing into her ribs until her body pulsed with heat that wasn’t hers. And her body had answered. Her pulse racing, her thighs pressing tight together, her breath breaking as shame and hunger twisted together.

The memory alone made her flush, her heart tripping as though it had only just happened.

Selene squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, forcing her breath steady. She hated herself for it. For the way her body betrayed her, for the way she wanted instead of recoiled. She had spent her life avoiding touch — because touch meant visions, and visions meant pain. But last night…

Last night, she had wanted more.

She shook the thought from her head violently, dragging herself back to her work. She dusted another row of shelves, smoothed another pile of books into order, each movement sharp and precise. If she could just keep moving, keep working, maybe she could drown it out.

The chime above the door rang, pulling her back. A young man came in, asking for theological texts. Later, an older woman searching for romances, her smile kind and weary. Selene helped each of them as she always did — polite, soft-spoken, her voice never rising, her gloved hands steady as she fetched volumes and tallied coins.

But the weight never left her chest.

Between customers, she paused behind the counter, palms pressed flat against the wood, her breath shivering as she remembered the echo of his voice. His promise as he left: that he would return for answers.

Her eyes fell to the money tray. The bills they had left behind last night sat folded neatly, untouched, like proof it hadn’t all been a dream.

And beneath that proof, the bond still tugged at her.

It wasn’t as violent as the surge had been in the dead of night, but it lingered — faint, insistent, like an invisible thread pulling her somewhere she couldn’t see. Sometimes it pressed against her ribs. Sometimes it curled low, hot, leaving her shifting uneasily on her feet.

Selene pressed her hand briefly to her chest, hidden behind the counter, and whispered low so no one could hear:

“What are you doing to me?”

No answer came, but she already knew who it belonged to.

Vergil.

Her breath stuttered at the name. His face rose in her mind again — silver hair, steel-blue eyes that had cut through her without mercy. He had seen her. He had looked through her lies and shields as if they were nothing. And he had promised.

Selene forced herself back into motion, gathering a stack of returns, reshelving them carefully. She could feel herself fraying, distracted, each task taking twice as long as it should. A smile faltered on her lips when customers passed.

But no visions came. Not yet. Only that steady, unbearable truth pressing inside her chest.

He would return.

And though she tried to bury it, though she pressed her lips tight and forced herself through the motions of the day, one thought rattled through her louder than the rest:

Part of her wanted him to.

She had spent the whole morning forcing herself into motion, drowning thought in chores. She even found herself humming under her breath, an old habit from childhood — as though sound could block out memory.

She was halfway through shelving a stack of returns when it came.

The first ripple of unease twisted low in her stomach, subtle at first, like a thread pulled too taut. Her hand stilled on a spine, leather cool beneath her palm. The air pressed heavier, her skin prickling with a crawling chill.

And then the weight fell.

A suffocating aura settled over the room — wrong, foul, thick with a corruption that made her insides twist. Her breath caught, shallow. Her chest tightened until her heart stammered painfully against her ribs. She didn’t need to see him yet. Whoever carried that darkness had already walked into her world.

The chime above the door rang.

Selene flinched. The sound was bright, ordinary, a thing she’d heard a thousand times before — but now it clanged sharp as an alarm bell. She forced herself to turn slowly, every muscle stiff, every instinct shrieking against the calm she pasted on her face.

The man who entered was not the one her body dreaded and longed for in equal measure.

This was something else.

He stepped inside with deliberate ease, tall beneath the doorframe, his shoulders broad beneath a long coat that shifted like shadow. His hair was combed too neatly, slicked back in a way that gleamed under the lamplight. His smile was thin, polite at first glance — but his eyes betrayed him. They were cold, sharp, prowling.

Predator’s eyes.

They slid over her the moment he saw her. Not casual, not curious — calculating. Studying her posture, the set of her mouth, the way her hands rested on the books she’d been holding. Selene felt it like a hand pressing against her skin, memorizing her.

Her throat went dry.

Still, she straightened, setting the books carefully on the counter as if nothing was wrong. “Good morning,” she said, her voice even, though she heard the faint tremor hiding beneath.

The man stepped closer, his boots soft against the floorboards, each one unhurried. “Interesting place,” he said at last. His voice was smooth, almost refined — but there was something slick beneath it, something that made her shoulders stiffen. “I was told this shop carries… unusual texts. Rare. The kind not found elsewhere.”

Selene’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. She forced herself to nod once, the motion precise. “I have many collections,” she replied quietly. “If you tell me what you’re searching for, I can look.”

But his gaze didn’t move to the shelves. It stayed on her.

Lingering. Calculating.

Her skin prickled beneath her gloves, a sharp urge to pull her hands back, to hide them, to make herself smaller. Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his stare.

The man’s smile deepened slightly, though his eyes stayed cold. “Do you live here?” he asked suddenly. His tone was deceptively light, as if they were discussing the weather. “Above the shop?”

The question cut sharp through her. Too personal. Too pointed.

Her chest constricted, panic threatening to claw its way up her throat. She forced it down, her words clipped, steady. “I live where I work. As many shopkeepers do.” She gestured faintly toward the rows of shelves, her gloved hand sweeping wide. “If it’s books you need, that’s the business I provide.”

His eyes dropped to her hand, watching the motion too long, then slid slowly back up to her face. A hum escaped him, thoughtful, as though cataloguing the answer rather than accepting it.

“You’re a careful one,” he said at last. The smile returned — thinner this time, sharper at the edges.

Selene’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she gave the faintest curve of her lips, the kind that passed for a polite smile. “Books encourage caution,” she murmured. “They remind us that words can be weapons.”

The man chuckled softly — but there was no warmth in it. Only acknowledgment. He leaned back finally, his gaze flicking once toward the shelves, though she knew he wasn’t looking at them. He’d already found what he’d come for.

Her.

But the man didn’t leave. Oh no..

Instead, he drifted deeper into the shop as if to te, his hands clasped behind his back as though he were a gentleman out for a casual stroll. Selene’s eyes followed him instinctively, though she tried to disguise it with the busy motion of stacking books on the counter.

He trailed along the aisles with a careful, deliberate air, his boots whispering against the wood. Occasionally his fingers brushed the spines of books, but only briefly, as if the act was for show rather than interest. His eyes weren’t on the shelves at all — they returned to her too often, dark and sharp, watching her with each turn.

The aura clung to him, heavy and suffocating. It didn’t matter how softly he moved or how thinly he smiled — Selene felt it pressing into her skin, twisting her gut with every step he took.

“You keep this place in fine order,” he remarked suddenly, his voice smooth, cultured. He lifted a book at random, glancing at the cover before sliding it back. “Not easy, I imagine, with the city in its state.”

Selene forced her shoulders to stay loose, her expression polite. “It’s quiet work,” she said simply.

He hummed as if considering that. His gaze flicked toward the window, to the streets beyond where sunlight spilled against weathered stone. “Strange city, Fortuna. Proud once. Then broken. Rebuilt on its own bones. You must have seen much of it, keeping a place here.”

Her throat tightened, but she swallowed it down. “I’ve seen enough.”

The man turned back toward her, his smile soft, almost friendly — but it never touched his eyes. “And yet you stay. That says something.”

Selene gripped the edge of the counter harder than she intended. Her gloves creaked faintly, betraying the strain. “Books don’t abandon their keepers,” she said carefully, tilting her chin toward the shelves. “They make it worth staying.”

His smile widened, though it sharpened too. He stepped closer, slow, unhurried, as though circling prey. “Still. A woman alone in this city? Running such a place? That is… rare.”

Selene’s pulse jumped. She felt it hammer against her ribs, her fight-or-flight clawing to life. Her voice, however, remained calm, even as her insides twisted. “Rare does not mean unwelcome.”

The man’s gaze slid over her openly now, no pretense. His eyes lingered on her hair, her posture, the gloved curve of her hands. The weight of it made her skin prickle, heat and dread coiling together.

“You are striking,” he said at last, tone smooth as silk. “Not what one expects to find hidden away in a place like this.”

Her heart lurched, but she did not move. She kept her breath steady, though her chest ached with the effort. “You flatter,” she said lightly, masking steel beneath the softness of her voice.

“Merely honest.” His gaze narrowed faintly, memorizing her as though committing every line of her to memory. “Striking. Timid, perhaps. But there is more beneath the surface, isn’t there?”

Selene’s blood ran cold.

The aura pressed heavier, thickening the air until her lungs strained. She wanted to step back, to retreat upstairs, to escape his eyes — but she stood her ground, her gloves pressed flat against the counter as though the wood could anchor her.

“Customers come here for books,” she said softly, every word measured, deliberate. “Not for speculation.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched taut between them. His eyes gleamed, dark and knowing, as though her answer pleased him in some way she couldn’t understand. Then, slowly, his smile returned.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, stepping back at last. “Forgive me. A man does enjoy conversation when he finds good company.”

Selene said nothing. She only nodded once, her throat tight.

Selene’s breath caught when the man drifted closer, his shadow stretching long across the floorboards. He was still smiling — thin, polite — but his eyes stripped her down to bone. She felt her body coil tighter, every instinct clawing at her to run, to scream, to do something.

The air pressed thicker with his aura, foul and suffocating.

And then the chime above the door rang again.

Selene flinched, turning toward the sound — and her chest seized.

It was him.

Vergil stepped through the doorway, tall and deliberate, his coat whispering faintly with each stride. His silver hair caught the light, his pale eyes sharp, merciless. But it wasn’t just his appearance that made Selene’s breath stutter — it was his presence. His aura cut across the room like a blade, cool and crushing, sweeping through the space until the foulness she had endured only seconds ago seemed to shrink back.

The stranger stiffened almost imperceptibly. His smile remained, but Selene saw the flicker in his eyes — recognition, or perhaps unease.

Vergil’s gaze shifted once, briefly, toward her. It was quick, sharp, enough to make her insides twist — but then his focus locked on the man who still lingered far too close to her counter.

The room itself seemed to narrow under the weight of it.

The man cleared his throat lightly, feigning composure. “Another customer?” His tone was smooth, but Selene heard the falter beneath it.

Vergil did not answer. He only stepped further inside, his boots striking deliberate against the floorboards, each one louder than the last. His hand rested lightly at Yamato’s hilt, not in threat but in certainty, as though he had already measured the man and found him wanting.

The stranger’s smile twitched wider, thin and unconvincing. “I was just admiring the collection. Rare, for such a place.”

Still, Vergil gave him nothing.

Selene’s chest burned, her pulse frantic as she stood between them — two predators, but one infinitely greater than the other. Her hands trembled faintly where they pressed against the counter, though she fought to still them.

The stranger shifted, as if realizing the weight in the room no longer belonged to him. He glanced once more at Selene — his gaze lingering too long, too heavy — before turning back toward the door. “Perhaps another time,” he murmured, his voice too smooth, too thin.

He stepped past Vergil without meeting his eyes. The chime rang again as the door closed behind him, the foul aura seeping out with him like smoke.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Selene realized then that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled shakily, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Her body was torn between relief and new unease — because though the stranger had gone, Vergil remained, his presence no less overwhelming.

And his eyes were still on her.

Selene’s pulse stammered anew under his gaze. She could see it in the tension of his jaw, in the way his hand lingered near Yamato’s hilt — not threatening her, but seething that someone else had dared to.

He took one slow step forward, then stopped, as though aware that any sudden movement might send her flinching. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked… hesitant.

Selene’s throat worked as she tried to swallow, but the words stuck. She wanted to say she was fine. She wanted to ask what he was doing there. But her voice betrayed her, caught somewhere between fear and something deeper she didn’t dare name.

Vergil’s eyes never left her. The anger there burned low, simmering, but beneath it was something more complex. He looked as though he wanted to speak, to demand what had happened, to ask who the man was. But the words seemed to stall, caught in the tension of his composure.

“You…” His voice was low, rougher than before, as if dragged against steel. His gaze flicked to the door, then back to her. “He frightened you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Selene’s breath hitched. She gripped the counter harder, as if anchoring herself. “I—” She stopped, shook her head faintly. The memory of the man’s eyes crawling over her made her skin shiver all over again. “I don’t know what he wanted.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, sharp and narrow, as though he could cut the memory of the man apart simply by thinking it. For a moment, the silence between them pulsed, taut and unbearable.

Selene forced herself to meet his gaze. It was easier than admitting her knees wanted to give out. Easier than admitting the relief that had spread through her when he’d stepped through that door.

She saw the fury in him, saw how it wasn’t directed at her, but for her. And for reasons she didn’t understand, that unsettled her almost as much as the man had.

Because Vergil was hesitating.

And Vergil, she sensed, did not hesitate for anyone.

This man who probably carried himself with the kind of precision that cut worlds apart, who looked at her yesterday as if he could strip her bare with a glance, now stood in front of her unsure of how to speak.

Vergil’s gaze flicked down briefly, then back to her, his jaw shifting. He looked as though he wanted to ask more — who the man was, what he said, why she looked so shaken — but the questions seemed caught behind his teeth. He drew in a sharp breath, released it slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as if frustrated with himself.

Selene tilted her head faintly, something clicking in her chest. He wasn’t good with people. She saw it now, saw it in the way his shoulders stayed rigid, the way his words came stilted, heavy. This was a man who dealt in blades and silence, not comfort. And yet here he was, trying.

Her heart thudded hard, a different kind of ache curling into her chest.

Somehow, his presence soothed her more than any polished kindness could. The foul aura of the other man had left her shaken to her bones, but with Vergil here — standing across from her, struggling with words, visibly angry on her behalf — she felt a sliver of calm thread its way into her ribs.

“You don’t… need to,” she managed softly, her voice thin but steady. “I’m… all right now.”

The words were a lie, and they both knew it.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, sharp, dissecting, as though he could cut her statement open and expose the truth beneath. But instead of challenging her, instead of calling her on it, he inclined his head slightly.

Not agreement. Not belief. Something quieter.

Selene stared at him, her chest tightening again. He felt strangely familiar in that moment, in a way she couldn’t name. Not because she knew him — she didn’t. She didn’t even understand why his presence rattled her so deeply. But because here, with his edges softened by hesitation, he seemed… human.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The silence stretched.

Selene stood rooted behind the counter, her breath uneven, her hands still pressed flat against the wood to keep from shaking. Vergil remained a few paces away, unmoving, his pale eyes locked on her as though she were the only thing in the room that mattered. The weight of his presence pressed against her, but unlike the stranger before him, it did not choke her. It steadied her, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

He took another slow step forward. Not enough to crowd her, but enough to close the space that had felt unbearably wide. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to her, his expression carved from stone.

At last, his voice came — low, clipped, carrying the certainty of a blade.

“He will not go near you again.”

The words cut through the air, blunt and final, heavy with a promise that felt more like a sentence. There was no softness in them, no attempt at comfort in the way most people would try. But the force in his tone, the absolute conviction, wrapped around her like armor she hadn’t known she needed.

Selene’s lips parted, her throat tightening. Relief washed through her chest, sharp and hot, chased quickly by unease. Why did she believe him? Why did his words feel like they carried weight no one could overturn?

Her heart stammered painfully. She wanted to look away, to shield herself from the intensity in his gaze, but she couldn’t. She saw the fury still simmering there, sharp and restrained, not for her but for the man who had left. And beneath it — just barely — the struggle of someone unused to offering anything at all.

“You don’t even know me,” she whispered before she could stop herself. Her voice cracked faintly on the last word.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, his brows furrowed and for a moment she thought he might correct her, dismiss her, or worse — walk out. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, silver hair shifting in the lamplight, his gaze unflinching.

“I am also at a lost,” he said simply.

The words struck harder than they should have. Selene’s breath hitched, her stomach twisting, her chest filling with something she couldn’t name. Comfort. Fear. Longing. It was all tangled together, burning her from the inside out.

She dropped her gaze at last, unable to hold his any longer, her hands curling into fists against the counter to hide their trembling. “I don’t understand…” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or for herself.

Vergil didn’t answer immediately. For once, he seemed to understand that silence itself was enough. He stood there, steady and immovable, his presence filling the hollow space the stranger had left behind.

And though Selene hated herself for it, though her heart still raced with fear, she found herself breathing easier with him there.

Chapter Text

Morning light crept pale through the thin curtains, cutting across the floorboards of Vergil’s room in muted stripes. He sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving, his elbows braced against his thighs, head bowed. Silver hair hung damp around his face, still heavy with the residue of a sleepless night.

The storm from the night before had not passed.

Discipline had failed him. He loathed even admitting it to himself, yet the truth remained: he had yielded. Hours of stillness, of meditation, of fighting the hunger in his blood had led only to one shameful necessity. He had forced release from himself, hollow and jagged, to keep his demon from tearing through. Relief had come, sharp and violent — but thin. Temporary.

The hunger remained.

He despised it.

His hand flexed once against his knee, gloved leather creaking faintly. His body remembered her despite his command to forget — the softness of her weight when she collapsed, the tremor of her breath as she steadied in his arms, her scent lingering, sweet and unbearable. He had not meant to hold her. He should not have. And yet instinct had overridden logic.

Vergil clenched his jaw until it ached. That single act had undone him more than battle ever had.

The shower afterward had been scalding, steam filling the room until the mirror blurred. He had stood beneath the punishing water far longer than necessary, as though heat could scour away what clung to him. His body obeyed the ritual — soap, rinse, precise motions — but his mind refused. Images bled into him: her wide eyes, the sound of her voice, the flutter of her pulse. He had scrubbed harder, as if he could strip away her presence. It had done nothing.

Now dressed, his coat fitted perfectly over his shoulders, Yamato resting within reach, he tried to anchor himself again in control. Each movement — gloves tugged tight until seams stretched, collar adjusted with sharp precision — became armor. His reflection in the glass was composed, untouchable. But beneath it, his chest still burned.

A knock rattled against the doorframe. Dante didn’t wait before leaning in, half a smirk pulling his mouth.

“Well, well. Look who’s still brooding.” He tipped his head, eyes flicking over his twin with lazy amusement. “Funny, isn’t it? Never thought I’d see you holding a woman like that. Cradling her, even. Real tender. What’s next? You start sending flowers?”

Vergil’s hand tightened briefly on Yamato’s hilt before he forced it to still. He didn’t look up.

Dante chuckled, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed loosely. “You know, you’ve scared off plenty of people in your time, but last night? You looked like you were doing the opposite. Comforting her, Vergil. You. Comforting.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “If I didn’t see it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Silence.

Vergil’s jaw shifted once, his teeth pressing sharp together. His eyes narrowed faintly, but he gave his twin no answer.

“Not gonna deny it, huh?” Dante pressed, grin widening. “That’s new.”

Vergil rose at last, the chair scraping softly as he stood. His coat flared around his legs as he moved, sharp and deliberate. He adjusted the strap at his shoulder with clipped precision, ignoring Dante entirely as he crossed the room.

“You’re not fooling me,” Dante called after him, grin fading into something quieter, though his tone was still light. “Whatever she is, she’s in your head. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

The door shut behind Vergil with a decisive thud.

Outside, the morning air was cool, tinged with salt from the sea that wrapped Fortuna. The streets were stirring to life — merchants setting out stalls, children darting between carriages, voices rising in early chatter. Vergil’s boots struck the cobblestones in steady rhythm, his stride long, purposeful.

People parted before him without a word. Some glanced up and quickly looked away, sensing the weight of his presence. Others whispered faintly, their voices lost in the rush of the city. Vergil ignored them all.

His mind turned inward, each step sharpening his resolve.

He would not sit idle while questions clawed at him. He could not abide this tether pulling through his veins without understanding its source. He had lived a lifetime mastering himself, carving control into his very bones, and now one woman threatened to undo it with a glance, a scent, a trembling weight in his arms.

It was intolerable.

He would confront her. He would uncover what she was — curse, enchantment, or something older, written into his blood. Whatever tether bound them, he would dissect it until nothing remained but truth.

His coat whispered as he moved, his hand brushing Yamato’s hilt in habitual rhythm. The city blurred past — narrow alleys, cracked stone, remnants of the chaos left by the roots still etched into the walls. Fortuna had been rebuilt, but scars remained.

And yet it was not the city that held his attention.

It was her.

At last, the narrow shopfront came into view. Quiet. Unassuming. A place that looked ordinary to anyone else, but to him, it hummed with something sharper. Energy threaded faintly in the air, just enough for his senses to stir.

His jaw tightened.

He reached the door.

The chime rang.

And there she was.

Selene stood behind the counter, her gloves snug around her trembling hands, her posture stiff, her eyes wide. Not because of him — though she flinched faintly when she saw him — but because another presence lingered there already.

A man.

The man was unremarkable in appearance at first glance — tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a coat that looked worn at the seams, but deliberate in its cut. His hair was slicked back too neatly, every strand forced into place, giving him a false refinement that didn’t reach his eyes. And those eyes — dark, probing, calculating — skimmed Selene in ways that made Vergil’s jaw clench. He lingered on her as though cataloging every detail for later use, committing her posture, her voice, the tremor of her gloved hands to memory.

But it was not his look that spoke the loudest.

It was his scent.

Foul, acrid, like smoke clinging to rotted wood. Corruption leaked from his pores in faint, sickly traces, not fully demonic, but touched by it. Something wrong writhed beneath the surface of his humanity, tethered to him in a way that made Vergil’s stomach twist in distaste.

Vergil did not bother to speak. He did not waste words on creatures unworthy of them.

Instead, he let his own power unfold.

It began subtle, a faint ripple through the air, but grew quickly — cold, merciless, pressing into every corner of the room. His aura seeped outward like water filling a basin, drowning the man’s presence, smothering it until it was nothing but background noise. The shop’s stillness thickened, heavy as steel.

The stranger’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. His smile stayed fixed, his hands clasped behind his back as though still at ease — but Vergil saw it. The flicker in his eyes. The faint hitch in his breath.

Good.

Vergil’s gaze narrowed, pale and unrelenting, his aura sharpening like a blade drawn across stone. He made no move to draw Yamato. He did not need to. The message was written clearly enough in the weight pressing down against the man’s ribs:

She is under my shadow. Approach again, and you will bleed.

The man turned his gaze back to Selene, as though trying to maintain the illusion of casual interest, but Vergil’s presence kept him from stepping closer. Every inch of his body betrayed the truth. The stranger had come to study her, to test the edges of her fear. But now, with Vergil’s power wound tight around the room, he knew the cost of reaching any further.

Vergil’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. He didn’t need to say the words aloud. His claim was already carved into the air itself.

At last, the man inclined his head faintly, a brittle smile tugging at his mouth. “Perhaps another time,” he murmured, though his voice carried less confidence now.

He stepped past Vergil carefully, deliberately avoiding brushing against him. The chime above the door rang again, and with it, the foulness seeped out, leaving only the sharp cold of Vergil’s aura in its place.

Vergil did not relax. His eyes remained locked on the door long after it shut, his hand flexing once against Yamato’s hilt before falling still again. His blood burned with the urge to cut the man down where he stood, to rid the world of his corruption before it festered further.

But not here. Not now.

Selene’s breathing trembled behind the counter, sharp in his ears. That, more than anything, kept his blade sheathed.

But now?

Selene was behind the counter, her chest rising and falling quickly, her gloved hands pressed against the polished wood as though anchoring herself. She was pale, shaken still — but not as badly as before. Her breathing had steadied, faintly, when his presence filled the room. The sharp panic that had crept into her eyes when the other man stood too close had dulled.

Vergil felt it. The way her body eased in his shadow, the way her terror ebbed in the quiet weight of his claim.

The realization sent a strange pulse through him. Dark satisfaction, quiet and dangerous, flickered beneath his ribs. A primal part of him — the side he had fought all his life to leash — thrilled at the knowledge that she felt safer when he stood near. That his presence alone could drive out her fear.

He crushed it down at once. He would not indulge.

Her comfort was irrelevant. What mattered were answers.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until his shadow stretched long across the floorboards toward her. She flinched faintly, but her eyes rose to meet his, wide and guarded.

Vergil did not soften. His words came low, clipped, precise.

“When our eyes met,” he said, voice cutting through the quiet like steel against stone, “I saw what you saw.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“The cult. Their chants. The women’s bodies.” His gaze narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Your vision.”

He let the words hang, heavy, giving no reprieve. His tone carried no accusation, no disbelief — only certainty.

Vergil studied her face, every flicker of her expression. He needed to see how she reacted, if she would deny it, if she would confirm what he already knew.

Because whatever tether bound them, whatever thread had allowed her visions to bleed into him, it was not mere coincidence.

And he would tear the truth from it, one way or another.
He watched her closely, dissecting each flicker in her face. The subtle twitch of her mouth as though to deny. The way her chest stuttered, breath uneven. The faint tremor in her hands that she tried — and failed — to still.

She feared him knowing.

His jaw tightened, a faint pulse ticking at his temple. He did not like being toyed with. He did not like half-truths, or shadows meant to obscure. And yet he could not dismiss what had happened. He had looked into her eyes, and her vision had poured into him as though it were his own. That was no accident.

Vergil shifted a step closer. His shadow stretched across the counter now, creeping up her arms. Selene stiffened under it, her throat working visibly as she swallowed.

“You cannot feign ignorance,” he said, voice lower still, carrying a quiet edge that pressed harder than a shout ever could. “When I looked at you, I saw it. Clearer than any illusion. That is not chance.”

Her eyes flicked to his — wide, unsteady, but holding. For a moment, silence crackled between them, heavy as a storm about to break.

Vergil’s hand flexed once at his side, his body taut with the conflict roiling inside him. He wanted to shake the answers from her, to demand she reveal what tether bound them. Yet at the same time, he restrained himself, calculating, aware that pressing too hard might shatter what little steadiness she clung to.

That hesitation alone unnerved him.

He despised it.

Still, he let his gaze bore into hers, stripping her down, daring her to deny what he already knew. And as he studied her, he realized something sharper than anger was rising in him — a need. Not only for answers, but for her to acknowledge what had happened between them. To confirm it aloud, to make real the thread he had felt coil tight between their souls.

“Speak,” he said at last, the single command precise, cold, absolute.

The room seemed to tremble with the weight of it.

Vergil’s pulse burned steady beneath his calm exterior, his eyes unrelenting as he waited for her to fracture under the silence.

Her chest rose and fell, too quickly. For a long moment she said nothing, her lips parting only to press together again. But then, quiet and trembling, her voice slipped past her defenses.

"When you saw what i visioned.…did you also feel that..pull?.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened. He had expected denial. A weak lie, perhaps, some fragile mask to shield her from his scrutiny. Instead, she gave acknowledgment. And the sound of it — her naming what he had felt — unsettled him more than silence ever could.

Her eyes searched his, wide and unsteady, her voice gaining the barest strength even as her hands trembled. “That pull… I thought it was only me. But you—” she faltered, her throat working, “—you felt it as well, didn’t you?”

Vergil stilled.

Inside, something struck deep, dark and resonant, like a chord plucked taut in his chest. She had said aloud the very truth he had buried beneath control. He had felt it. He felt it still. The tether in his blood, the surge in his veins, the fire she stirred without touching him.

But he could not give her that.

He braced himself, spine rigid, as though preparing for a blow. His eyes narrowed to slits, his breath controlled with precision. If he admitted it, he would be binding himself to her truth, to whatever curse or design fate had wrought between them. And if he denied it, the lie would hang hollow, transparent, unworthy of him.

Her words echoed still — you felt it as well, didn’t you?

Vergil’s fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side. His body remembered too much: the way she had calmed in his arms, the spark that had raced across his skin when she touched him, the fire that had driven him to shameful release the night before. He despised how easily her voice could strip away the walls he had carved over a lifetime.

“Yes.”

The word left him before he could leash it back, low and clipped, but absolute.

Her breath caught, her eyes widening faintly. She swayed as though the sound alone had struck her.

Vergil held her gaze, forcing his voice steady, precise. “But what it is — and why — remains unanswered. Until I have those answers, this… pull will mean nothing.”

The words tasted bitter. Empty. He knew it even as he spoke them. Yet he had to anchor himself to discipline, to reason. If he let himself dwell on the truth — that the tether was undeniable, that it was not weakness but inevitability — he would lose what little control he still held.

Inside, though, something darker stirred. Her asking, her searching for confirmation, had awakened not only memory but want. She wanted to know if he felt it too. And he did. With every nerve in his body.

He shoved the thought down, locking it beneath stone.

Vergil’s expression remained unreadable, his words flat, deliberate. But his chest burned with a truth he refused to speak: that the bond had already claimed him, long before he stepped into her shop.

Her lips parted, then pressed together again. Selene drew in a sharp breath, steadying herself as if she’d stepped onto a blade’s edge. Her gloved fingers clenched faintly against the counter, the leather creaking under the strain. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, measured — but trembling with a weight she had carried for far too long.

“Since you already know what I am… or what I can do…” She faltered, her throat working. Her eyes flicked briefly away, then forced themselves back to his. “I see things. Visions. Since I was a child.”

Vergil said nothing. He only narrowed his eyes slightly, watching the way her body stiffened with each word.

“I never knew why,” she continued, her voice growing rawer the more she spoke. “I don’t know if I was born from something powerful or cursed. No one ever told me. But—” She exhaled sharply, her shoulders rising as though against a phantom weight. “My father… made sure I never spoke of it. He made sure I was afraid. Every time I said something — something I saw, something I heard that no one else did — he…” Her words broke for a moment, her jaw clenching before she forced them out. “He disciplined me. Until I learned to keep it quiet. To keep myself quiet.”

Vergil’s chest tightened, though his face betrayed nothing. His hands remained still at his sides, but his blood stirred violently beneath the surface. He knew the weight of a father’s hand all too well, knew the cruelty of being molded by fear, shaped by punishment until silence became survival.

He despised it.

Not her confession — not the trembling truth spilling from her lips — but the man who had beaten her into hiding what she was.

Her eyes shone faintly in the low lamplight, not with tears but with something harder — shame, perhaps, or defiance against her own trembling. “So I hid it. I still do. People would call me mad if I told them what I saw. So I kept it buried. Always. Until now.”

Her words settled into the silence, heavy as lead.

Vergil studied her for a long moment. Every line of her face, every flicker in her gaze, every tremor in her gloved hands spoke of a lifetime shackled by fear. Yet beneath it, he saw the steel she tried to smother — the same steel that had let her survive.

A low hum stirred in his chest, dark and knowing. This was no coincidence. Her visions, her secrecy, the tether between them. Whatever blood ran through her veins, whatever curse or gift her father had tried to bury, it had brought her here. To him.

Vergil’s jaw tightened, his voice cutting low when he finally answered.

“Have you seen me before?”

Her breath caught instantly.

It was not denial that answered him. Not words at all. It was her body.

Her shoulders stiffened, her chest rising too sharply as though her lungs had forgotten how to draw air. A flush crept into her cheeks, delicate but impossible to miss beneath the lamplight. Her eyes darted down, then back to him, wide and unsteady, betraying more truth than she could ever speak.

And then — the scent.

It hit him sharp and heady, subtle at first, then stronger as her composure cracked. Heat curled into the air, threading past the faint dust of books and leather. Sweet. Vanilla, jasmine, laced with the unmistakable edge of desire.

Vergil’s stomach knotted, feeling his cock harden, his blood burning hot despite his iron control. He despised how quickly his body responded, how instantly his pulse quickened, his jaw locking harder to restrain the growl threatening to rise in his throat.

She flushed deeper, her gloved hands pressing hard against the counter as though she could steady herself there. The trembling in her fingers betrayed her.

Her silence was answer enough.

Vergil inhaled once, slow, his nose flaring despite himself. The scent coiled deeper, sharper, burrowing into him until restraint felt like fire in his veins. His demon stirred, prowling beneath his skin, demanding he take what she so clearly offered without words.

But he forced it down. Brutally.

His voice, when it came, was colder, sharper — the edge of a blade pressed against truth.

“You have,” he said flatly. Not a question. A verdict.

Her eyes lifted to his at last, wide, startled, as though he had dragged the confession from her soul without her speaking it.

Vergil’s gaze burned into her, dissecting every flicker of her face, every tremor in her body. The confirmation was not in words but in the betraying rush of blood to her cheeks, the faint tremble of her breath, the sweetness of her scent thickening the air.

She had seen him. She had wanted him — long before the cult, long before this moment.

And now she knew he knew.

He drew in a breath through his nose, slower, sharper, attempting to block the scent by sheer discipline. It did little. His pulse burned hot all the same, a cruel reminder that flesh was weak, that even his blood could be betrayed by something as simple as her presence.

Vergil’s eyes fixed on her, dissecting her trembling composure, the flush staining her cheeks, the way her chest rose too sharply as she fought to breathe steady. He searched for deceit — some hidden ploy, some artifice of witchcraft. But he found none.

There was no lie in her.

Naïve. That was what she was. Naïve to her own power, blind to her lineage, fumbling through a gift that should have been honed like steel. A lifetime of fear and suppression had left her unaware of what she was. And that ignorance frustrated him as much as it intrigued him.

He pieced it together in silence: the visions, the tether, her body’s instinctive reaction to him. She had no idea. No design, no manipulation. Only raw truth spilling from her despite her effort to contain it.

His hand flexed once at his side, glove creaking faintly. He despised how much of himself she had already unraveled without intent.

“You are untrained,” Vergil said at last, his voice low and flat, though inside he burned. His gaze sharpened, unrelenting. “You wield power you neither understand nor control. And yet…” His jaw tightened, his breath rougher than he intended. “Your body betrays you. As if your blood remembers what your mind does not.”

Selene’s lips parted, her throat working, but no words came. The flush deepened, her scent sweetening further, twisting his control tighter still.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, colder, his posture rigid as a blade drawn taut. He would not step closer. He would not yield to the urge pressing against him like a wound. His silence was his leash, his refusal his armor.

Then, softly, her voice broke the quiet.

“…what now?”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed.

She drew a shuddering breath, steadying herself enough to meet his stare. “What happens now? I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why you saw what I saw, or why I…” She faltered, her lips pressing together, her throat tight. “…why I feel like this.”

Her fingers curled into fists against the counter, knuckles whitening beneath the gloves. “That vision of the cult—” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “I felt like I was there. Their voices, the blood, the screams. It wasn’t just something I saw. It was like I was in the room with them.”

Her eyes darted away, then back, wide and searching. “And that man, the one who came in earlier—” She swallowed hard, her breath hitching. “He looked like one of them. The one who led it. The one in the cloak.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, his pulse steady but sharp as her words settled.

So. Not only visions — but immersion. She had lived the ritual through her power. That explained the tremor in her voice, the haunted fear that clung to her eyes when she spoke of it. And the man earlier… it aligned too well.

Vergil braced himself, spine rigid, his hands curling once before forcing stillness. Inside, his mind worked like a blade, carving through her confession piece by piece.

Her ignorance was genuine. She didn’t understand the tether, didn’t know why her visions bled into him, didn’t even grasp the nature of her own lineage. But she had given him something valuable: connection. Between her visions, the cult, and the man who dared linger here.

His gaze sharpened, pale and merciless.

“You were not mistaken,” Vergil said at last, his voice cold, deliberate. “The man who entered bore corruption. The stench of it clung to him.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “If he was in your vision, then he serves the cult.”

Selene’s breath shuddered at the confirmation. Her shoulders drew in faintly, but she did not look away.

“As for what happens now…” Vergil’s gaze locked onto her, burning and unyielding. “You will tell me everything. Every vision. Every detail you remember. No matter how small.”

Her lips parted, her eyes widening as though he had struck her with the weight of his command. Her throat bobbed faintly, nerves and fear warring with the pull that already bound her.

Vergil did not soften. His own blood burned, his body thrummed with denial of the scent still hanging in the air, but his voice carried only discipline.

“You are part of this, whether you will it or not. And I will have answers.”

Chapter Text

The words struck like a blade, cold and final.

'You will tell me everything.'

Like it was so fucking simple..

Selene’s body went taut, every nerve bristling under the weight of his command. For a moment she could only stare at him, her chest rising and falling too fast, her throat tightening against words she could not form. He stood there like a statue carved of steel, unwavering, unflinching, the very embodiment of control.

And yet she knew he wasn’t untouched.

She had seen the flickers. The tight line of his jaw. The careful, deliberate breaths he tried to disguise as calm. The way his pale eyes had darkened when her body betrayed her earlier. He was suffering this tether too, no matter how rigidly he hid it. And the knowledge rattled her as much as it steadied her, a dark part of her wondering if he had thought about her after they met.

Her instincts screamed to turn inward again, to lock herself away as she always had. To retreat into silence and solitude, where visions could be endured but never spoken. But she couldn’t look away from him. Not now. The bond thrummed between them like a wire pulled taut, vibrating inside her chest with every breath.

It was unbearable.

Her fingers curled into the counter, leather creaking faintly under the strain. Her gloves were the only shield left to her, and even those felt paper-thin, inadequate against the way he looked at her. She wanted to shrink, to vanish, to press herself so deep into the shadows that even her power would forget her.

But another part of her — darker, hungrier — wanted the opposite.

Wanted him closer.

Fuck, she wanted him to devour her.

Her pulse hammered with the thought, shame burning hot across her cheeks, feeling her core pulse hard that she had to squeeze her thighs together to have any sort of friction. She loathed herself for it, loathed how her body screamed for what her mind rejected. Fear had shaped her into solitude. And yet here she stood, trembling under the gaze of a man she barely knew, her body begging for the very thing she had always feared.

Why him? Why now?

Her throat worked, dry and tight, as she forced herself to breathe. She tried to piece it together, to find reason in the storm. The cult, the vision, the tether. Was he offering her protection? The way he had drowned the stranger’s aura in silence had been nothing short of a warning carved into the air. Or was it something else he intended — answers, perhaps, about her lineage, about why she was cursed with visions that felt more real than memory?

Could he give her that?

Her eyes flicked to him again, and her stomach twisted. He was still watching her, unwavering, pale gaze burning with a kind of focus that stripped her bare. Not unkind, not cruel — but merciless. He would not let this go.

And she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to.

Her chest rose sharply again, her voice breaking the silence before she realized she had spoken.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say.” It came out softer than she wanted, tinged with the tremor she hated. “I’ve searched all my life for answers. I’ve read every book I could reach, and all I’ve found are questions that lead nowhere. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know why I see what I see. I don’t know why you…” She faltered, the words burning her tongue. “…why you feel tied to it too.”

Her heart clenched, raw and aching. “I don’t know what happens now.”

The admission left her hollow, her strength unraveling in the open. And yet, beneath the fear and shame, another current moved — relief. Because for the first time, she wasn’t saying it into silence. Someone else had seen it. Someone else believed her.

And it terrified her how much that comforted her.

The air felt thicker than smoke, pressing heavy in her lungs. Selene tried to steady herself, to slow her racing heart, but every time she thought she had a grip, her gaze betrayed her, dragging back to him.

Vergil.

He stood so still, carved in sharp lines of control, but she saw. The small betrayals his body gave away. The faint furrow of his brow, carved deep as though every muscle in his face was taut with restraint. His chest rose once, sharply, and she heard it — the deliberate inhale, followed by a hiss of breath as though he was forcing the air through clenched teeth.

Her stomach flipped. Her skin prickled with heat.

Oh..

Oh

He was smelling her.

Of course he was.

Her body went rigid, shame clawing up her spine, but another sensation surged just as fiercely beneath it: undeniable confirmation. He wasn’t untouched by this. He wasn’t immune. The darkness that wrapped around him, the aura that had suffocated the stranger until he fled — all of it coiled now with something sharper, hungrier. She had suspected. She had felt it. But seeing him struggle to breathe her in, watching his eyes darken under the weight of her scent, knowing he could taste her want on the air… it made her knees weak.

Selene’s hands curled tighter against the counter, leather creaking beneath her grip. Her gloves, once her comfort, her barrier against the world, felt useless now. Her body betrayed her at every turn. Her cheeks burned hot, her breath stammered shallow, her thighs ached with tension she dared not name.

And he knew. Fuck, he knew.

She hated herself for it, for the heat that spread through her chest, down her belly, to her aching core, but she couldn’t smother it. The tether thrummed between them like a live wire, pulsing sharper with each heartbeat. Every breath she drew seemed to feed it, every tremor in her body sent it surging harder, until she swore she could feel it pulling at her ribs, clawing at her blood, demanding.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block him out, but his presence was inescapable. Even with the darkness behind her lids, she felt him: his gaze cutting into her, the tension in the room like a knife at her throat, the raw magnetic force dragging her closer without a step taken.

A small, broken sound slipped from her lips — a whimper, fragile and humiliating. Her stomach clenched instantly, shame burning across her skin. She hadn’t meant to make a sound, hadn’t meant to give him more proof of her weakness. But the tether pulsed at that exact moment, hard enough that she staggered against the counter, gripping it as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

It wasn’t just in her head anymore. It was in her body.

Her chest rose and fell too quickly, her skin hot, her heart hammering until it hurt. The pulse of the tether ran through her veins, sharp and cruel, each beat demanding she yield. It made her ache in ways she couldn’t name, ways she’d never allowed herself to feel.

And him—still standing there, rigid, silent, his control wrapped tight around him. He was suffering too. She saw it, felt it, and somehow that made it worse. His discipline was a wall, but beneath it burned the same fire tearing her apart.

Her throat tightened. Her voice broke in a whisper, trembling and raw.

“…why us?”

The words escaped before she could stop them, spilling into the charged air. Her eyes lifted to his, wide, desperate, unsteady. “Why do we feel like this?”

The tether between them pulsed again, sharp enough that she nearly gasped. Her fingers curled harder into the counter, her thighs pressed tight together as if she could cage the ache that coiled there. Heat raced across her skin, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

She hated it. She hated how every inch of her betrayed her.

And then his voice came.

“Stop.”

The single word cracked through the silence like a blade across stone. Deep. Cold. Commanding.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His eyes darkened, narrowing, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. “Stop drowning in your thoughts,” he said, voice low, controlled, though she swore she heard the strain bleeding through. “Control yourself.”

Her heart lurched painfully. Control? As if it were that simple. As if she weren’t already clinging to what little composure she had left.

The command dug into her, but it rang hollow. Not empty — no, there was power in it, the kind that made her pulse spike — but half-empty, like he was speaking the words as much for himself as for her.

Her body trembled, not with fear but with something far more dangerous. She wanted to laugh — dammit, she almost did, the sound pushing at her chest, hot and breathless. Control yourself? If only he knew. If only he could hear the chaos inside her, the way every beat of the tether drove her closer to the edge.

Her eyes lifted, locking to his face, and what she saw nearly unraveled her completely.

He was losing it too.

She saw it in the sharp inhale that widened his chest, in the flare of his nostrils as he dragged her scent into his lungs, in the way his hand flexed once at his side before he forced it still. His brow furrowed deep, shadowing his pale gaze as though it pained him to keep it steady on her. His voice might be iron, but his body… his body betrayed him the same way hers did.

A rush of heat surged through her, shame twisting tight with something sharper. Desire. Want. Lust that made her thighs quake and her breath falter. If she had his sense of smell, she would throw his words back at him, cut him open with the truth. She’d point out the hunger clawing at him, the way his composure frayed in the corners. She’d tell him he was just as lost, just as undone by this bond as she was.

The thought alone made her flush harder, her body clenching painfully with the need to release something she didn’t even understand.

Her lips parted, but no words came, only a shaky breath that betrayed her again.

The tether pulsed, harder, faster, alive between them. Every beat seemed to drag her closer, seemed to whisper that he felt it too, that he wanted to deny it, to bury it beneath steel and discipline — but he couldn’t.

And the worst part was, knowing that made her want him more.

"You should tell yourself that Vergil." She licked her dry lips, his eyes followed the movement then..

Oh fuck

His eyes locked to hers, pale steel turned darker, sharper, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far.

Then he moved.

One step. Deliberate. Slow. But the air shifted all at once, heavy and suffocating, his presence filling every corner of the shop. Selene’s breath caught, her heart leaping into her throat. Her body pressed harder against the counter, though she knew it was useless — there was no retreat from him.

Another step, and she could feel it. The ripple of his aura brushing against her skin, colder than ice, hotter than fire. Her knees weakened, her thighs trembling beneath her gown. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to shield herself, but her body stayed rooted, quivering under his approach.

His gaze burned through her, dissecting, devouring. He looked at her as though he could peel her apart with nothing more than his eyes. And for a flicker of a second, she swore she saw it: the loss of control he had fought so hard to bury.

When he spoke, his voice was low, dark, laced with something far more dangerous than anger.

“You think I cannot control myself?” His lips curled faintly, not into a smile but into something sharper, mocking. His tone dipped lower still, almost a growl. “Naïve little thing… you have no idea what it means when I don’t.”

Her breath stuttered, heat flooding her chest.

His eyes narrowed, gaze sweeping down her trembling frame and back to her face. “Do you even know what you’re asking for? Teasing a monster like me with that scent on your skin?” His voice wrapped around her like silk lined with steel, filthy in its precision. “You’d crumble before you understood what it is you provoke.”

Her stomach tightened, a wave of shame and want crashing hard against her ribs. The words hit her like a touch, scorching down her spine, pooling low in her belly. Her body ached with every syllable, but her mind spun with panic and disbelief.

He was toying with her. Testing her. Pushing until she shattered.

Vergil leaned closer, just enough that she could feel the heat of him, though he didn’t touch her. Selene felt her nipples harden, sensitive against the gown, her breath breaking in a small, involuntary gasp.

The tether pulsed again — violent, insistent — and she thought for one wild moment that if he said another word, if he stepped one inch closer, she would break entirely.

The room felt suffocating, his presence filling it like a storm. Selene’s breath came too shallow, her legs weak beneath her gown. Every pulse of the tether dragged her closer, even as she clung to the counter like it could save her.

When he spoke, his voice dipped low — not a command this time, but something darker. Testing. Toying.

“You’ve never been touched, have you?”

The words scorched her skin, her chest tightening as shame surged hot and sharp.

His eyes narrowed faintly at her silence, his lips curving into something cold, predatory. “I can smell it on you. Untouched. Unclaimed. And yet…” His head tilted slightly, gaze dragging down her body with slow precision. “…you stand here trembling as if you want me to ruin that.”

Selene’s stomach twisted, heat rushing between her thighs, a pulse so strong she nearly doubled over from it.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a sinful whisper that slid across her skin like velvet over a blade.

“Do you even know what would happen,” he asked, each word deliberate, “if I gave in to this bond you tempt me with? If I pressed you down and let instinct take what it wants?”

Her breath hitched, a sound breaking raw from her throat.

“You wouldn’t last a moment.” His gaze locked to hers, cold and consuming. “You’d beg. You’d cry. And still—” his nostrils flared, his jaw tightening, “—you’d want more.”

The words sliced through her, brutal and intoxicating all at once. Her heart hammered, her skin aflame, her body betraying her completely. She clutched the counter as though it could anchor her, but her knees trembled violently, her thighs clenching under the ache pooling low in her belly.

A whimper slipped out again, sharp and helpless.

Vergil’s brow furrowed, his breath hissing between his teeth at the sound, as though it struck him just as hard.

For a terrifying, delicious moment, she swore he was about to lose the battle.

“...please.”

It was barely a whisper, yet it echoed loud in the charged air.

Her stomach twisted violently the moment it left her tongue. Shame seared hot across her cheeks, her breath hitched, her legs buckled under the weight of what she had said. She didn’t even know what she meant — what she wanted. She had spent her entire life avoiding touch, recoiling from closeness, terrified of the visions that clawed into her whenever someone came near. And yet here she was, trembling, begging.

Not for freedom. Not for answers.

For him.

Her chest ached, tears pricking faintly at the edges of her vision from the sheer force of it. She hated herself for the weakness, hated how pitiful her voice had sounded — but the bond wouldn’t let her swallow it back. It demanded, dragged, burned. And her body screamed for the only thing that would ease it: his touch.

She dared to glance at him.

Vergil had stilled. Completely. His pale eyes burned into her, unreadable, but his jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, his breath sharp as though her whisper had struck him harder than any blade. For a heartbeat, she thought he might strike her down for daring.

But the darkness in his gaze said otherwise.

He had heard her plea.

And it rattled him as deeply as it terrified her.

Vergil moved.

Not with the slow, testing steps from before, but with the sharp decisiveness of a man giving in to instinct. His hand rose, gloved fingers cutting through the thick silence, and before Selene could flinch, before she could brace for the storm she had always feared — his touch found her.

Fingers against her chin, firm, precise, tilting her face up until her wide, tear-bright eyes met his.

The air shattered inside her.

She braced for the pain, for the tearing visions that always came when someone touched her skin — the blinding flood of voices, the flashes of death, the storm of things she was never meant to see. Her stomach lurched, her breath stilled—

And nothing came.

No visions. No flood. No screaming shadows clawing through her head.

Only him.

The warmth of his hand, the sharp weight of his gaze, the tether burning between them like a living brand.

Her breath broke hard, ragged, her chest rising fast against the thin fabric of her gown. She gasped at the absence of terror, at the way her mind stayed her own, at the way his presence didn’t unravel her, but stilled her. The only storm in her head now was her own pounding want.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous, but she swore she saw it — the flicker of something sharp in his gaze. He had felt it too. The absence. The way the bond bent rules that had bound her all her life.

His thumb brushed once, deliberately, against the edge of her jaw. A simple movement, but it sent her entire body arching with heat, a tremor running down her spine.

“You didn’t see anything,” he murmured, voice low, as if confirming it to himself as much as to her.

Selene’s lips parted, her throat dry, a small, helpless sound slipping free before she could stop it. “N-no…”

His eyes darkened further, his breath rougher now, and she felt the tether snap tighter.

“What is it you beg for when you say please?” His breath hissed, heavy, hungry.

Selene’s knees buckled, a sob of sound breaking from her throat, shame and want ripping her apart.

The air shattered when he moved, as if it hurt him to wait for her answer.

Oh.

His hand slid from her chin, gloved fingers dragging with slow precision down the side of her throat, tracing the hollow where her pulse thundered wildly. Selene gasped, her knees buckling faintly at the contact, heat surging under her skin as though his touch had branded her.

He continued downward, unhurried, deliberate — torment in every inch. His fingers traced along her arm, the leather rasping lightly against the thin fabric of her sleeve, making her shiver violently. He lingered at her wrist, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to remind her of the strength he held at bay, before releasing and dragging back up again.

Her breath stuttered, shallow, broken. Every pass of his hand lit her nerves aflame, her body aching more with each touch.

Then his hand shifted — cruel, calculated. His fingers moved across the slope of her collarbone, pausing at the edge of her gown, and then slipped lower.

Between her breasts.

Selene’s breath broke into a sharp gasp, her back arching before she could stop herself. The fabric strained as his fingers pressed deliberately down the line of her chest, not squeezing, not claiming — simply dragging with merciless precision, as though he wanted to feel how violently her heart slammed beneath his touch.

Her nipples tightened painfully against the thin fabric, her body trembling, her thighs clenching hard enough to ache. She whimpered, the sound spilling raw, helpless, humiliating.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand continued lower, slow as a blade drawn across skin. Down her sternum, across the trembling rise of her stomach. He lingered there, fingers circling once as if testing how her body would respond — and dammit it responded. Her belly tightened, her thighs shook, her breath hitched hard, and she nearly collapsed from the sharp ache that pulsed low in her core.

The tether burned savagely, alive, pulling her tighter into him with every stroke.

Vergil leaned closer, his voice low, cold, laced with sin.

“Does this ease the ache you begged me for?”

Her lips parted, but only a whimper escaped, her body quivering too violently to form words.

But then his hand moved lower.

Slow. Deliberate.

His fingers dragged down, across the curve of her abdomen, slipping over the thin fabric of her gown until they hovered just above the place that ached most. Selene gasped, her thighs clenching violently, her whole body jerking as though she’d been struck by lightning.

He didn’t touch her there — not fully. No, he was merciless. His fingers skimmed close, close enough that the heat of him bled through the fabric, close enough that her body screamed it was almost there. The nearness tore a broken sound from her throat, her knees threatening to give way as her core throbbed, desperate, unrelenting.

Her hands clutched the counter so hard her gloves creaked, her head tilting back with a shudder. She had never been touched, never allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like — and now his fingers hovered so close she thought she might combust from the ache of not having more.

Vergil leaned in, his breath brushing hot against her ear. His voice came low, cold, threaded with cruel reverence.

“Here,” he murmured, dragging the edge of his gloved finger along the top of her thigh, skimming dangerously close to the heat that throbbed beneath. “This is where your body screams for me.”

Selene whimpered, her thighs pressing together helplessly, a sob of frustration escaping her lips.

“But you don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?” His tone darkened, his fingers tracing maddening circles just above her core, never pressing, never giving. “All you feel is need. Raw, desperate. Enough to beg for a touch you don’t understand.”

Her breath shattered, tears pricking her eyes, her body trembling so violently she thought she might collapse. “P-please,” she choked, shame burning through her, her voice breaking into a sob.

The tether pulsed savagely, the bond tightening until it was agony, her body screaming for what his hand only teased.

Vergil’s breath hissed, sharp, as though her plea cut at his own control. His fingers lingered a hair’s breadth away, as if testing her, seeing if she would stop him.

The bell chimed.

Such a soft, ordinary sound — but it cracked the air between them like thunder.

Vergil froze. His hand stilled, drawing back, and for the first time Selene saw his composure falter. The hard line of his mouth twitched, his nostrils flared, and his gaze — still locked on hers — shifted in a way that made her stomach twist.

It was as if he had just woken from a trance.

She saw it all in that instant: the sharp realization of what he had been about to do, how close he had come to letting instinct consume him. His aura still pressed heavy against her skin, thick with hunger and possession, but beneath it flickered something raw — fury. Not at her. At himself.

Her chest tightened painfully. She’d never thought she’d see Vergil looked… startled. But he was. Startled, rattled, angry that she had pulled him so far into the fire he’d almost burned with her.

And then the mask slammed back into place.

His expression sharpened, every crack sealed with iron discipline. He didn’t turn toward the door, didn’t glance at the figure now crossing the threshold of the shop. His attention never left her.

Only his hand lifted, calm and deliberate. Two fingers raised in a silent command.

Compose yourself.

Selene’s breath caught, shame surging hot. She fumbled at her gown, smoothing the fabric against her thighs where it still clung damp to her trembling body. She tugged her gloves tight, as if that thin barrier of leather could erase the memory of his fingers exploring her. Her cheeks burned, her lip trembled, but she forced her spine straight, pulling herself together under the weight of his gaze.

The customer shifted uncertainly, clearly unsettled by the oppressive aura that lingered in the shop. But Vergil’s stance angled just enough to block their line of sight, tall frame and dark coat forming an impenetrable shield.

The tether pulsed faintly, echoing with every ragged beat of her heart. And in that silence, Selene understood.

If not for the bell — for the fragile intrusion of ordinary life — he would have taken her further. Much further.

She tore her eyes away, fixing them on the countertop, the books stacked neatly there, anything to ground herself. She tried to steady her breathing, tried to act as if nothing had happened, as if her body wasn’t trembling from the phantom memory of his hand.

But then she felt it again — the weight of his stare.

When she dared to glance up, his eyes caught hers instantly. Cold. Sharp. Unyielding.

And she understood the message he wasn’t speaking aloud.

This moment had been interrupted, nothing more. He hadn’t chosen restraint. It had been forced on him.

The tether pulsed, sharp enough that her thighs clenched against the ache still burning low in her belly. She swallowed hard, her gloved hands tightening around the edge of the counter as she forced herself to breathe evenly.

She could fool the customer with composure. She could even fool herself for a moment.

But Vergil?

She saw the promise written in his stare.

And it told her plainly: this isn’t finished.

Chapter Text

The bell.
That infuriating little bell

That cursed chime was all it took to shatter the trance he’d fallen into.

His hand had been on her, his control thinning to threads, her body unraveling beneath him — and then the sound dragged him back. His focus snapped wide, his breath harsh, his eyes narrowing as he realized, truly realized, what he had been about to do.

For one fleeting heartbeat, he stood there — fury in his chest, fire in his veins, his cock still painfully hard inside the confines of his trousers — and it was unbearable.

Her scent clung to him. Sweet, sharp, maddening. He could still taste it on the air, saturating his senses. Her sounds echoed in his ears — soft gasps, broken pleas, the raw whisper of touch me. They circled like vultures, refusing to leave him, scratching at his composure with every breath he dragged through clenched teeth.

A muscle ticked sharply in his jaw. His nostrils flared, not from breath but from the primal urge to snarl. The customer. That pitiful fool who had dared to stumble in at the exact moment he had been at the edge. If he turned, if he looked — he might have cut them down for nothing more than existing. The thought alone infuriated him more.

So he moved.

Boots striking the floor too sharply, his coat flaring behind him, Vergil strode out of the shop without a word. Not once did he glance back at her. Not once did he look at the interruption that had stolen what instinct demanded. But his body was taut with rage, every step an effort not to bare steel and silence the world.

The streets of Fortuna blurred around him. People parted instinctively, whether from the darkness in his aura or the severity etched into his face. He hardly noticed them. All he knew was the storm tearing through him — heat, hunger, fury.

He should never have touched her.

He should never have let it go that far.

His hands flexed at his sides, leather gloves creaking with the force of his grip. He could still feel her heat against his palm, her thighs trembling, the sharp arch of her body pressing toward him despite her shame. His breath hissed between his teeth, his cock throbbing hard enough to make every step a reminder of what he hadn’t finished.

The fire refused to fade.

And beneath the fury, the truth burned hotter still: she hadn’t been consumed by visions when he touched her. She had begged him. She had trembled, yes, but not from terror. From want.

Vergil’s pace quickened, boots striking stone like thunder as he neared the DMC. His coat snapped with each stride, his aura still burning heavy enough that passersby shrank back without knowing why.

He replayed it again, against his will — her voice breaking, whispering please, the way her eyes had widened when he obeyed, the whimper when he pressed her where she ached most.

Damnation, he was still hard, the need clawing at him with every step, his trousers uncomfortably tight. His teeth ground together, his breath harsh, fury mounting with each pulse of the tether that still throbbed between them.

But one truth cut through the haze.

This was not finished.

She had seen it in his eyes before he stormed out — the promise that what he’d started, he would not abandon. Interruption had stayed his hand, nothing more. The fire remained. The bond remained.

And though his fury mounted with every stride, Vergil could not deny it.

Today he had gained something, perhaps a small little victory.

Her confession.

Her voice still lingered, brittle with shame, yet steady enough to strike him with truth.

She had spoken of torment carried since childhood — visions she never invited, shadows clawing through her nights, warnings no one believed. A father who met fear with iron discipline, driving her into silence until secrecy became her second skin. And beneath it all, the hunger for answers. She had been searching for herself in scraps of forgotten lore, not to master her gift, but simply to know what she was.

Vergil’s steps cut hard against stone as he replayed it all, not with emotion, but with calculation. He measured her words against what he had seen: the way the tether seized him the instant their eyes met; the unnatural pull when she spoke his name; the absence of visions when his hand had touched her skin.

None of it aligned with coincidence.

There was design in it. A thread buried deep in her blood.

His mouth tightened as he considered the implications. For her to see so much, so young, for her visions to brush the line of prophecy — there was lineage behind it. Perhaps demonic. Perhaps something older, more elusive. She claimed ignorance, and she spoke it without guile, but ignorance did not erase inheritance.

He could feel it in her, the way a blade knows its sheath.

The city swam past him in blurs of gray and shadow. Passersby lowered their eyes, giving him space, though he hardly noticed. His focus stayed inward, every part of him replaying her trembling confession and fitting it into the framework of something larger.

A tether that bound them.
A woman blind to her own nature.
A power not yet named.

And now, it was his.

Not by choice, but by inevitability.

His jaw clenched as the memory of her breathless plea surged unbidden. His body still burned from it, his arousal unyielding, every step a reminder of the interruption that denied him. But even that fire paled before the clarity her words had given him.

For the first time in years, Vergil felt the stirrings of a mystery not bound to battle or conquest, but to blood.

And if she could not define herself… he would.

Piece by piece.

~~

The door to Devil May Cry rattled open under his hand, slamming harder than he intended. The sound cracked through the office, drawing a glance from Dante, who lounged with his boots propped on the desk, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.

Vergil crossed the threshold with long, hard strides, coat snapping behind him like a dark wing. He ignored the stale haze of gun oil, the stench of those frustrating desserts dante continue to eat, the scatter of pizza boxes across the desk. His body was taut, his jaw locked, the storm still burning under his skin.

The tether pulsed faintly, reminding him with every step of the woman’s confession, of her plea, of the way he’d nearly—

His fists flexed at his sides, leather straining.

Control. He forced his face to remain impassive, his gaze forward, but inside his body still raged: heat coiled low, trousers unbearably tight, her scent still clinging to him like sin. Every sound she’d made replayed against his skull, dragging his cock hard again despite his fury. He wanted silence, solitude, space to scour this fire from his veins.

“Someone’s in a mood,” Dante drawled, as his eyes remained on the magazine he was reading.

Vergil ignored him. His steps were clipped, jaw rigid, each breath dragged tight as the heat in his veins refused to fade. He wanted nothing but silence. Solitude. Control.

And then he caught her eyes.

Trish leaned casually against the far wall, arms crossed beneath her chest, one brow arched as though she had been waiting. She didn’t speak at first, but her lips curved, the kind of smile that cut deeper than Dante’s crude jokes.

She could smell it.

Vergil felt it in the way her golden eyes narrowed faintly, the way her gaze tracked him like she was dissecting a secret. His aura still burned heavy with heat, his body still taut from the storm that hadn’t released. He saw it register in her face, the subtle flicker of recognition.

Dante’s voice prattled on, careless. “What’d you do, scare off another poor soul? Or maybe…” His grin widened. “Didn’t get what you wanted?”

Trish chuckled softly, low in her throat. She didn’t look at Dante when she said it — she kept her gaze on Vergil, unblinking, predatory in its calm. “No… he got close.”

Vergil stopped mid-stride.

The words slid across the room like a blade.

Her smile lingered, coy and knowing, her head tilting just enough to make the implication sting sharper. She didn’t need to say more. She had scented what clung to him — arousal, frustration, fire not sated. And she knew.

Fury clawed at his chest, his hands tightening into fists until leather strained at the seams. His breath hissed between clenched teeth, every muscle in his body taut with the need to silence them both.

Dante, of course, couldn’t leave silence untouched.

“So,” he said, tone deliberately careless, “that bookshop lady. That’s where you went today, isn’t it?”

Vergil’s eyes snapped to him, pale and sharp, but Dante only grinned wider.

“Yeah,” he went on, tapping ash into a tray, his voice rolling with mock amusement. “Explains everything. You left here brooding, came back looking like you were about to split in half, and the whole time? You were off with her.” His grin stretched, sharp and knowing. “Guess we’ve found what gets under your skin. Cute little bookkeeper.”

The fire inside Vergil twisted, molten and violent. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding behind an impassive mask. He didn’t move, didn’t blink — but his silence was heavier than words.

Trish pushed herself off the wall and towards vergil.
Her head tilted slightly. Her nostrils flared, faint but deliberate, as though she were testing the air.

And her lips curved.

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t laughter. It was knowledge.

“You reek of it, that scent demons give off when they find their mate,” she said smoothly, her voice cutting through the haze.

The anger evaporated, replaced by something colder, heavier. His body froze, his head turning sharply toward her, every muscle tight. For once, his mask faltered.

Mate?
Was that even a thing with demons?

The word struck harder than any blade.

His nostrils flared again, but not with fury — with something closer to disbelief. His chest rose, sharp and shallow, his pale eyes fixed on her with a rare flash of shock.

Dante blinked, his smirk slipping into something sharper, curiosity flickering behind his eyes. “…Mate?” he echoed, as though testing the word, magazine hanging forgotten between his fingers. “Mate? As in… like a wolf? You’re saying my brother’s gone all animal because he laid eyes on someone?”

Trish’s mouth curved faintly, but there was irritation in the set of her jaw. “Of course. You two always thought your parents came together by some grand fate, didn’t you? That Sparda fell in love like some storybook knight?” She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. He scented her. The bond snapped, and that was it. Demon instinct. Mating. Bonding.”

Dante blinked, then barked out a laugh, more disbelief than humor. “You’re telling me the great Sparda, savior of the human world, met mom because of—what? Demon hormones?”

Trish rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Not hormones. Instinct. Binding. Once it takes root, it’s stronger than any vow, stronger than choice. You don’t walk away from it. Doesn’t matter if you’re half-blood or full demon — if it strikes, it doesn’t let go.”

Vergil’s steel blue eyes sharpened, every muscle rigid, but inside, his mind whirled.

Mate. Bond.

Selene’s trembling confession. Her visions. The way his touch hadn’t drawn her into one of them. The tether that had pulled tight the moment their eyes met, burning through him ever since. Her scent — sweet, sharp, clinging to his skin even now.

It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t coincidence.

It was this.

Trish sighed, tilting her head back, clearly annoyed at having to spell it out. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t recognized it yourselves. Pure demons know the moment it hits them. Humans romanticize it with words like destiny. But for our kind, it’s simple: instinct finds its other half, and nothing stops it.”

Dante leaned back in his chair, trying to find the words to express his shock, but then his eyes widen in realization "Sooo thats why you held your dear little bookkeeper when she was unconscious."

Vergil’s lips pressed into a hard line. He didn’t answer, but his silence was its own confirmation. The tether thrummed in his chest, mocking him, undeniable.

Trish’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and knowing. “Exactly. He can fight it all he wants. He can hate it. But it won’t change.” Her smile returned, faint and edged. “She’s his. Whether he accepts it or not.”

Vergil stood rigid, jaw tight, his pale eyes cutting toward her with ice-cold precision. He would not acknowledge it. He would not let her dictate truth to him. And yet—his body betrayed him still. The tether throbbed beneath his skin, his blood hot, every breath dragging Selene’s scent back into his lungs.

At length, his voice cut through the haze, low and measured, stripped of emotion but honed to a blade’s edge.

“If such a bond exists,” he said, each word deliberate, “how is it severed?”

Dante snorted from the desk. “Straight to the point. Typical Vergil. Always looking for the off-switch.”

Vergil ignored him. His gaze never left Trish.

Her golden eyes glinted faintly, her mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Severed?” she repeated, almost as though testing the word on her tongue. She shook her head slowly, strands of blonde falling across her cheek. “You don’t sever it, Vergil. Not without destroying yourself in the process.”

His nostrils flared. His fingers flexed against his thigh, the leather creaking.

“That,” she went on, tone smoothing into cold fact, “is why demons don’t take mates lightly. Once it strikes, it’s binding. It digs into your blood, your marrow.” her gaze sharpened, pinning him where he sat, "It will not release you.”

For a heartbeat, Vergil said nothing. His jaw locked harder, teeth grinding together, but his silence spoke louder than words.

Dante leaned forward now, his grin crooked but edged with curiosity. “So you’re telling me it’s permanent? He’s stuck?” He glanced at Vergil with mock sympathy. “Man, and I thought I had commitment issues.”

Trish rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. “You don’t get it, Dante. Of course you don’t. You’ve never been that deep in your blood. You cling too much to your human side. But him—” she tilted her chin toward Vergil, “—he’s different. He embraced it. He mastered his transformation at a young age. That means his instincts run sharper, deeper. He can’t ignore this even if he wanted to.”

Vergil’s pale eyes narrowed, his expression cut from stone, but inside his chest the truth gnawed viciously. He wanted to dismiss it, to slice through her words as he would an enemy’s blade. But every beat of the tether mocked him.

“Then it is compulsion,” he said finally, voice iron-flat. “No more than animal instinct. And instinct can be controlled.”

Trish’s lips curved, faint and humorless. “Tell yourself that,” she murmured. “But I can smell you from here.” Her eyes gleamed brighter. “You’re already unraveling.”

Dante barked out a laugh, tossing his magazine onto the pile of mess of his desk. “So what’s it feel like, brother? Knowing you’re bound? That somewhere out there’s a little bookshop girl who’s got you wrapped without even trying?”

He didn’t look at Dante, didn’t give him the satisfaction. His eyes stayed on Trish, cold and sharp as if he was determined to find fault in her words.

“This bond,” he said, voice low, dangerous, “will not rule me.”

But even as the words left his lips, the tether throbbed harder, savage and unrelenting. And in the corner of Trish’s smile, he saw what infuriated him most: she didn’t believe him.

The walls of Devil May Cry felt too narrow, their voices too loud, their stares too sharp. Vergil snatched Yamato from where it rested against the chair and strode down the hall, boots striking the wood like thunder. Trish’s words clung to him like a brand, burning deeper with every breath. He did not bother with explanations. The front door slammed behind him, the sound reverberating like a closing gate.

Vergil tore into the night like a storm barely restrained. His boots struck hard against stone, his coat snapping like dark wings in his wake. He didn’t look back at Devil May Cry, didn’t spare a thought for Dante’s laughter or Trish’s knowing smile. The air around him still burned with fire and fury, his aura cutting a path through the streets as he sought release in blood.

☆☆☆

The slam of the door rattled through the Devil May Cry, the sound echoing down the hall long after Vergil’s coat had vanished into the night.

Silence followed, thick and uneasy.

Dante let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair until it creaked under the weight. He ran a hand through his hair, the usual grin tugging at his mouth but failing to settle there. “Well… guess I hit a nerve.”

Trish didn’t move from where she stood. Her golden eyes stayed fixed on the door, sharp and thoughtful, the faintest frown tugging at her lips. “You think?” she said dryly, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Dante swung his boots off the desk, the thud against the floor louder than it needed to be. He sat forward now, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped as he stared at the empty space his brother had left behind.

It wasn’t just anger that had driven Vergil out.

It was something deeper.

The unease in Dante’s chest twisted. He’d spent years fighting his brother — during the tower incident where he lost vergil to the underworld, years later discovered that Vergil was under mundus control. He never saw him again till yamato was discovered again, feeling his power even in that sword, the events after nero and the savior. Hell, the man came back to sever neros arm then split himself in two just to understand humanity again. And when he returned, Dante had believed — hoped — that maybe Vergil had finally found some balance.

But what he’d just seen in his brother’s eyes unsettled him, maybe still scared he would lose Vergil again.

Not hunger. Not rage. But a bond. Something that made the demon in Vergil’s blood dictate his every move.

Dante let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face before resting it against his jaw, fingers tapping restlessly. “He barely got his humanity back,” he muttered. “And now this… this tether, or bond, or whatever you called it—it’s just gonna drag him back under.”

Trish finally turned, golden eyes meeting his. Her arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable at first, though he caught the flicker of something in her gaze. “He’s stronger than that.”

But the hesitation in her voice was too sharp to miss.

Dante’s brows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching in a humorless smirk. “You don’t sound convinced.”

Trish’s lips pressed into a line, her voice quieter now but heavy with weight. “Because I know what this means. Bonds like that… they don’t loosen. They don’t let go. It’s instinct. Permanent. And Vergil—” she shook her head, a lock of blonde hair falling forward, “—Vergil’s the last man alive who can stand being ruled by anything. Not even himself.”

The office settled into silence again. Dante leaned back in his chair, arms crossed now, staring at the ceiling for a long moment.

“You really think this bond thing is permanent?” he asked finally, his voice lower than usual, stripped of his usual swagger. “Because if you’re right… it scares the hell out of me, Trish. He’s barely clawed himself back from being a monster. I’ve seen him lose himself before — hell, I’ve fought him when he did. What if this just pushes him back into that same hunger, that same obsession? What if he drowns in it again?”

Trish’s arms remained folded, her gaze sharp as she studied him. She tilted her head, blonde hair slipping across her cheek as she exhaled through her nose. “You’re thinking of the wrong hunger, Dante.”

His brows drew together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Trish pushed off from the wall, stepping closer, her heels clicking lightly against the floor. “You’ve seen him consumed by power. I have too. But this—” she gestured toward the door with a faint tilt of her chin, “—this isn’t about power. It’s instinct, yes, but it’s also need. A bond isn’t a weakness, it isn’t corruption. It’s connection. For someone like Vergil? It might be the one thing that keeps him from drowning.”

Dante’s mouth twisted, not quite a smirk, not quite a frown. “You’re saying this is good for him.”

Trish’s golden eyes held steady. “I’m saying it could be what he’s needed all along.”

Silence lingered for a moment before she went on, her voice softer but edged with certainty. “He’s lived his whole life alone. Survived alone. Fought alone. He’s never trusted anyone enough to lean on them. Not you, not anyone. That kind of life doesn’t breed peace — it breeds emptiness. And now, for the first time, something’s forcing him to reach for more than himself. He may hate it, but deep down…” she trailed off, her gaze narrowing faintly, “deep down, I think it’s the very thing he’s always wished for, even if he’d never admit it.”

Dante sat back slowly, crossing his arms, his jaw working as he chewed on her words. He tilted his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for answers there. Remembering now that Vergil thought his whole life that he was abandoned by their mother for Dante, that he needed power to be safe, to never feel that weak again. The guilt settled in low in his stomach, wishing Vergil had a life and friends like he did, then maybe he wouldn't have been alone. His fingers drummed restlessly against his arm, the weight of her words pressing in.

Because as much as he wanted to laugh it off, the truth lodged sharp in his chest:

If Vergil could lean on someone — if he could find what he’d been denied his whole life — maybe this bond wasn’t a curse at all.

Maybe it was salvation.

Then the thought struck him.

His smirk returned, crooked, uneasy. “Oh, hell.”

Trish arched a brow. “What?”

Dante let out a breathy laugh that carried no humor. He dragged a hand down his face, then gestured vaguely toward the door Vergil had stormed out of. “Who’s gonna tell Nero?”

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

Trish’s brow furrowed, her expression shifting. For a moment, even she seemed caught off guard. Her arms lowered, and she tilted her head as though the thought had just dawned on her too.

She hummed slowly, almost as if she was trying to come up with a solution but ended with nothing. “Well, shit.”

Dante nodded, grimace cutting across his face. “Yeah. The kid barely wrapped his head around Vergil being his old man, and now we’ve got this? A bond? A mate?” He shook his head, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Hell, he’ll think Vergil’s falling off the rails again. Or worse — he’ll think it’s another excuse for him to run.”

Trish’s lips pressed into a line, her golden gaze sharpening. “It won’t be easy. But he needs to know. He’s part of this whether any of us like it or not.”

Dante huffed, raking his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. But tell me how you drop that on him without it blowing up in our faces. Kid’s got a temper. And if he thinks this bond’s some kind of curse…” Dante trailed off, shaking his head. Dante shifted, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He muttered, half to himself, “Hell if I know how to break that one.”

Trish’s arms crossed tighter, her golden eyes thoughtful, her frown sharper than before. “It can’t come from us. Not like this. He’d never take it.”

Dante’s gaze flicked toward her, uneasy but searching. Trish met it with steady resolve.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then, at the same time, the word left both their lips.

“Lady.”

The silence settled again, but lighter this time — not easier, just… resigned. The decision had been made, unspoken and undeniable.

It wasn’t going to be clean. It wasn’t going to be easy.

But Lady would tell him.

And when she did, the fallout would come.

Chapter Text

The last chime of the bell faded into silence as Selene turned the key, locking the door of the bookshop behind her. The sound seemed louder tonight, echoing in her bones, final and sharp. For a long moment she lingered, her palm pressed against the door, the scent of paper and ink and dust clinging faintly to her clothes. Usually, the stillness comforted her — the quiet order she’d built here after chaos had torn the city apart.

Tonight it suffocated her.

Her legs carried her up the narrow stairs with slow, uneven steps, the wood groaning beneath her weight. Each creak was too loud, too sharp, as if the old bones of the building knew her heart was racing. She reached the top with her pulse quick and uneven, her fingers trembling on the knob of her apartment door.

She closed it behind her and leaned back against the wood, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

Embarrassment washed over her first, hot and fierce.

She had almost lost herself. Almost begged for more. The memory of her own voice echoed in her skull, soft and desperate, a sound she never thought she’d make — not to anyone. It made her stomach twist.

But underneath the shame… was something worse.

Thrill.

Her knees weakened as she stepped away from the door, crossing the small living room, shadows clinging to every corner. She pressed her palms against the table, head bowed, trying to catch her breath.

It had been the first time. The first time anyone had touched her — truly touched her — and she had not seen the future claw its way into her mind. No screams. No fire. No visions tearing her apart. Just warmth. Pressure. The overwhelming weight of him pressed against her senses until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but tremble.

And it had felt… liberating.

The realization made her shiver, made her want to laugh and weep all at once. For years she had lived like this — untouchable, unreachable, cursed to flinch at even the thought of closeness. Every brush of a hand in childhood, every accidental bump in the crowded streets, every slip of contact had always dragged her into someone else’s pain, someone else’s fate. It had become a prison she never escaped.

But with him… nothing.

Selene’s gloved hand curled into a fist, pressing against her chest as she paced across the room. Her pulse hammered beneath her palm, hot and insistent.

Why?

Why him?

The thought tangled in her head as she moved to the window, moonlight spilling silver across the floorboards. She stared out at the streets below, dim lanterns flickering against the night. Her reflection stared back faintly in the glass — wide emerald eyes, cheeks still flushed, lips parted as though she’d run miles.

It terrified her.

Because if it wasn’t chance, if there was a reason she couldn’t see into him, then what did it mean?

Her visions had never failed her. Every touch, every slip of skin, had always brought glimpses of fate. To feel nothing with him — no flash, no horror, no weight of inevitability — unsettled her to the marrow.

And yet, in the hollow of her chest, something else stirred.

Longing.

Selene shut her eyes tight, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She should have been horrified, should have recoiled at the memory of nearly coming undone in front of him. But all she could think of was how her body had betrayed her — how badly she had wanted him to keep going, how badly she wanted to feel more.

She hated it. She loved it. She needed it.

Her hands slid down to the table by the window, fingers brushing the edges of a stack of old books she’d left there earlier. The familiar texture should have grounded her, but it didn’t. Instead, her breath caught again, her thoughts circling back to the weight of his stare, the darkness in his voice, the way his presence had nearly swallowed her whole.

Why couldn’t she see his future?

Why did her visions — so relentless, so cruel — spare him?

Her father’s voice whispered in the back of her mind, stern and merciless, warning her that her gift was a curse, that she would never find peace, that she would be locked away if anyone ever knew. She bit her lip until it hurt, forcing back the memory.

But as her eyes opened again, catching the slant of moonlight cutting across her apartment, she couldn’t ignore the truth rising inside her.

For once in her life… she wanted the curse to fail.

For once, she wanted to touch someone without fear. To lose herself in another without carrying the weight of visions that weren’t hers to bear.

And now that she’d tasted it — now that she knew it was possible — the hunger clawed at her even harder.

Selene sank into the chair by the window, dragging in a shaky breath, her arms wrapped around herself. Fear still gnawed at her. Confusion rattled her bones. But beneath it all, thrumming steady and merciless, was desire.

Desire for him.

And the terrible question she could not silence:

Why him?

The silence of her apartment pressed in around her, familiar yet unsteady. Selene pushed herself up from the chair by the window, her limbs heavy with a restlessness she couldn’t shake. She drifted into the small kitchen alcove, her bare feet whispering against the worn floorboards.

The kettle clanged faintly as she set it on the stove, filling the space with the mundane rhythm of ritual. She reached for the tin of chamomile leaves she kept on the shelf — her usual balm when the weight of her visions left her shaking. But her hands trembled even as she measured them into the strainer, the faint scent of crushed flowers rising into the air.

Steam curled soft and white as the kettle began to heat. She leaned against the counter, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The memories of his hands, the scrape of his voice, the look in his eyes — they kept slipping into her thoughts no matter how she fought them.

When the whistle pierced the silence, she jumped, her pulse spiking. She poured the hot water with unsteady care, watching the pale gold seep into the cup, her reflection rippling faintly in the surface. She wrapped both hands around it and held it close, hoping the heat would steady her, but it only reminded her of how flushed she already was.

Her body still betrayed her.

Selene drank slowly, the bitter warmth sliding down her throat, grounding her only a little. She left the cup half-finished on the table and moved to the small washroom.

The shower hissed to life, steam rising to fill the space. She stripped off her clothes with quick, restless motions, stepping under the spray as though it could cleanse not just her skin but her thoughts. The water struck hot against her shoulders, sliding down her spine, and still she couldn’t shake the memory of his touch.

His fingers trailing down her arms.
His breath against her ear.
The pull that made her want to lean in instead of away.

She pressed her palms against the tiles, bowing her head as the water poured over her. Heat coiled low in her belly, shame and longing twisting until she barely knew which was which. She stayed like that too long, until the steam blurred the mirror and her legs felt weak.

Finally, she shut it off, the sudden silence almost deafening. She dried herself quickly, pulling on the only nightgown she owned — a pale, thin slip of fabric that barely brushed her thighs. She never wore it for anyone, of course. It was comfort, light against her skin on the hotter nights when sleep wouldn’t come. But tonight, as the fabric clung damply to her still-warm skin, she felt exposed even in the privacy of her own room.

Embarrassed by her own reflection in the mirror, Selene hurried to her bed and slipped beneath the sheets, dragging the blanket over her as if it could smother the thoughts clawing at her. She curled on her side, squeezing her eyes shut, willing herself to rest.

Forget. Forget the heat of his gaze. Forget the way her body had ached to answer his touch. Forget the relief of not seeing anything when he touched her.

But her body wouldn’t let her forget. Her pulse raced. Her cheeks burned. Every nerve felt alive, prickling with restless fire.

And then — it changed.

The prickling intensified, running up her arms like sparks beneath her skin. A chill swept over her, so sharp it made her breath stutter. Her eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling as dread clawed at her chest. She knew this feeling. She had lived with it her whole life.

A vision.

“No…” she whispered, clutching the blanket tighter, willing it away. She tried to steady her breath, tried to force the panic down. Not now. Please, not now.

But the air around her thickened, pressing hard against her chest. The sheets felt too heavy, the room tilting as though dragged into some unseen current. The golden light of her lamp bled into shadow, stretching long and twisted across the walls.

Her body stiffened as her vision yanked her under.

The world tilted, and in the blink of an eye her bed was gone.

Stone walls rose around her, cracked and blackened with rot. The air was damp, suffocating, filled with the stench of mildew and burned wax. Selene stood in the ruins of what once had been a church — its pews splintered, its altar broken, its windows shattered into jagged teeth that let the moonlight spill in crooked angles. Shadows writhed along the walls as if alive, stretching with every flicker of candlelight.

The chanting hit her next.

Low at first, a ripple through the air, then louder, layered, discordant. Men’s voices and women’s voices, rising and falling in cruel cadence, words curling in Latin she couldn’t quite grasp, heavy and sharp enough to make her skin crawl.

Her breath caught when she saw them.

A circle of figures, cloaked in black, knelt on the cracked stone floor. Their hands were painted red with blood — not paint, not dye, but blood. Symbols smeared across the stones, dripping and fresh, carved into the floor in looping designs that pulsed faintly as though alive. At the center lay women, their bodies bound, heads bowed in terrified submission, muffled cries caught behind cloth.

And then she saw him.

One man stood apart from the rest, taller, robed in something heavier, darker. His hood fell back, revealing his face — but his eyes… his eyes were not his own. Black pits ringed in fire, veins crawling up his skin, his mouth stretched too wide in a grin that looked carved into flesh. When he spoke, the chanting faltered into silence, every word striking the walls like thunder.

“Master…” His voice was not his voice, deeper, reverberating, filled with a resonance that shook Selene to her bones. He spread his arms wide, trembling as if the power inside him was tearing him apart. “The hour nears. A vessel must be chosen. A maiden worthy to bear your soul, to bind you into this world. We praise you! We bring blood! We bring sacrifice!”

The others cried out in answer, their chants breaking into screams of devotion, their bodies bowing low to the stone.

Selene’s pulse hammered in her ears, her breath hitching as she stumbled back — though her body wasn’t truly there, she could feel it, as if the air itself pressed against her. Her vision blurred on the symbols glowing faintly at the center of the floor, their lines curling inward like a snare.

The possessed man’s eyes rolled back, black fire spilling across them. He tilted his head skyward, his voice breaking with fervor.

“Grant us her! Grant us the pure vessel! Flesh unspoiled, untouched by mortal stain — a maiden for your fire to consume!”

The bound women screamed then, thrashing against their restraints, terror filling the church like smoke. Candles guttered, flames bending inward toward the circle, pulled as though by some unseen force.

And then his head snapped forward, eyes burning, staring straight into Selene’s.

Though she knew it was impossible, the gaze seared her, pinning her where she stood.

“You are close,” the voice rumbled through him, ancient and dark. “I can feel her. Along with that infuriating bastard who escaped me.”

Selene gasped, the sound tearing from her throat as the vision shuddered around her, collapsing into shadow. The voices rose into a frenzy of screams, and the world yanked her backward, out of the church, out of the chanting, out of the suffocating darkness—

—and back into her own body, the sheets tangled around her, sweat dripping down her spine, her lungs clawing for breath.

Selene’s breath tore ragged from her lungs, her chest heaving, sweat slick against her skin as the last echo of the church dissolved from her vision. She clawed at her sheets, her nails catching fabric, the world around her tilting and buckling until she thought she’d fall straight through the floor.

But then—

Warmth.

Hands gripped her shoulders, steady but firm, anchoring her against the storm. A voice cut through the haze, low and commanding, almost sharp, yet carrying something she had never expected to hear from him. Urgency.

“Enough. Breathe.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Vergil.

The pale lines of his face were above her, drawn and taut, his silver hair catching the dim light of her lamp. His hands stayed firm on her shoulders, shaking her once more, not roughly but with enough force to drag her back to herself. The weight of his touch, the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of her nightgown—she focused on it desperately, because it was real.

It was him.

And nothing else.

She gasped, clutching at his wrists without realizing it, her fingers trembling as her body shook. He was here. She didn’t even know how, didn’t know when he had entered her locked apartment, didn’t know why he had come. None of it mattered in that moment.

Because with his touch—there was no vision.

Only the grounding warmth of his presence, the deep press of his aura, strong and steady like iron surrounding her.

Selene’s chest heaved again, but her breaths began to slow, caught by the cadence of his voice as he repeated, low and insistent, “Breathe. Do not fight it. Inhale. Now again.”

She obeyed without thought, the rhythm of his words sinking into her bones. Slowly, painfully, the storm receded. Her pulse slowed from frantic hammering to something steadier, though her skin still prickled with terror.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she hated it. Hated how shaken she was, hated that he saw it. But when she dared to lift her gaze, his eyes—those pale, merciless eyes—were fixed on her with something she couldn’t name.

Not cold.
Not detached.
But sharp, focused… concerned.

Her lips parted, trembling. “H-how…?” The words broke weakly. “How are you here?”

His grip shifted, one hand sliding from her shoulder to steady the back of her neck, fingers spread firm, grounding. The gesture was almost instinctive, protective, though his expression remained a mask of discipline.

“I heard you,” Vergil said evenly, though his voice was quieter now, almost rough. “The entire street could have heard you.”

Selene’s stomach turned cold. She hadn’t realized. The vision had swallowed her so completely she hadn’t felt her own voice tear from her throat.

Her fingers tightened unconsciously against his wrist, clutching as if to keep him there. Her body still trembled, but beneath the fear was something else—something she couldn’t ignore.

Relief.

Because he was here.

Because his touch had not dragged her deeper into the nightmare.

Because his presence, somehow, felt like the only thing keeping her tethered to herself.

Selene clung to him before she realized she had moved, her arms slipping around his shoulders, her forehead pressed against the solid breadth of his chest. Her body shook as the sobs tore free — ragged, broken, unbidden. She hated the sound of them, hated how weak she felt, hated that she could not stop.

And yet… he did not push her away.

Vergil was tense beneath her, every muscle coiled as though unused to this kind of contact. She felt it in the way his chest rose shallowly, the stillness of his frame, the rigid line of his jaw when she dared glance up through her tears. He looked as though every instinct told him to move, to retreat, to draw his walls back up.

But he didn’t.

He let her hold him.

And more than that, he let her cry.

The sobs shook out of her, muffled against the fine fabric of his coat. His scent filled her nose — steel, leather, and something sharper beneath, like storm air before lightning. She clung tighter, terrified that if she let go she would spiral back into the nightmare that had just consumed her.

Her tears soaked into his chest, hot against the cool fabric, and still he did not step back. He stood like stone, rigid and immovable, yet his hand stayed steady at the back of her neck, his thumb brushing once — just once — against her skin as though grounding her there.

When her sobs finally broke into shuddering breaths, the silence pressed heavy between them. She could feel his gaze on her, sharp and unrelenting, as though he were weighing what to say.

Then his voice came, low, rough, cutting through the quiet.

“What did you see?”

Selene froze. The question knifed through her like cold water.

She swallowed hard, her throat raw from crying, and forced herself to look up. His eyes were fixed on hers — pale, demanding, yet behind them was something she hadn’t seen before. Unease.

Because this time… he hadn’t seen it.

Her lips trembled. “You… you didn’t see?”

For the faintest moment, his gaze faltered, a shadow passing over his features. He shook his head once, slow, precise.

“No.”

The admission unsettled her almost as much as the vision itself. The last time, when their eyes had met, he had seen — had shared in the horror that ripped through her. She had thought it part of the strange, terrifying tether between them. But now… now he was left blind to it.

And somehow, that seemed to unnerve him.

Selene’s breath caught, her chest tightening as his pale gaze bore into her. She thought about lying, even for a moment — thought about calling it a nightmare, a trick of exhaustion, anything but what it was. But the thought died as quickly as it rose.

She couldn’t.

Not with him.

He would know. His eyes were too sharp, too precise. And even if she could force the words out, he would smell the fear on her, taste the lie in her breath. He would cut through it as easily as he cut through demons with that cursed blade.

Her fingers trembled where they still clutched his coat. Slowly, she loosened her grip, but she didn’t step back. She drew in a shuddering breath, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“It was a church. Or what used to be one. Broken, blackened. Candles burning everywhere, but the shadows moved like they were alive.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, waiting.

“There was a circle,” she whispered, her throat raw. “Figures kneeling. Their hands were… stained. Blood, I think. They painted it across the floor in symbols that—” she shook her head, swallowing hard, “—symbols that pulsed like they were breathing.”

The memory made her stomach twist. She pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting the bile that rose, but forced herself to continue.

“They had women there. Bound. Gagged. Crying. And in the middle…” Her eyes unfocused, seeing it all over again. “There was a man. Taller than the rest. But he wasn’t… he wasn’t himself. His eyes weren’t human. They were black, burning, like fire was crawling through his veins. His voice—” her own trembled, faltering, “—it wasn’t even his voice. Something else was speaking through him. Something older. Darker.”

She felt his hand tighten slightly against the back of her neck, not rough but firm, steadying her.

“He called it his master,” Selene whispered. “He praised it. Said the time was near. That they needed a vessel. A maiden to bind their master into this world. Flesh unspoiled. Untouched. For him to consume.”

Her breath broke then, tears slipping hot down her cheeks again. She forced herself to look at Vergil, her voice shivering on the edge of despair.

“And then—he looked at me. Not the others. Not the women lying there. At me. Like he could see me standing there. He said—” her throat closed, but she pushed the words out, “—he said I was close. That I was worthy, and that he felt also the one who escaped him.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Her chest rose and fell in ragged waves as she waited, searching his face for something — disbelief, dismissal, anything.

But Vergil’s expression didn’t falter. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and though his grip on her remained steady, she felt the power radiating off him shift, darker, sharper, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. As if he recognized who the monster was talking about, the way he shifted and his eyebrows furrowed but still chose to remain silent.

And in that silence, the guilt hit her.

Her fingers trembled where they clutched his coat, tightening as if she could hold him there, hold back what she feared was already spiraling out of her control.

This was her fault.

If she had never been cursed with these visions, if she had never been near him, if she had never let herself get pulled into his gravity, then none of this would have touched him. He would not be caught in their sights, dragged into something meant for her.

The thought burned her throat, tears rising fresh and hot. She bowed her head against him, unable to meet his eyes, her voice breaking against the words.

“I did this,” she whispered. “If they’re after you too, it’s because of me. I put the target there just by being near you.” Her shoulders shook, shame twisting through every word. “I never should have—”

The confession caught in her throat. She couldn’t even finish it. Never should have let you touch me. Never should have wanted more. Never should have wished for something I can’t have.

Her hands slipped weakly from his coat, falling uselessly to her lap, her body curling in on itself. She shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t want you hurt. Not because of me. Not because of whatever I am.”

The words slipped quieter now, broken. “I’ve ruined enough already. I don’t want to ruin you too.”

Her words faltered, breaking apart beneath the weight of her own shame. She bowed her head, trembling, tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks. The air felt thick, her lungs tight, and every beat of her heart screamed the same refrain: I’ve ruined everything. I’ll ruin him too.

But before she could collapse entirely into that spiral, his voice cut through it — low, sharp, merciless.

“Enough.”

The single word cracked like a blade against stone. Her breath caught, her body stilling as she dared to lift her gaze. His eyes burned down into hers, pale and unyielding, no room for her pity or her guilt.

“You will not speak as though you are some curse,” he said, each syllable measured, his tone cold but steady. “You do not put me at risk. You do not dictate my fate.” His gaze narrowed, sharp enough to pin her in place. “No one does.”

Before she could protest, before she could retreat, she felt it — the sudden, deliberate pull of his hand at the back of her neck, drawing her closer. His grip wasn’t rough, but it allowed no argument, no space for her to twist away.

Her body collided with his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath pressing against her own.

And in that instant, her awareness sharpened painfully.

She was half-naked. Her thin nightgown clung to her still-damp skin from the shower, the fabric nearly sheer in the low lamplight. The sheets tangled around her legs, twisted as though they too betrayed how restless she’d been. And now she was in his arms — in her bed — her face inches from his, her body flush against the heat of his coat.

The realization set her nerves aflame. Her pulse raced, her lips parted with a stuttering breath. The guilt tangled with something hotter, sharper, impossible to deny.

Vergil’s eyes never wavered. His grip tightened the barest fraction, anchoring her in place. “Do not waste your breath blaming yourself for what others seek to do,” he said, quieter now but no less cutting. “If they come for you, it is because they are fools. If they come for me, it is because they are suicidal. Do not confuse the two.”

Selene trembled, her throat tightening, her thoughts unraveling at the sheer certainty in his voice. He didn’t flinch from her curse, didn’t recoil from her visions, didn’t treat her as fragile. He pulled her closer instead, as though daring her to believe otherwise.

And the terrifying part was… she wanted to.

Selene tried to steady herself, tried to smother the tremor in her body as his hand anchored her closer. But the harder she fought, the worse it became. Her body betrayed her.

Her breath came quick, uneven. Her thighs pressed together beneath the thin slip of her nightgown, a futile attempt to quiet the ache clawing through her. Fear still lingered sharp in her chest, but it tangled with something hotter, deeper, unstoppable.

Need.

It burned through her veins, pulsed through every nerve, left her trembling in his arms.

She wanted to forget. Just for tonight. To silence the visions, the fear, the endless weight of her curse. To feel only this — the press of his body against hers, the steady fire of his aura surrounding her, the rare comfort that came with his presence.

Her lips parted, her voice barely a whisper. Just tonight.

Her body leaned into him before her mind could stop it, pressing closer, seeking more. She felt the hard line of him beneath the layers of his coat, his restraint straining against the pull between them. Her breath caught at the realization — he responded.

Worse, he sensed her.

Or smelled her.

Oh indeed he did..

His nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as though he fought something primal rising inside him. His aura pulsed darker, heavier, and she knew in her bones he was holding the reins with brutal force.

Her shame should have consumed her. Embarrassment should have sent her retreating, curling away from him. But it didn’t.

All she felt was the ache. The hunger.

Her hands, trembling still, slid from his coat up to his shoulders, clutching tight. Her voice shook as she whispered, desperate, stripped bare of all pride:

“I need you.”

The words hung between them, raw and unguarded.

She no longer cared about the visions, no longer cared about what tomorrow might bring. Tonight, she only needed this — to feel him. To lose herself in him. To finally surrender to something that wasn’t fear.

For a moment, silence fell heavy between them.

Selene’s heart hammered painfully, her breath caught in her throat, as Vergil’s hand stilled at the back of her neck. His eyes locked on hers, pale and piercing, and for the first time she saw his mask crack. His gaze darkened, shadows bleeding into blue until it looked as though storm clouds gathered there. His aura flared around him, rolling thick and suffocating, pressing into her chest like a wave.

Anyone else would have recoiled in terror.

But she didn’t.

The air left her lungs, not from fear, but from the overwhelming heat rising in her blood. The pull clawed at her insides, unbearable now, and she needed him—needed him to do something, anything to quiet it.

She pressed closer, trembling hands clutching tighter at his shoulders. “Please,” she whispered again, her voice hoarse, desperate. “Don’t—don’t make me beg.”

But before the words could tumble further, his grip tightened. His other hand rose, palm firm against her jaw, tilting her face up until she couldn’t look anywhere but into his burning gaze.

“Selene.”

Her name lashed across her, sharp, silencing, commanding. Her lips parted in shock, but no sound came out.

His breath ghosted over her cheek as he leaned in, his voice low and rough, threaded with restraint fraying at the edges.

“You do not know what you are asking of me.”

Her pulse stumbled, her body arching into his hold despite the warning. His thumb brushed against her jaw, not gentle but deliberate, as if testing how far she would go.

“You think you want this,” he murmured, his words dark as velvet, “but you have no concept of what it means to invite me in. To tempt me with your body trembling against mine.” His eyes narrowed, his mouth curving faintly into something cruel, dangerous. “To beg me to touch you when every part of me is fighting not to ruin you.”

The heat of his words sank into her bones, each syllable a blade and a caress all at once.

Her breath broke, shame and hunger twisting together until she thought she might unravel completely. She should have recoiled, should have pulled back from the sharp edge in his tone.

But she didn’t.

She wanted more.

Her hands trembled as she moved, her breath breaking in a sharp gasp as she slipped one from his shoulder. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, her vision swimming with terror of what she was about to do.

Then she grabbed his hand.

Her fingers clutched his, firm despite their shaking, and she pulled it down from her jaw, down her throat, pressing it to the swell of her breast beneath the thin nightgown.

The fabric was no barrier. His palm burned against her, searing through cloth, the heat of him flooding into her skin.

A shudder wracked her body. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting in a sharp whimper she couldn’t hold back. She leaned into him, arching against the press of his hand, desperate to feel more, to make him understand without words.

Her breath caught, broken and needy. Every nerve screamed with the contradiction — shame burning her cheeks, hunger twisting low in her belly, fear that he might pull away, and relief that he didn’t.

“Please…” The word slipped out raw, unguarded, trembling against his chest.

His fingers twitched beneath her touch, but he didn’t move away. His aura surged around her instead, darker, heavier, wrapping her like a storm she had willingly walked into.

And even as his silence stretched, as his pale eyes burned down into hers, she knew she had crossed a line.

There was no going back now.

For a heartbeat, there was silence — so heavy she thought the world itself had stopped. His hand burned against her breast where she had placed it, unmoving, as if he were still weighing whether to retreat or to consume her whole.

Then something inside him snapped.

The shift was instant, visceral. His fingers flexed sharply beneath her own, gripping her with a force that made her gasp. His other hand tightened at her neck, dragging her closer until there was no space left between them.

Heat roared off him, his aura spilling unchecked, overwhelming, suffocating — and yet she couldn’t breathe without it.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her bones as his control shattered. His mouth descended, rough and unyielding, burying against the curve of her throat. The scrape of his breath against her skin made her shudder violently, her knees nearly giving way as he pressed her back into the mattress.

Her cry caught, breaking into a whimper, half fear, half need. She clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as if she could anchor herself while he devoured every inch of her.

His lips didn’t kiss. They claimed. His teeth grazed her skin, the edge of his hunger biting through the restraint he had clung to so tightly. The heat of his breath flooded against her collarbone, his nose dragging along her pulse as though scenting, memorizing, branding her as his.

His hands roamed, unrestrained now — one cupping her breast with searing force, thumb dragging across the stiff peak through the thin nightgown, the other sliding down her side, gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. Each touch ignited her nerves, her body betraying her further as she arched into him, desperate for more.

Selene’s breath broke in sharp, desperate gasps, her eyes squeezed shut as the fire consumed her. Fear had no place here anymore. Not with him. All she felt was the desperate need for him to keep going, to take her under with him.

“Vergil…” Her voice cracked on his name, ragged, pleading, but she didn’t even know what she was begging for.

His growl deepened at the sound of it, his grip on her tightening as though the name itself had driven him further past the edge. His face stayed buried in her neck, teeth grazing her skin again, breath hot and ragged against her ear.

And for the first time, she realized: he wasn’t simply touching her.

He was consuming her.

Her ragged breaths filled the room, the air thick with his growl still rumbling in her ear. She barely had time to brace herself before his hands slid lower, gripping the hem of her nightgown.

And then—

The sound of tearing fabric split the silence.

Her gasp tore from her throat as the thin gown gave way in his hands, ripped clean down the middle as though it were nothing. The fabric fell uselessly aside, leaving her bared beneath him, trembling, heat rushing to her face.

She froze for a heartbeat, shame and panic flashing — but then she felt it.

His gaze.

Vergil pulled back just enough to see her, to take her in fully. His eyes dragged down her body with a slowness that burned, pale blue consumed by darkness at the edges, the storm of him barely restrained. Yet beneath the hunger, beneath the command, there was something else.

Worship.

He looked at her as though she were a revelation, as though every line of her skin was a scripture he intended to memorize. No one had ever looked at her like that — not with reverence, not with hunger, not with both tangled together until she could barely breathe.

Her hands moved instinctively to cover herself, but he caught her wrists before she could, pushing them back down against the sheets, pinning her there.

His voice came low, dark, rasped as though dragged from somewhere deep.

“Do not hide from me.”

The words struck her like a brand, her breath stuttering, her body burning hotter beneath his stare.

He dragged his gaze back up to hers, his lips curving faintly in something dangerous, something that promised she was already his.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Her heart lurched, the command searing straight through her. Heat pooled low in her belly, shame warring with the desperate ache she could no longer deny.

Her thighs trembled, but her body obeyed, slowly, uncertainly, parting for him. Her breath shivered out, her chest heaving, every nerve lit by the intensity of his stare.

And the way his eyes darkened further as she did — the way he looked at her then, like she was both prey and goddess — nearly undid her completely. Feeling her core throb hard with need, as this man looked at her like she was a feast he needed to consume.

Vergil shifted then, his body lowering, his hands claiming her with a certainty that stole her breath. His palms slid up her thighs, fingers spreading wide, gripping firm as though to anchor her to the mattress. The strength in his hold made her heart lurch — he could break her if he wished, but instead he held her steady, in place, as though she might fly apart without him.

Her breath caught when his mouth followed.

At first it was only the brush of his lips against the soft inside of her thigh, a touch that sent a shiver racing up her spine. Then another, higher, slower, his breath hot against skin that had never known such attention. Her fingers twisted tight in the sheets, her chest heaving, every muscle trembling with anticipation and dread that burned hotter than any fear she had ever known.

When his mouth finally claimed her, she gasped — sharp, broken, a cry of his name torn from deep in her chest.

"V-vergil!"

Her cry of his name hung in the air, fragile and pleading. For a heartbeat she thought she’d gone too far, that he would stop, that her desperation would drive him away.

But instead—he growled against her, low and rough, the vibration searing through her, and his tongue drove harder, deeper, merciless.

Selene’s hips bucked against his hold, shame flooding her as heat twisted tight in her belly. She tried to muffle the sounds spilling from her lips, tried to cling to what little composure she had left, but his grip on her thighs pinned her open, pinned her down, denied her even the illusion of control.

Then his voice cut through her, dark and commanding between hungry strokes.

“Do not hide from me. I want to hear every sound you make.”

Her breath broke, a sharp whimper slipping free before she could stop it. His tongue dragged slow and deliberate over her clit, making her sob into the air, her fingers fisting tighter in the sheets.

He lifted his head just enough for his words to brand her, his mouth slick against her skin. His eyes were storm-dark, fixed on her as though he were memorizing her ruin.

“Look at you… trembling, soaking my mouth like you were made for this.” His lips curved into something cruel, reverent, both at once. “Is this what you begged me for? To be spread open, devoured until you can’t breathe?”

Her entire body shuddered, the shame of his words sinking into her skin like fire. She tried to turn her face away, but his grip tightened on her thigh, nails biting into her flesh just enough to make her gasp.

“Do not look away,” he hissed, leaning back down, his breath scalding against her. “You asked me to touch you. Now you will endure every moment of it.”

His tongue swept against her again, rough, unyielding, sending sparks of white heat through her.

Selene’s head fell back, a strangled cry leaving her throat. Her body arched up into his mouth without her permission, desperate, frantic.

“Good,” he rasped between strokes, his voice muffled by her. “That’s it. Show me how much you need me.”

Her vision blurred with tears she didn’t remember shedding, her chest heaving, her moans breaking loose despite every instinct to hold them back.

And he drank in every sound, every tremor, as though he’d been starving for this — for her — his mouth relentless, his words dark and merciless.

“You taste like sin,” he groaned into her, tongue plunging deep before circling cruelly slow. “Sweet, ruinous little thing… you’ll come for me with this mouth on you, and then I’ll see just how much more you can take.”

The press of his finger breached her slowly, carefully — the invasion foreign, startling. Her body tensed, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips, her hands flying to clutch at his hair. Fear spiked — and then, just as quickly, it shifted.

Because his tongue never stopped. Because his hand worked with deliberate precision, dragging her nerves tight until the edge of fear melted into something hotter.

The stretch burned, but then his finger curled inside her, slow, deliberate, finding a spot that sent white fire crashing through her.

Her scream tore loose, high and raw.

“Good girl,” he groaned against her, savoring the sound. “You feel that? That’s me unraveling you. That’s me showing you what your body was made for.”

Her legs shook violently, her body caught between panic and unbearable pleasure, her mind splintering at the sheer force of it. He worked her with a devastating rhythm — mouth and finger together, tongue circling mercilessly on her clit as his finger thrust slow and deep, curling every time until her vision blurred.

She was close, so close she thought she’d break apart in his hands. Her hips arched without thought, her voice breaking into sobs of desperate pleas, her body betraying her completely. When he decided she could handle more, he added another finger, spreading her wider. Feeling the slight sting that burned into pure fire of need.

shoulders, her voice cracked as she whispered, “Please—please, I can’t—”

His head lifted just enough for her to see the hunger in his storm-dark eyes, the cruel tilt of his mouth. His hand never stopped, his finger still curling deep inside her, his thumb circling mercilessly at her swollen clit.

“You can,” he rasped, his voice rough, commanding. “And you will… for me.”

The words sank through her like fire, breaking her apart before her body even gave way.

His mouth returned to her with a force that made her cry out, his tongue relentless, his hand working her with devastating precision. Every stroke, every curl, every drag of his tongue was calculated, designed to push her past the edge she had been clawing against.

Her thighs clamped around his head, her body arching off the bed as the first wave hit — a sharp, blinding crash that stole her breath and tore a scream from her throat.

“Yes,” he growled against her, his voice vibrating through her, feeding her climax. “That’s it. Shatter for me.”

Her vision went white, stars exploding behind her eyes as her climax ripped through her. The sheets tangled around her fists, her body convulsing as wave after wave consumed her.

Vergil didn’t relent. His mouth stayed on her, his hand working her through every pulse, every tremor, coaxing her higher, deeper, until she thought she might never stop unraveling.

Her sobs turned into cries, her cries into whimpers, until she could do nothing but cling to him, her body burning, her voice ragged as she moaned his name again and again.

When at last the storm began to ebb, she collapsed back against the bed, her body still twitching with aftershocks, her chest heaving.

But his mouth lingered, slow now, deliberate, savoring her as though unwilling to release her from his hold.

And when his eyes finally lifted to hers, dark and burning, she saw it clearly: the pride, the hunger, the possession.

Selene lay boneless against the sheets, her body still twitching with aftershocks, her chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Her mind struggled to make sense of what had just happened — the sheer force of it, the way he had commanded every sound from her throat, every tremor from her body, until she had shattered completely in his hands.

Her pulse still raced, her skin hot and damp, her nightgown nothing but scraps of torn fabric tangled beneath her. She had never felt so bare. So utterly exposed.

And yet, beneath the haze, there was no vision.

Only him.
Fuck only him.

Her lashes fluttered, eyes heavy, as she lay trying to steady herself. It wasn’t until she heard the faint shift of leather that she realized he’d moved.

A buckle loosened, the quiet slide of a belt drawn free. The faint rustle of fabric as clothing fell aside.

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t even noticed him stand, hadn’t registered when he left the bed — her body had been too consumed, too overwhelmed. But now the sound of his deliberate movements snapped through her haze, pulling her back.

Selene’s heart pounded anew, heat flooding her cheeks as she turned her head toward the sound. She caught only glimpses in the dim light: pale skin revealed in stark lines, the shimmer of his silver hair shifting as he moved, the long, deliberate pace of a man discarding restraint piece by piece.

Her body trembled again, but this time it wasn’t from fear.

By the time her breath steadied enough to draw in fully, the weight of the mattress dipped beneath her again.

Vergil returned to her.

The heat of his body pressed against hers, heavier than before, surrounding her with the scent of steel and storm, the warmth of bare skin against her own.

Her eyes lifted — and the sight made her chest tighten until she thought it might burst.

He was magnificent.

Lean, sculpted, every line of him carved with precision, his pale skin kissed by shadow in the low lamplight. The scars that marred him only made him more devastating, each one a history written on his body. She had spent her life fearing touch, hiding from closeness… and yet she had never wanted anything as much as she wanted to trace every line of him now.

Her hands moved before thought could stop them, trembling as she reached up to touch him. Her fingers brushed over the hard plane of his chest, sliding reverently across muscle, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Selene swallowed, awe and hunger warring inside her, and whispered against the quiet:

“You… you’re beautiful.”

Her voice cracked, but the truth of it was undeniable. She worshipped him in that moment, not just for his body but for the impossible fact that he had given himself back to her bed, to her trembling arms, when he could have walked away.

And as his shadow loomed over her, his body pressing her deeper into the sheets, the fire in his eyes told her he intended to claim far more than just her breath.

Chapter Text

Vergil’s breath was still uneven, his tongue heavy with the taste of her — sweet, intoxicating, addicting. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, as though the gesture could erase the proof of his loss of restraint, but the flavor lingered stubbornly, coating his senses, reminding him of how she had writhed beneath him.

He forced himself to look at her.

Selene lay spread across the sheets, chest rising in sharp, desperate pulls, her skin flushed with the high color of release. Damp strands of hair clung to her temple, her lips still parted from the scream she had torn into the night. Her body trembled with aftershocks, thighs quivering where his hands had held her open and unyielding.

She looked utterly undone.

And the sight ignited something dark and primal within him. He had seen countless enemies broken, countless adversaries shattered, but never like this. Never with such raw, vulnerable abandon. Never with the kind of trust — blind, reckless trust — that she had given him without even realizing it.

A low growl rumbled from his chest. His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to claim her again with his mouth, to wring another climax from her until she forgot her own name. His body ached with need, hard and straining, his control unraveling faster than he could grasp it.

Without another thought, he shed his armor.

The heavy fall of his coat hit the floor first, the sound cutting through the hush of her ragged breaths. His fingers tore at buckles, at the familiar weight of leather, discarding it in sharp, precise movements. Piece by piece, the layers that had always been his shield fell away, until nothing remained between him and the searing heat of his own skin.

Naked now, he stood over the bed for a long moment, letting the air cool his fevered body, his pale skin bathed in fractured lamplight. He had not allowed himself to be seen like this in decades. Not wholly, not stripped bare of both weapon and armor.

And then her eyes found him.

Wide, shimmering, uncertain — yet filled with something he had not expected. Not fear. Not revulsion. But awe.

Her hand lifted, trembling, as though compelled against her will. Fingers brushed across his chest, tentative at first, then firmer, tracing along the lines of muscle, lingering on the raised edge of an old scar. She explored him as though he were a book written in a language she had never seen before, and she was desperate to translate every mark, every line, every shadow.

The weight of her touch sent fire crawling through his skin.

Then she whispered it.

“You’re beautiful.”

The word was fragile, trembling, as though she was half afraid to speak it. Yet it struck him harder than any blade.

Vergil stilled. His entire body went rigid, breath caught in his throat, eyes narrowing as though he had misheard. Beautiful. The word did not belong to him. He had been called many things in his life — son, soldier, traitor, devil. Monster. He had earned every one of them.

But beautiful?

The very thought unsettled him. His chest tightened, his jaw clenched, his mind snarled at the sheer absurdity of it. He was not beautiful. He was a creature carved from blood and battle, a man who had severed his own humanity to pursue strength. Beautiful was Dante, reckless and charming, all fire and chaos. Beautiful was not him.

And yet — she had said it with such raw certainty.

His hunger twisted, sharper now, no longer just lust but something deeper, something dangerous. A need not only to claim her, but to silence that word before it could take root. Or perhaps to prove her wrong. Or worse — to prove her right.

He growled low, dark, and bent over her, burying his face in the curve of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. His teeth grazed her collarbone, a threat and a promise all at once, while his hands roamed the trembling expanse of her body, mapping her curves with a reverence he refused to name.

But still, beneath it all, her word lingered, echoing in his skull like a curse he couldn’t shake.

Beautiful.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Vergil was not sure if he wanted to silence her for it… or to hear it again.

Her lungs still burned from the last storm he had dragged her through, her body weak, trembling, when she felt the shift in him. Vergil rose slightly over her, bracing himself on his arms, and the heat of him pressed against her belly.

Her eyes flicked down, and her breath stuttered.

He was—impossible. Thick, hard, the sheer size of him straining her imagination. A flush tore across her cheeks, shame and fear tangling sharp in her chest. There was no way—no possible way her body could take him. The thought alone made her thighs clamp instinctively, trembling with panic.

But he saw it. Of course he saw it.

His mouth curved faintly, cruel and knowing, as his pale eyes dragged over her flushed face. He shifted his hips, slow, deliberate, dragging the heavy length of him against her slick folds without pressing in.

Her cry broke free at the first touch, sharp and shocked, her hips jerking despite her fear.

Vergil’s growl followed, low and pleased. “Afraid?” His tone dripped with dark amusement, though his hand steadied her hip, holding her open. He pressed himself along her again, rubbing slow, languid, coating his length with her wetness. “You should be.”

Her body arched involuntarily, the friction unbearable, her fear dissolving into another wave of heat. The broad head of him brushed mercilessly against her clit, again and again, until her thighs trembled and her nails clawed at the sheets.

Shame burned her face, but her body betrayed her utterly — every whimper, every moan, every trembling arch of her hips begging for more even as her mind whispered she couldn’t take him.

He bent closer, his mouth at her ear, his voice dark velvet.

“You feel it, don’t you? How easily your body yields to me. How desperately it craves me, even as you shake with fear.” His length slid against her again, harder this time, dragging sparks of unbearable pleasure through her nerves.

Her head fell back, a sob torn from her throat, her climax threatening to break again just from the relentless teasing. He didn’t need to enter her. He didn’t need to do more than this to shatter her.

And he knew it.

His lips brushed her ear, his words a brand against her skin.

“Tell me, Selene.” His hips pressed harder, slower, tormenting her. “Do you need me?”

Her cry broke into a plea, her body already cresting, trembling on the edge he forced her onto with nothing but his size rubbing mercilessly against her.

Vergil’s eyes burned down into hers, waiting. Demanding.

“Say it.”

Her body quaked beneath him, heat spiraling unbearably as his length dragged again and again over her slick folds, never breaching, never giving what she craved. Her thighs trembled, her fingers clawed the sheets, and still he tormented her, slow and deliberate.

Selene gasped, her voice cracking. “Vergil—please—”

His growl rumbled against her skin, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating down to her bones. His hand pressed firmer to her hip, holding her open, keeping her right where he wanted her. His pale eyes burned down into hers, dark with storm and hunger, but sharp with absolute control.

“Not yet,” he rasped, his voice a blade’s edge. His length slid against her again, harder, making her cry out as sparks tore through her nerves. “You’ll come first. I’ll hear you shatter again before I take you.”

Her body arched helplessly against him, her shame burned away in the fire he stoked. He didn’t thrust — he dragged, slow and merciless, every vein, every inch grinding over her clit until she sobbed. Her fear of his size twisted into unbearable need, her body betraying her utterly.

The dark curl of his lips told her he saw it — reveled in it.

“You tremble like a frightened thing,” he hissed, the sinister note in his voice making her shudder harder. “Yet your body begs for me. Soaked. Desperate. Every whimper you give me proves you were made for this.”

The words unraveled her faster than his body did. Her eyes squeezed shut, shame and need tangling until she couldn’t tell the difference anymore. She was shaking violently, teetering, her climax clawing at her from the edge he held her on.

He bent closer, his mouth at her ear, breath hot, his voice rough with restrained hunger.

“Come for me, Selene.” His hips ground harder, slower, deliberate torment. “Come against my cock so I know you’re ready to take it.”

The command shattered her.

Her scream broke from her lips, raw and breathless, her body bowing beneath him as release tore through her. Heat and fire ripped from her core, flooding her until her vision blurred and stars burst behind her eyelids. She convulsed around nothing, her slick coating him as he worked her through it, drawing out every wave, every tremor, until she lay wrecked and sobbing beneath him.

Only then did he still.

For a heartbeat, silence — except for her ragged breaths, her trembling moans.

Then she felt him shift. His hand cupped her cheek, rough but steady, forcing her eyes to his. His length pressed at her entrance, poised, restrained, as if even now he fought to leash himself.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmured, dark and unyielding, seeing her completely at his mercy.

Her tears burned hot at the corners of her eyes — fear, need, relief all tangled — but she nodded, unable to deny him.

And then, with terrifying patience, he pushed forward.

The stretch burned, sharp and overwhelming, but his hand held her, his words low and commanding in her ear as he eased deeper.

The heat of him pressed against her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging firmly, stretching her slick folds apart. Her heart hammered painfully, fear flooding her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders as terror whispered she couldn’t possibly take him.

But then she felt it — his hand sliding between them.

Rough fingers, practiced and mercilessly precise, found her swollen clit again, circling gently, stroking until sparks of sensation shot through her nerves. Her hips jerked, her body arching despite her fear. A whimper tore from her throat, pained and needy all at once.

His voice followed, low and ragged at her ear.

“Breathe.”

Her lungs caught, shuddering.

“You’re tight,” he growled, his tone sharpened with restraint. “Too tight. But you’ll yield. You’ll take me… all of me. Inch by inch.”

The tip of him pressed harder, testing her entrance. She felt her body resist, the sharp sting of the breach making her cry out. Panic flared, her hands flying to clutch at his arms, her thighs trembling.

Vergil stilled immediately. His hand at her clit didn’t stop, slow circles coaxing her through the sharp edge of pain, feeding pleasure back into her nerves until her cries softened into gasps.

“Good,” he rasped, his voice dark but steadier now. His lips brushed her temple, his breath hot. “That’s it. Focus on me..”

She did. She forced herself to cling to the flood of pleasure his fingers commanded, the fire sparking low and spreading. Her body loosened, relaxing against him even as her cheeks burned with tears of both pain and relief.

He pushed forward again — slow, deliberate, merciless in his patience. The burn stretched sharper, but the pleasure tangled with it, overwhelming, confusing. Inch by inch, he breached her, claiming what no one else ever had.

Her sob caught in her throat, her voice cracking against his name. “Vergil—”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, almost pained. “I know. You are so tight—” his teeth grazed her ear, a growl in his throat, “—you’ll never forget how it feels to have me inside you.”

Her nails clawed into his back, her body trembling violently, but the circles of his thumb dragged another climax dangerously close even as he eased deeper. The sting softened, pleasure surging stronger, her body betraying her again.

And when at last he buried himself inside her, fully seated, his control nearly shattering, he stilled — holding her, steadying her, letting her adjust.

His breath hissed through his teeth as he stilled, every muscle drawn taut, his arms braced hard against the mattress to keep his weight from crushing her. His jaw locked, his eyes shut briefly as he fought to leash the hunger roaring through him.

It had been too long.

Too many years of denying himself this. Too many years of walls built from discipline and silence, from blade and blood. Now they crumbled all at once, and he was left shaking, his control slipping thread by thread.

And she — the little seer trembling beneath him — she was the reason.

Her walls clutched at him, hot and unrelenting, pulling him deeper, tighter. Every whimper she made, every sob that slipped her throat, wrapped around him like a chain he both loathed and craved.

When her hips shifted upward — tentative, testing — the shock of it wrenched a growl from his chest. His head snapped down, eyes blazing into hers, his teeth gritted as though a single inch more might undo him completely.

“Do not move,” he hissed, the words raw, ragged, far from the composure he prided himself on. His fingers dug into her hip, anchoring her, steadying himself. “Unless you wish me to lose every restraint I have left.”

And still she looked at him with those wide, wet eyes — flushed, afraid, but something more flickering there. Something that struck deeper than her body could ever reach.

She whispered, trembling, “You’re… shaking.”

The truth of it pierced him. He was trembling. His body betrayed him as surely as hers did.

He leaned closer, forehead nearly pressing to hers, his breath coming harsh and uneven.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, his voice fractured, “what you’re doing to me.”

Her scent filled his lungs, heavy, intoxicating. Her heat clenched around him, making his cock twitch despite his command. He gritted his teeth, hissed again as another spasm gripped him, fighting not to spill inside her like some untried boy.

Damn it all.

He was Vergil. He was control. Precision. Discipline incarnate.

And yet, inside her — wrapped in her heat, undone by her innocence, her trust, her need — he was seconds from breaking.

She shifted beneath him again, another unsteady test, and it broke him.

A guttural sound tore from his throat as his hips finally moved, dragging him out of her an inch, then pressing back in, slow, deliberate, agonizing.

Her cry filled the air, sharp at first, her nails biting into his skin. He stilled instantly, every muscle locked, listening — watching. Her body trembled, stretched painfully around him, but then… softened. Yielded. Her walls clenched tighter, the sting fading into something else.

Vergil exhaled through his teeth, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. The feel of her… fuck, it was too much. The tight heat of her body clinging to him was a torment unlike any battle wound, any demon’s claw. He dragged himself back, then pushed deeper again, another inch, his breath hitching as she took him.

Her head fell back against the pillow, a broken moan escaping her lips. The sound made his cock twitch inside her, made his restraint fray dangerously thin.

Every reaction was a brand against his control.

Her heat sucked him in, her walls trembling around his length with each measured thrust. The way she gasped his name, the way her nails dragged down his back, the way her eyes fluttered half-shut as pleasure began to bloom in her expression — it undid him.

He wanted to lose himself, to drive hard and deep until she screamed. His instincts roared for it. His demon snarled for it. But he crushed the urge, forced every muscle into submission.

He would not break her.

She was trembling beneath him, soft cries spilling from her lips, but her body had begun to move on instinct. Every time he pulled back, her hips tilted upward, seeking more, testing the boundaries he had set. The little motions were hesitant, unsure… but enough to make his jaw clench, his breath hiss between his teeth.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, his grip on her hip tightening as he felt her pulse around him with each subtle roll.

“You dare test me?” he rasped, his voice guttural, his control fraying as her body clung to his length.

She whimpered, the sound half plea, half apology — but her hips shifted again, as though her body refused to obey even when her mind screamed restraint.

A low growl rumbled from his chest. He had indulged her innocence long enough.

Vergil’s hand slid down her thigh, gripping it firmly, and in one fluid motion he pushed her leg upward, hooking it over his shoulder. The new angle stretched her tighter around him, opened her for him completely, and when he thrust forward this time — deeper, harder — her scream filled the room.

His lips curved faintly, dark satisfaction flashing in his eyes.

“Better,” he growled, his voice sharp and merciless. He drove forward again, slow but unyielding, savoring the way she writhed beneath him. “You will not dictate the pace. I will show you how this is done.”

Her nails clawed at his back, her cries breaking into gasps as his cock reached deeper inside her than before, every thrust forcing her body to yield further. The stretch still burned, but the way her walls tightened around him told him the truth — she craved it.

Vergil hissed again as her heat clamped down, his control slipping further with every shudder of her body. “You feel that?” His words were low, ragged, punctuated by another deep thrust that made her cry out. “How perfectly you open for me… how your body was made to take me.”

Her head shook, tears streaking her flushed cheeks, but her hips arched helplessly against him, betraying her. Her cries turned to whimpers of his name, desperate, broken, and it only drove him harder.

Vergil’s grip tightened on her thigh, his pace building — still measured, but deeper, sharper, his thrusts calculated to wring every sound from her throat. He watched her unravel beneath him, his own body trembling with the effort not to lose himself completely, every muscle aflame with the torment of restraint.

And still, beneath the storm, one truth burned in his mind:

He will never let her go.

He leaned forward, pressing her leg tighter against her body, his chest hovering over hers, their breaths colliding in ragged bursts. His thrusts grew sharper, faster, each one forcing her further into the sheets as her nails raked across his back.

Then — it happened.

Her arms reached for him, trembling but insistent, clutching at his shoulders until she dragged him closer. Before he could snarl a command, her lips pressed to his.

Vergil froze.

Of all the things he had expected — screams, pleas, the breaking point of her innocence — this, this was not it. He had never indulged in such softness. Kisses were for lovers, for those who clung to human frailty. He had not kissed anyone in decades, perhaps ever, not truly. His lips parted against hers, shock rippling through him, his mind faltering.

For the first time since his control had cracked, he faltered.

But then her mouth moved against his — desperate, needy, trembling — and something inside him shattered all over again.

He growled into the kiss, low and rough, and claimed her mouth as mercilessly as he claimed her body. His hand tangled in her hair, fisting the strands as he deepened the kiss, devouring her whimpers. Their tongues tangled, clumsy at first, then hungry, as though he meant to consume her breath along with her cries.

The intimacy burned him worse than her heat.

It was too close. Too raw. Too human.

And so he drowned it the only way he knew how — with control.

Vergil pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, storming, his lips slick from hers. His hips snapped harder, faster, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the room. Her scream broke against his mouth as he kissed her again, harder this time, swallowing the sound as though he couldn’t bear to let it escape.

Her taste was intoxicating. Her heat, unbearable. His cock twitched deep inside her with every frantic clench of her walls, dragging him closer to the edge he had sworn he wouldn’t fall from so soon.

The kiss had undone him, left cracks in walls he thought unbreakable. Now every thrust drove him closer to the edge, every cry of his name pulled him nearer to ruin. Her body clutched at him, hot and desperate, her nails raking down his back, her hips rising to meet his with instinct she couldn’t possibly understand.

Vergil’s breath came ragged, his jaw tight, his body trembling as his control slipped. His cock pulsed inside her, the pressure building fast, brutal, demanding release. And worse — far worse — was the other urge clawing at him.

The hunger to mark.

His demon blood snarled for it. Every beat of her heart beneath him, every gasp of her breath, made the instinct surge stronger. His gaze locked to the delicate line of her throat, pale and soft, the pulse hammering beneath the skin. His teeth ached with the need to sink into it, to seal what his body already knew she was — his.

For one terrifying moment, he nearly yielded. His lips brushed her neck, his breath hot, and he felt the growl build low in his chest, savage and undeniable.

No.

He forced his eyes shut, hissed through his teeth as though in pain, his grip on her thigh tightening as he dragged himself back from the brink. Not like this. Not when Trish’s words still echoed in his head — of bonds, of fate, of ties that could not be severed. He would not allow instinct to chain him. Not yet.

But she was close. He felt it in the way her body convulsed around him, in the cries that spilled higher, faster, desperate. Her climax trembled on the edge, and he seized it, forced it, with brutal precision. His hand slid between them, thumb finding her swollen clit, circling hard and fast as he drove into her deeper, sharper.

Her scream tore against his ear as she shattered. Her body clenched violently around him, pulsing in waves, dragging him further toward the precipice.

Vergil groaned, guttural, his teeth bared as the flood of her climax milked him mercilessly. His cock throbbed, his body begged for release, begged to spill into her, to mark her in every way his demon demanded.

And at the last moment, with control born of sheer fury at himself, he tore away.

He pulled free with a growl, the loss nearly breaking him. His hand fisted around himself, pumping once, twice, as he angled away from her trembling body. His climax ripped through him in silence but for the hiss of his breath, his seed spilling across the sheets instead of inside her.

His head bowed, silver hair shadowing his face, his chest heaving. His body still snarled for more, for the bond, for the bite he had denied.

But his control, frayed as it was, held.

Barely.

Vergil’s breath still came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he sat back on his heels, the world reduced to a haze of heat and shadows. His cock throbbed with the ghost of release, his body still straining toward her even as his seed cooled uselessly across the sheets instead of buried inside her where his demon side demanded it belong.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, desire, and blood.

Blood.

His gaze dropped, and the world seemed to lurch beneath him.

Scarlet streaked the white of the sheets, stark against pale fabric. Tiny rivulets marked where she lay beneath him, trembling and utterly spent, her body curled slightly as though trying to protect itself. The sight hit him harder than any blade ever had.

It wasn’t much — only the proof of her innocence, the price of her yielding to him — but it was enough to ignite a fresh, visceral rage.

At himself.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His demon snarled for satisfaction, for ownership, for the bond he had denied. His human side, the part he had only recently begun to reclaim, recoiled in equal measure at the fragility of her form, the evidence of what he had taken from her.

For a long moment, he couldn’t move. His breath hissed through his teeth, his body trembling from the battle between pride and shame, hunger and restraint.

Then she whimpered.

A small, broken sound — so quiet he almost missed it — but it cleaved through the storm inside him like a blade. Her lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks, her lips parted, her body shifting weakly beneath the tangled sheets.

She wasn’t afraid.

Even in her exhaustion, there was no terror in her movements, no recoil from his presence. She was simply… spent.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Vergil’s hands uncurled slowly, deliberately, as though each finger were a weapon he had to sheath. He forced himself to move with precision, with care. He reached for a cloth from the nearby table, dampened it with water from the pitcher he’d seen earlier, and returned to her side.

His own nudity felt… foreign. Vulnerable. But he ignored it.

“Selene,” he said, his voice low, roughened from growls and guttural commands.

Her eyes opened slightly, dazed and unfocused, but they found him. Even in her haze, her lips trembled into a soft, fragile smile. It struck him like a physical blow.

He knelt beside her, the damp cloth in his hand, and began to clean her with slow, precise motions. Blood first, then the remnants of their joining. He worked carefully, almost clinically, yet his chest burned with something he didn’t understand.

Each soft whimper she made as he touched her — not of pain, but sensitivity — made his jaw tighten.

“You… are unharmed beyond this,” he said at last, his tone clipped, almost awkward. His gaze flicked to the small stain of blood on the sheets, then away. “I did not… cause lasting damage.”

She gave a weak, breathless laugh that was somehow still tender. “I’m okay… Vergil.”

The sound of his name on her lips — soft, trusting — nearly undid him again.

He replaced the cloth and gathered her carefully into his arms, lifting her as though she were glass. The heat of her bare skin against his was almost unbearable, her scent still clinging to him, mingled with his own. He carried her to the cleaner side of the bed, lowering her gently onto fresh sheets.

When she whimpered again, her fingers clutching faintly at his forearm, he hesitated. For a man who had commanded armies, who had torn through demons without mercy, that small human gesture felt more dangerous than any battlefield.

So he stayed.

Awkwardly, stiffly, Vergil lowered himself beside her. His arm curved around her shoulders, unfamiliar with the motion, but she nestled against him instinctively. Her head rested over his heart, her breath slow and even as sleep began to claim her.

He stared down at her for a long time, silent. The sight of her soft and vulnerable in his arms was… disarming. Terrifying. Precious.

When her breathing finally evened out completely, Vergil let out a slow, shuddering breath. His hand hovered briefly above her hair before settling gently, reverently.

Vergil finally feeling the release of tension in his body for the first time in years.

She had completely undid him.

Chapter Text

Selene stirred slowly, as though surfacing from the depths of some impossible dream. Her body was heavy, languid… and aching.

The soreness came first — a deep, relentless throb between her thighs that flared with even the smallest shift of her hips. Her muscles burned, stretched and overworked, and every nerve still tingled from how completely he had unraveled her. A soft, involuntary whimper slipped past her lips, and she froze, heat rushing to her cheeks.

Last night hadn’t been a dream.

The proof of it was everywhere — in the tenderness between her legs, the faint bruises blooming along her hips and thighs where his hands had held her open, and the sweet, maddening ache low in her belly where his body had been buried inside hers.

Selene swallowed hard, trying to calm the wild flutter of her heart.

It had been… overwhelming. Terrifying and beautiful all at once. She had feared intimacy for so long — feared what her visions would do to both her and anyone who tried to love her. But Vergil’s touch had been nothing but silence. No flashes of terrible futures. No screaming voices. No curse clawing at the edges of her mind.

For one night, she had been free to simply feel.

And gods, she had felt everything.

Selene turned her head slightly, careful not to wake him. Vergil lay beside her, the morning light spilling over the hard lines of his body. His silver hair was loose, a few unruly strands falling across his pale face, his sharp features softened by sleep.

It didn’t seem possible that this was the same man who had moved inside her with such dark, commanding intensity — the same man who had stripped her bare of every defense, then carefully gathered her trembling body into his arms when it was over.

Last night, she’d seen every side of him: the ruthless precision, the barely leashed hunger, and beneath it all, a tenderness so subtle it almost didn’t seem real.

Her chest tightened painfully.

Vergil wasn’t just her safe space anymore — he was her anchor. The tether she hadn’t wanted to admit she’d been reaching for all along.

Selene shifted carefully, wincing at the soreness, and settled more fully against the pillow. His scent still clung to her skin — clean steel and dark storm, a contrast to her own faint notes of jasmine and vanilla. It wrapped around her like a second blanket, grounding her.

For so long, her life had been defined by fear. Fear of her visions, fear of her own power, fear of hurting the people she loved. But last night… last night, for the first time, she hadn’t been afraid.

She’d given herself completely to him — body and soul — and he had taken everything she offered without hesitation, without judgment.

Now, lying here in the pale light of morning, she understood something terrifying and wonderful: she didn’t just want Vergil near her. She needed him.

Not just because he freed her from her curse, but because somewhere in the chaos of last night, he had become the only person who made her feel truly alive.

Selene closed her eyes briefly, letting that truth settle in her bones. The soreness would fade. The bruises would heal. But the way he’d looked at her — as though she belonged to him completely — would stay with her forever.

And maybe, just maybe, she could let herself believe that she belonged there.

Her heart fluttered wildly as she stared at the ceiling, pretending to still be asleep, pretending her world hadn’t been forever changed. But her thoughts spun with questions she didn’t dare give voice to. What did this mean to him? To her, it was life-altering. To Vergil, was it merely instinct? A release of hunger, a need to control, to claim?

She bit her lip, anxiety creeping in like a shadow.

She didn’t notice the subtle shift of his breathing until his voice broke the quiet.
Smooth. Measured. Impossible to read.

“You think too loudly.”

Selene startled, jerking her head to the side. His eyes were open — piercing blue, sharp even in the softened light of morning. He’d been awake. Watching her.

Heat flooded her cheeks. “You… you’ve been awake this whole time?”

Vergil’s gaze didn’t waver. His body remained perfectly still, as if carved from marble, yet there was an undercurrent beneath that stillness — a coiled tension, like a blade held just shy of striking.
“I was resting,” he said evenly, though his voice carried a faint rasp that betrayed how little true rest he’d had. “Allowing my mind to… be quiet.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Until your thoughts grew… loud.”

Selene’s heart skipped. He said it as though he could hear her very heartbeat, sense the storm of worry in her chest.
“I wasn’t trying to disturb you,” she whispered, mortified.

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his gaze — brief, unreadable. “You didn’t.” He paused, and the silence stretched unbearably long. Then, softer, almost hesitant, he added, “I find… there is a certain comfort in your presence.”

The words struck her like a physical blow. Selene’s lips parted, but no sound came. Comfort. From him. The man who had been so commanding, so precise, so utterly controlled last night… was admitting this?

Before she could respond, Vergil sat up slowly, the sheet falling away to reveal the sculpted lines of his pale torso. Even now, after everything, his presence stole her breath. His silver hair caught in the soft light streaming through the curtains, strands loose and untamed, his usual perfect composure slightly unraveled.

He didn’t look at her at first. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing, before finally settling back on her. And for a heartbeat, she swore she saw something raw there — something he immediately locked away behind his usual mask.

Selene swallowed hard, gathering her courage.
“Vergil… last night…” Her voice trembled. “What does this mean to you?”

His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicked to hers, sharp as a blade, and for one terrifying moment she thought he might simply walk out without answering. But he didn’t.

Instead, he breathed in slow and deep, as if weighing every possible word. “It means…” His voice faltered, quiet, jagged at the edges. “That certain… lines have been crossed.”

Her heart lurched painfully. “Lines?”

He turned his face slightly away, the morning light casting shadows across his sharp features. “You do not understand the… implications.” His tone was clipped now, defensive. He was retreating behind walls as fast as she tried to reach him.

“Then help me understand,” Selene whispered, the words breaking from her in a rush. “Because right now, I’m just—” She stopped herself, closing her eyes. “I’m terrified, Vergil. Of what comes next. Of… of what we are now.”

For a heartbeat, silence.

When he finally looked at her again, his eyes were storming. “There are things you are better off not knowing.” His voice was low, a razor edge beneath velvet. “Knowledge can bind as surely as chains. You need not share in my… burden.”

Selene’s breath caught. He wasn’t pushing her away out of disinterest — he was protecting her. Hiding something dark, something dangerous.
“You’re keeping something from me,” she said softly.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t deny it.

Selene’s throat ached as she whispered, “Why can’t you trust me with it?”

The question hung between them like smoke.

Vergil’s hands curled into fists at his sides. For a moment, she thought he might answer — truly answer. His lips parted, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face. But then it was gone, shuttered, buried beneath a cold, controlled expression, giving a small shake of his head.

“Because,” he said at last, voice sharp, final, “if I did… you would never look at me the same way again.”

Selene’s chest cracked open with a mixture of fear and longing. She didn’t know what was worse — the secret itself, or the look in his eyes as he refused to share it.

And yet, even as her heart broke a little, she knew this:
Whatever shadows haunted Vergil, they weren’t just his anymore.

Selene lay perfectly still, the cool sheets twisted around her bare body, trying to keep her expression neutral as Vergil rose from the bed.

Her chest ached, but she wouldn’t let it show.
Why would she be angry?

She had been the one who crossed that line, who reached for him with trembling hands and begged him to touch her. She’d been desperate — desperate for one night where she wasn’t terrified of her own power, where her skin didn’t feel like a prison of curses and visions.

And Vergil had given her that.

He hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t recoiled from her like others had in the past. When she offered herself, he had taken her, commanding and precise, giving her what she had needed even before she could put words to it.

Last night, she had finally let go.
Last night, she had been free.

So no, she couldn’t fault him now for being… distant.

Still, a small, quiet ache bloomed inside her as she watched him.

Vergil stood at the edge of the room, gathering his clothes with movements that were exact, almost ritualistic. The morning light caught the pale planes of his back, highlighting the lean muscle beneath his skin. He was beautiful, devastatingly so, but untouchable now — a sharp contrast to the man who had been inside her only hours ago, whispering dark, ragged words against her ear as she broke apart beneath him.

Selene’s throat tightened.

He didn’t look at her as he dressed. Piece by piece, he rebuilt his armor: dark trousers, the crisp shirt, each buckle and button sealing him further behind the walls she could never seem to breach. By the time he reached for his coat, the man who had held her so carefully last night was gone — replaced by the composed, enigmatic figure she had first met.

It was almost as if he was erasing the vulnerability they’d shared.

Selene turned her face toward the window, biting her lip to keep her expression calm.
This was normal, wasn’t it? People didn’t always wake up tangled in each other’s arms, whispering promises. Maybe for him, this was just… how it was.

Maybe this is all it can be, she told herself fiercely.

Because if she let herself hope for more — for tenderness, for answers — the hurt would crush her.

She shifted slightly under the sheets, wincing at the soreness still lingering in her body. Every ache was a reminder of how completely she’d given herself to him. And gods help her, she didn’t regret it.

Even if she never understood what last night truly meant to Vergil, she would never take it back.

When she finally dared to glance at him again, he was pulling on his gloves, his movements precise, controlled. His face was unreadable, a mask of calm perfection.

But his eyes…

For the briefest heartbeat, she caught him looking at her. Something dark and conflicted burned there — a flicker so fast she almost thought she imagined it. Then it was gone, shuttered away.

Selene swallowed hard and forced herself to smile, even though her chest felt tight. “You’ll… be busy today?” she asked softly, her voice almost too casual.

Vergil’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he inclined his head in a slow, deliberate nod. “There are matters that require my attention.”

Of course there were.

She nodded too quickly, looking away again before he could see her expression falter. “I’ll… be here.”

Another silence fell, thick and heavy. Selene listened to the quiet rustle of his coat as he adjusted it, the faint sound of his boots on the floor.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. Measured.
“You should rest.”

The words hit her harder than they should have. It wasn’t a dismissal. It wasn’t cold.
It was… care. Quiet and awkward, the only way he seemed to know how to offer it.

Her chest eased slightly, and she gave him a small, genuine smile. “I will.”

Vergil lingered for a moment longer, as though there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. Then, with the same precision he carried in every motion, he turned and left the room.

Selene lay there in silence long after the door closed, staring at the ceiling.
The ache in her body was sharp, but the ache in her heart was sharper.

She pressed a hand to her chest, willing herself not to cry. Whatever secrets Vergil held, whatever walls he kept between them… she wouldn’t hold it against him.

Because she knew one thing for certain: last night hadn’t been meaningless.

Oh hell no..

Not for her. And, deep down, she was certain… not for him either. The room felt different without him in it.
Empty, yet charged, like the air after a storm.

Selene lay still for a few minutes after Vergil left, listening to the faint echo of his footsteps fading down the hall. A heavy quiet settled over her, the kind that pressed against her ribs and made her want to cry — but she didn’t. She wouldn’t.

Eventually, she drew a deep breath and forced herself to move.

The moment her bare feet touched the cool floorboards, her body protested. A sharp ache pulsed between her thighs, matched by a heavy soreness in her hips and legs. Even her arms felt tender, a ghost of memory where he’d held her down, commanding her surrender. Heat flushed through her cheeks as she shuffled slowly toward the bed to strip it.

The sheets were tangled and damp with sweat, carrying the lingering scent of sex and his stormy, metallic warmth. Selene’s throat tightened as she bundled them up and tossed them into a hamper, determined not to dwell on the streak of crimson that marked them. A single, undeniable reminder of what they’d done — of what she had given him.

She pressed her lips together and exhaled slowly, grounding herself. This wasn’t shame. It couldn’t be. She had chosen this, chosen him, because she had needed to feel something real, to be free of her fear for one night.

Her body ached, but her heart felt strangely… lighter.

Selene padded into the bathroom, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles, and turned on the shower. Steam filled the small space, fogging the mirror. She stepped beneath the hot spray with a soft hiss, letting the water pound against her sore skin.

It felt like washing away the residue of the night — his touch, his scent, the overwhelming physical reminder of his dominance. But no amount of water could erase the way she felt.

As the water cascaded over her, Selene closed her eyes and pressed her palms flat to the cool tile. For so long, she’d lived in fear of her visions, of the curse that turned every touch into torment. But last night, she had been free. She’d been desired, worshipped, claimed — and for the first time in her life, she’d allowed herself to simply be.

She smiled faintly through the steam, the expression soft and a little sad.

They might never cross that line again. She knew that.
Vergil was… complicated. Whatever demons haunted him — literal or otherwise — they were his alone to carry. And maybe last night had been a moment of weakness for him, a fleeting thing they would never speak of again.

But for her? It had been transformative.

Selene tilted her head back beneath the spray, letting the water rush over her face, and decided she wouldn’t regret it. Even if it never happened again, she would treasure what he’d given her: a chance to feel alive.

By the time she stepped out and wrapped herself in a soft towel, her body still wobbly, her skin pink from the heat, she felt… different.
Lighter. Radiant.

Selene dressed carefully in a loose, comfortable gown and moved through the small space above her shop, starting her morning routine. The smell of freshly brewed tea filled the air as she prepared a simple breakfast — sliced fruit, buttered toast — each small, mundane action grounding her further.

Her movements were slow, careful. Her legs still trembled when she stood too long, her thighs aching, her inner muscles tender with every shift. She gritted her teeth through it, oddly proud of the soreness, as though her body carried proof of her bravery, of what she had dared to take for herself.

As she sat at the small table with her tea cupped in her hands, she let herself breathe.

Selene had spent so much of her life hiding — from her visions, from people, from herself. Last night had stripped all of that away. She had been vulnerable, yes, but also powerful in her choice. She had wanted Vergil, and she had claimed that want without apology.

Now, as the morning sunlight spilled through the window, she felt a quiet confidence she’d never known before.

Even if Vergil never touched her again, even if he kept his secrets locked behind those stormy eyes, she had this moment. This strength.

She wasn’t just the cursed girl with visions anymore. She was Selene — radiant, alive, and finally unafraid.

She took a slow sip of tea, savoring the warmth. Somewhere below, the shop’s old wooden sign creaked faintly in the breeze, and for a moment, everything felt almost peaceful.

But beneath that peace, a whisper of unease lingered — the faint memory of the dark vision she’d had before Vergil came to her bed last night. The cult. The chanting. The sense of being hunted.

Selene tightened her grip on the teacup, her jaw setting with quiet determination.
Whatever storm was coming, she wasn’t the same frightened woman she had been before.

And this time… she wasn’t alone.

♡♡♡

The bell above the door chimed softly, and Selene glanced up from behind the counter with a smile — a real one, not the practiced polite curve of her lips she used to hide behind.

“Good morning,” she greeted, her voice steady and warm.

The older couple entering the shop looked pleasantly surprised, smiling back as they drifted toward the back shelves. A month ago, she might have ducked her head, kept her gaze on the floor, hoping no one would linger too long or try to speak with her. Now, she found herself meeting their eyes, her posture relaxed, her voice carrying clearly across the space.

It wasn’t easy. The memories of all the visions she’d endured — of hands brushing hers and futures exploding like shattered glass in her mind — still haunted her. But last night had changed something fundamental inside her.

Vergil had been her sanctuary, her safe space. In his arms, she had felt free of the visions, free of fear. And now, even as she stood alone in her little bookshop, that feeling lingered, woven into her bones.

Selene moved gracefully among the shelves, greeting each new customer with calm assurance. Her gloved hands straightened books, refilled displays, and gently guided people toward sections they might enjoy. She even laughed softly once or twice, startling herself with the sound.

The day moved steadily, a rhythm she found grounding. The scent of old paper and fresh tea mingled in the air, sunlight spilling through the front windows and painting warm patterns across the floorboards.

Yet beneath that surface calm, another current ran.

Whenever the shop was empty, when the last customer’s footsteps faded and silence crept back in, Selene’s focus shifted.

She gathered the books she’d hidden in the locked cabinet behind the counter — ancient texts on demonology, obscure cult practices, fragmentary records of Fortuna’s darker histories. The pages were brittle, their ink faded, but they were all she had to work with.

She spread them out on the counter, carefully tracing diagrams and passages with her gloved fingertips.

Her visions haunted her still.
The dark, robed figures.
The chanting in that guttural language.
The women’s screams echoing in her ears.

Selene closed her eyes, breathing deeply, willing herself to remember every detail. She sketched what she could on scraps of paper — symbols, faces, the strange sigils she’d seen scrawled in blood across the stone floor of that abandoned church.

If she could identify even one of them, she might get ahead of whatever nightmare was coming.

The bell chimed again, and she startled, hastily tucking the papers beneath the counter and slipping on a calm smile as a young man wandered in, asking about travel journals.

“Of course,” she said smoothly, guiding him to the correct aisle. Her voice didn’t tremble. Her hands didn’t shake. No one would know what she had been doing moments before.

But as the day wore on and the customers thinned, Selene’s determination hardened.

It wasn’t enough to simply hide here and wait for Vergil — or anyone else — to protect her. She had been passive for too long, letting her curse dictate her life. That ended now.

When evening approached, she locked the shop door and slipped out the back, trading her usual soft clothes for a simple, practical cloak. She wound a scarf loosely around her neck, tucking away her long dark hair, and stepped into the crowded streets of Fortuna.

The city bustled around her — vendors calling out, carts rattling over cobblestones, the smell of spices and oil thick in the cooling air. Selene kept her head down, blending into the flow of people, her sharp eyes scanning faces as she walked.

Everywhere she looked, she compared them to the ones in her vision. The men who had held down the terrified women. The leader with that unnerving stillness, the one who had chanted words that tasted like ash in her mind.

No matches. Not yet.

Still, she made mental notes of anything suspicious: a symbol carved discreetly into a wall, a group of strangers whispering too intently in an alley, a glimpse of a robe’s hem disappearing around a corner.

Her heart raced, but not with fear this time.

She was choosing this.
Choosing to fight for her life before anyone else could decide it for her.

Selene paused at a small market stall to buy fresh bread and fruit, her hands steady even as her mind catalogued every detail of the area. She exchanged polite words with the vendor, smiling easily, while inside she burned with quiet determination.

She wove through the crowd with practiced ease, ignoring the lingering soreness in her body. Each step reminded her of the night before, of Vergil’s hands on her skin, his mouth, his voice commanding her until she broke apart beneath him. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she forced the memories down. This wasn’t the time to be distracted.

Selene was just turning down a quieter side street when a bright, familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation.

“Well, if it ain’t the book lady herself!”

Selene froze. Her head turned sharply as a figure with dark brown curls tied back messily pushed through the thinning crowd, goggles perched atop her head, cigarette tucked behind one ear. Nico’s wide grin lit up her sharp features as she sauntered closer, all swagger and warmth.

Selene’s pulse jumped, though she smoothed her expression into polite calm.
“Nico,” she greeted softly, offering a small, genuine smile. “Good afternoon.”

“Well now, this is a surprise.” Nico tipped her head, hazel eyes narrowing playfully as she gave Selene an exaggerated once-over. “Didn’t figure you for the type to be out prowlin’ the streets this late. Thought you spent all your time tucked away with those books of yours.”

Selene’s laugh was quiet, controlled. “I usually do. But my supplies were running low. It seemed like a good evening to restock.”

“Mhm.” Nico’s smirk deepened as she crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced by the simple explanation. “Funny thing, though — you’re walkin’ like a lady with a secret. Basket full of bread and candles, scarf all neat like you’re tryin’ to hide in plain sight.” Her tone was teasing, but her gaze was sharp, reading Selene far too easily.

Selene kept her breathing steady, even as a small pang of unease coiled low in her stomach. “I like to keep to myself,” she said gently, deflecting without lying.

“Can’t blame ya for that,” Nico drawled, though her grin turned wry. “Fortuna might be standin’ tall again, but there’s always shadows lurkin’ if you know where to look. Makes a gal wonder what might be hidin’ under all that quiet.”

Her words struck a little too close to home. Selene’s fingers tightened subtly on the basket handle.
“Perhaps it’s better not to look too hard,” she murmured.

Nico studied her for another beat, clearly sensing there was more beneath the surface. But, to Selene’s relief, she didn’t press. Instead, her grin returned, light and easy.
“Fair enough. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble, sugar. World’s messy enough without sweet things like you wanderin’ into places you shouldn’t.”

The warmth beneath Nico’s teasing softened Selene’s chest. She dipped her head in gratitude. “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”

Nico gave a casual salute with two fingers, her smile tilting into a wink. “You better be. I got a reputation to keep — can’t have my favorite bookstore lady vanishin’ on me.”

Before Selene could respond, Nico was already melting back into the crowd, her gait loose and easy, like she hadn’t just dropped a line that left Selene’s heart pounding.

Selene exhaled slowly, adjusting her scarf as she continued down the street. Her pace quickened, determination sharpening beneath her calm exterior.

If Nico — clever, watchful Nico — could sense that something was off, it was only a matter of time before others noticed too. She needed to work faster, gather every scrap of information she could before the cult made their next move.

As she turned toward home, the lantern light flickering over her face, Selene made silent promises to herself:
She would not let her visions paralyze her again.
She would not wait to be saved.
The closer she drew to her shop, the more Fortuna’s streets began to quiet. The usual chorus of vendors and evening chatter thinned into scattered voices and the occasional clatter of a cart wheel.

Lantern light painted long shadows across the cobblestones, glowing gold and soft — too soft for the sharp prickle crawling along Selene’s skin.

Her steps faltered. That feeling again. Eyes

The subtle, choking weight of a gaze she couldn’t see but felt. Selene’s breath caught, her pulse spiking. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing close around her body like a suffocating cloak. The same aura she’d felt the night Vergil had stormed into her shop — the same darkness that lingered in the edges of her visions — now wrapped around her with almost deliberate intent.

'They’re watching me.'

She forced her face into a calm, neutral mask and willed herself to keep walking.

Do not run.

Do not give them reason to chase.

Her scarf suddenly felt too tight around her throat, her basket too heavy in her hands. She eased into the flow of foot traffic, blending with the small crowd that still lingered on the main street. Every step was measured, casual. The way she might look if she were simply returning home with nothing but tea and bread on her mind.

Inside, she was screaming.

The oppressive weight of the unseen gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it grew sharper, more distinct — until she swore she could almost hear the synchronized rhythm of boots behind her, keeping perfect time with her own. Selene’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her skin prickled with warning, nausea threatening to climb up her throat. Her visions always came with a physical price, and the closer danger pressed in, the harder it became to hold them back.

'Just a little farther.'

'Just make it back to the shop.'

She turned a corner, intending to duck into the narrow street leading to her back door. A hand clamped around her arm. Selene gasped, her body jerking as she was yanked sideways — dragged off the street and into the narrow darkness of an alley. She twisted instinctively, ready to fight, but a voice hissed near her ear, low and urgent.

“Quiet.”

The single word froze her.

Not dark, not cruel — commanding but strangely familiar. “Stay quiet,” the voice said again, softer now

. “You’re safe. Just don’t scream.”

Her wide eyes adjusted to the dim light. A young man with wild white hair and sharp blue eyes crouched slightly in front of her, his grip firm but careful. His features clicked into place in her memory, from that day in her shop when the strangers had first arrived. Nero. He released her just enough for her to breathe, though his hand stayed near her elbow, steadying her as he glanced sharply back toward the street.

“Those guys were tailing you,” he muttered, his tone rough with irritation. “Nico spotted ‘em right after she split up with you. She sent me to grab you before things got ugly.”

Selene’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her throat locked tight as her vision swam. His touch. Where his fingers pressed against her arm, a familiar wave of sickness surged beneath her skin — the telltale warning of an oncoming vision. Her curse clawed at her mind, eager to drag her under, to show her the threads of Nero’s future whether she wanted to see them or not. Her breath quickened, panic blooming.

Not here.

Not now.

She clenched her teeth and fought. Vergil’s touch had been silence. Peace. But Nero’s was noise — sharp, splintering images pressing at the edges of her mind, threatening to break through. She swallowed back a whimper, focusing every ounce of will on staying present, on walking instead of collapsing.

“Come on,” Nero urged, tugging her gently forward. “We gotta move. Now.” They slipped through the twisting alleys, his movements quick and purposeful. Selene stumbled once, nausea roiling in her gut, but somehow managed to keep her feet beneath her.

Each second felt stretched taut, like a thread ready to snap. The sounds behind them grew distant — footsteps fading, whispers swallowed by the city’s night air — but the oppressive sensation of being hunted never fully vanished. It clung to her skin like cold sweat, burrowed beneath her ribs. She focused on breathing. On matching Nero’s pace. On not giving in to the vision clawing at her skull. By the time they rounded a final corner and the familiar shape of Nico’s van came into view.

Selene’s entire body was trembling. Her scarf had come loose, the fabric slipping down to reveal her pale throat, her hair sticking slightly to damp skin. Nero opened the passenger door with one hand and practically guided her inside with the other, his grip gentle but insistent. “You’re alright now,” he said, still scanning the street with a soldier’s wariness. “We lost them.” Selene sank into the seat, clutching her basket to her chest. She was shaking so hard she thought she might splinter apart — but somehow, miraculously, she hadn’t fallen into the vision.

Not yet.

Her stomach churned, her skin still prickling with aftershocks, but the images hadn’t consumed her. She’d held them back through sheer force of will, something she’d never been able to do before. Nero crouched slightly in the open doorway, his blue eyes studying her face.

“Hey,” he said more gently now. “You okay? You’ve got that… pale look people get right before they puke.”

Selene swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “I’ll… manage.” She didn’t dare tell him how close she’d come to unraveling completely. Or how terrifying it had been to feel the future clawing at her mind while she was surrounded by danger. As Nero shut the door and signaled to someone in the driver’s seat, Selene stared down at her trembling hands.

Whoever those men were, they weren’t just watching her. They were hunting her. And the cult wasn’t waiting for visions anymore. The nightmare was here.

The steady rumble of the van’s engine was almost hypnotic, but Selene couldn’t relax. She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, clutching the basket Nico had insisted she keep with her, her fingers digging into the woven handle. Her breaths were shallow, too quick, as she tried to convince herself that she was safe now. Nero had been silent since pulling her through the maze of alleys, though his sharp blue eyes kept darting toward the windows, scanning the streets for threats. He sat close beside her, his presence loud and warm compared to the quiet, restrained energy she’d grown accustomed to from Vergil.

His touch still burned on her forearm. Not the gentle, soothing stillness she felt with Vergil. Nero’s grip had been noise — raw, electric, a tidal wave of energy that had nearly overwhelmed her senses. It had been all she could do to hold back the vision clawing at her mind as he dragged her through the shadows, his voice rough and commanding in her ear. Somehow, impossibly, she’d managed to resist until now. But visions could only be denied for so long.

The nausea swelled inside her like a storm. Her skin prickled and crawled, her breath catching on a broken gasp. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple, desperate to ground herself, to stay here, now. Not again. Not here. The harder she fought it, the harder it pressed back, until the present dissolved beneath her like mist and the darkness came rushing in.

Cold stone slammed against her back, stealing her breath. The air reeked of incense and blood, thick and cloying, choking her lungs. Shadows danced wildly across walls carved with ancient, jagged symbols as torchlight flared and guttered like the heart of some unholy fire. Hands pinned her down, claws biting into her wrists and shoulders. She thrashed, but the grip was unbreakable. Panic shredded her throat as she sucked in a ragged breath—only to feel something sharp press to her neck. A curved blade. Ritualistic. Its tip cut shallowly into her skin, cold and merciless.

“No…” Her whisper was drowned out by chanting.

Dozens of voices, guttural and inhuman, rising together in a dark harmony that reverberated through the cavernous space. The words were alien but heavy with intent, each syllable vibrating in her bones. Then the chanting stopped.

Two figures stood just beyond the circle of torchlight. Nero. His face was twisted in fury, mouth moving in a shout she couldn’t hear. His entire body radiated wild, barely controlled rage, like a storm ready to consume everything in its path. His hands clenched into fists, his stance coiled to strike. Beside him—Vergil.

Her heart clenched painfully at the sight of him. He stood perfectly still, a blade in his hand, his posture impeccable. But his face was… different. The careful mask he always wore had cracked. Anger bled through, subtle but sharp, like lightning behind heavy storm clouds. His eyes burned—not with wildness, but with a cold, precise fury that terrified her more than any screaming rage could. But he wasn’t looking at the cultists.

He wasn’t even looking at Nero.

He was looking at her.

Selene’s breath caught as a voice slithered through the darkness, deep and venomous. “You know the terms,” it hissed. “The maiden for the door. Trade her life, or the portal remains open.”

The hands on her body tightened. The blade dug deeper into her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. Vergil’s jaw tensed. Nero’s shoulders shook with rage.

“Choose,” the voice demanded, echoing off the stone. “Her blood… or the gate remains open forever, destroying your pathetic realm your father loved so much.”

Selene’s heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst. She didn’t understand. A portal? A gate to where?

Nero lunged forward, his mouth forming a snarl of defiance she still couldn’t hear. His anger was reckless, unrestrained. He looked ready to destroy everything in front of him just to reach her.

Vergil didn’t move

He stood frozen, a statue carved from rage and restraint, his stormy eyes locked with hers. She wanted to scream at him to choose her, to move, to do something, but terror stole her voice. The blade at her throat pressed harder.

“Vergil!” Her own scream shattered the vision.

Selene was ripped back into the present with a violent jolt, the world of the van crashing around her like shattering glass. She clutched at her throat, still feeling the phantom sting of the blade. Her body bowed forward, gasping for air, sobbing breaths tearing from her lips.

“Selene!” Nero’s voice was sharp and alarmed, close beside her. His hands hovered uncertainly over her shoulders, wanting to help but unsure how. “Hey—hey, what’s happening? Are you hurt? Talk to me!”

From the driver’s seat, Nico cursed loudly, the van swerving slightly as she tried to glance back. “Damn it, girl, you’re white as a sheet! Nero, what the hell’s going on back there?!”

Selene forced her hands to drop into her lap, gripping them tightly together to stop the trembling. She dragged in a deep, shaky breath, forcing her expression into something calm.

Controlled.

“I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and tried again, softer this time. “I just… felt dizzy. The run through the alleys, the crowd, it was overwhelming. I didn’t realize how much it took out of me.”

Nero’s brow furrowed deeply. He didn’t look convinced. “Bullshit. You can play dumb all you want, but i know what i saw.”

Selene summoned a small, fragile smile. “I’m sorry. Truly. But I’ll be fine once I’ve had some tea and rest.” She shifted slightly, as though to prove she was steady, though every muscle screamed in protest. “Please. Don’t worry.”

Nico muttered something under her breath and refocused on the road, her knuckles tight on the wheel. “We’ll get you back to the our shop fast. Damn creeps following you around like vultures—makes me wanna run ’em over with this van.”

Selene didn’t respond. Her lips pressed together, holding back the thousand truths she couldn’t speak. Inside, her mind was still tangled in the vision. The chanting. The blade at her throat. The words: Trade her life, or the portal remains open. And worst of all, Vergil’s eyes. Even now, she couldn’t shake the way he’d looked at her. Not like Nero, wild and reckless, but with a terrible, quiet fury that promised ruin. He had stood still while the cult demanded her blood.

Would he choose her? Or would he choose the greater threat, whatever waited beyond that gate?

Selene turned her face toward the window so they wouldn’t see the tears burning in her eyes. She couldn’t let them know. Not about her visions, not about what she’d seen. If they knew, they’d look at her differently—like a weapon, a burden, or a curse.

So she sat perfectly still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and lied with her silence. “Thank you,” she murmured softly, the words barely audible over the hum of the engine. “For getting me out of there.”

Nero exhaled sharply, still tense but mollified by her calm tone. “Yeah, well… you’re safe now. That’s what matters, but enough is enough, now we know your the target, you need to tell us everything.”

But Selene wasn’t safe.

Not at all.

Neither will they, if she stayed with them.

Because whatever the cult wanted, whatever that portal was, the nightmare wasn’t just coming for her, it was pointing also to Vergil.

Chapter Text

The village reeked of death.

Burned wood, acrid smoke, and the foul stench of demon blood mingled into a suffocating haze that clung to the crumbling ruins. The last of the creatures lay scattered across the broken ground, their twisted forms already beginning to dissolve into ash. Silence had returned, heavy and unnatural, broken only by the slow crackle of fire as it consumed what remained of the buildings.

Vergil stood at the center of it all, Yamato sheathed at his hip, his coat stirring faintly in the dying wind. To anyone looking on, he was the very image of composure: unruffled, unshaken, as if the battle had barely touched him. His breaths were measured, his posture impeccable, his silver hair unmarred despite hours of relentless combat.

But inside, his thoughts were anything but calm.

He should have been focused on the mission. On the patterns of demonic activity Morgan’s intel had uncovered, on the knowledge that this was only one nest among many. Instead, his mind drifted inexorably back to her.

Selene.

Her name burned through him like a whisper that refused to fade, louder even than the distant screams of the dying.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and there she was—her image rising unbidden in perfect clarity. The soft glow of candlelight on her skin. The tremble of her hands as she had reached for him, offering herself completely. The way her breath had caught when his mouth had claimed hers for the first time, that innocent gasp that had nearly unraveled every thread of control he possessed.

Last night had been unlike anything Vergil had ever known.

He had gone to her apartment with the intention of confronting her, of demanding answers about the visions that plagued her, the strange tether that had begun to form between them. When he’d heard her scream through the door—raw, terrified—his precision had shattered. He’d ripped the barrier open without thought, without hesitation, and gathered her trembling form into his arms as though nothing else in the world mattered.

And then, in the fragile quiet that followed, something had shifted.

Selene had looked at him with trust so absolute it stole the air from his lungs. Trust that a man like him didn’t deserve. And when she’d reached for him, not with fear but with need, he had been powerless to deny her.

She had offered herself.
And he had taken her.

Vergil’s fingers flexed at his sides, leather creaking softly.

He had taken her innocence, her first taste of passion, her trembling surrender. He had claimed her fully, his body and soul entwined with hers in ways she could not possibly understand. The memory of it was burned into him: her flushed cheeks, the way she had cried his name when pleasure overcame her, the kiss she had given him in the midst of it all.

That kiss haunted him most of all.

He had never known intimacy like that. Pleasure, yes—impersonal, fleeting, a means to quiet the darker urges of his demon blood. But Selene… she had been different.

When her lips had met his, it hadn’t been just heat and hunger. It had been raw, unguarded connection. Something frighteningly close to tenderness.

And he had left her.

Vergil’s chest constricted, his controlled breath catching almost imperceptibly. His mind replayed that moment over and over: the pale light of dawn spilling through her window, her dark eyes wide and uncertain as she’d asked him what their union meant.

He had given her nothing.

Only the cold mask he wore so well.
Only the walls he’d spent a lifetime building.

“Get some rest.”

Those were the only words he had offered her.

He could still see the flicker of hurt in her eyes as they’d met his, the way her lips had parted as though to protest, then closed again when she realized he would not explain himself.

He had wanted to stay.

Gods, he had wanted to. His body had ached to remain beside her, to bask in the quiet afterglow of what they had shared, to trace the marks of his claiming on her skin and whisper truths he had never spoken to another soul.

But he hadn’t known how. He hadn’t known how to bridge the chasm between them without breaking himself open completely.

So he had done what Vergil always did: he retreated.

He had left her with silence and averted eyes, knowing full well he had wounded her, knowing she deserved more than cold indifference. He had walked away even as his heart—traitorous, human thing that it was—had screamed at him to turn back.

Now, standing amidst the ruins, his hands tightened into fists.

He reprimanded himself silently for the cowardice of that moment, for the way he had chosen distance over honesty. He had claimed her body, deepened the strange tether between them, and then abandoned her to confusion and pain.

The bond was not complete yet—not fully sealed—but it had grown stronger when he had taken her. He could feel it now, humming beneath his skin like a second heartbeat, a pull that drew him toward her no matter how far he strayed.

Even now, amidst the carnage of battle, he could sense her faintly.
Her presence lingered, a whisper of warmth beneath the cold weight of his power.

Dante’s boots crunched over broken stone behind him, the faint jingle of his twin’s weapons cutting through the heavy silence. Vergil didn’t turn, didn’t give Dante the satisfaction of seeing how tightly he was wound.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” Dante said at last, his voice low and unusually measured.

Vergil’s reply was clipped, icy. “I am focused.”

Dante made a noncommittal sound but didn’t press. His gaze lingered for a moment before sweeping the ruined streets.

Vergil exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his thoughts back to the present.
There would be time later to face the consequences of last night—if there was any time left at all.

For now, there were still demons to hunt.
And a cult lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike at the one person he could not bear to lose.

Selene’s face rose in his mind one last time—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the kiss that had undone him completely.

He shoved the memory down like a blade into its sheath and moved forward, his coat swirling behind him, Yamato gleaming at his side.

The mission demanded his focus.
But no amount of bloodshed would erase the truth.

No matter how far he walked, no matter how many demons he cut down, a part of him would remain with her.
And he feared the day when he would be forced to choose between his duty, to redeem himself of the crimes he had committed

And her.

The ruins were nearly silent now, save for the hiss of smoldering fires and the occasional pop of settling debris. The small demon portals they’d sealed earlier still radiated faint heat, the ground around them scorched black. Even closed, they left behind an oppressive weight, a sense that something foul lingered just beyond the veil of this world, pressing against it, yearning to break through.

Dante crouched near one of the freshly sealed rifts, dragging his gloved hand across the stone. His crimson coat fluttered behind him in the breeze, his expression unusually serious.
“These aren’t random attacks,” he muttered, flicking a shard of demon bone aside. “See how they’re clustered? Someone’s opening these little gateways on purpose. Feeding them just enough to spill hellspawn into our backyard, then shutting them before anyone bigger comes through.”

He straightened, his eyes narrowing. “It’s tactical. Coordinated. Like they’re testing the boundaries for something bigger.”

Vergil said nothing. His gaze traced the blackened edges of the closed portal, the intricate pattern burned into the earth beneath. It was almost like a sigil, and disturbingly familiar.
“They are not merely testing,” he said at last, his voice low and cold. “This is preparation.”

Dante shot him a sidelong look. “Preparation for what? Morgan didn’t exactly give us a blueprint.”

Vergil’s silence stretched, and for a moment Dante’s question hung unanswered.

He already knew what this was leading to.
He didn’t want to admit it—not aloud, not even to himself.

Selene’s voice whispered in his mind, her trembling confession replaying with brutal clarity. The way she’d described her latest vision, her body shaking in his arms, her eyes wide with terror. The chanting cultists. The blade at her throat. The shadowed figure speaking with a voice that was both human and not.

The description had been unmistakable.

Vergil’s hands tightened at his sides, leather creaking faintly. A dark, unwanted memory clawed to the surface—chains biting into his wrists, the cold echo of a tyrant’s laughter, the endless torment of servitude.

Mundus.

The name was a wound he refused to reopen.

He forced the thought down, crushing it beneath layers of icy control. Fear was a weakness, and Vergil Sparda did not indulge in it.
But deep in the recesses of his mind, the old scars throbbed.

“Whatever their purpose,” Vergil said evenly, “these rituals are not merely summoning lesser demons. They are building toward something far greater. These cultists are but pawns in a game they scarcely comprehend.”

Dante gave a humorless snort. “Figures. Always some lunatic trying to bring back the end of the world. The real question is… why here? This is the third site like this we’ve hit, and it’s always the same—some ruin, some temple, some old shrine. Places that practically reek of incense and bad sermons.”

Vergil’s gaze swept the ruined village. Beneath the ash and blood, he could see the faint outlines of what this place had once been—a small church, its walls long since collapsed, its altar shattered.
“Holy ground,” he murmured. “Every site we’ve uncovered has been sanctified in some way.”

Dante arched a brow. “You’re saying this isn’t random either?”

Vergil’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“No. The desecration of the sacred… it has power. These rituals thrive on it.”

The thought twisted like a knife in his chest, bringing with it another, more personal realization.
The cult had called Selene the maiden for the door.

When he had taken her innocence, part of him had believed—hoped—that it would strip her of whatever misguided value they saw in her. That by claiming her body, she would no longer fit their twisted definition of “pure.”

But now, looking at the patterns before him, he saw the truth.

It had never been about her body.

Purity of the flesh was irrelevant.
What they sought was purity of the soul.

Selene’s visions. Her strange, otherworldly ability to see into darkness and light alike. Whether through lineage or some divine accident, she was marked, chosen in ways even she did not understand. That was what made her valuable to them.

Vergil’s jaw tightened. His hand brushed the hilt of Yamato, grounding himself in its familiar weight.
If they discovered her lineage, if they fully understood what she was capable of…

He forced the thought away before it could spiral further.

“We need to move,” Dante said, his tone brisk. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that cultists don’t leave their toys lying around unless they’ve got another plan up their sleeves.”

They pressed deeper into the ruins, following the faint trail of disturbed earth and smeared blood. The village was silent now, but there were signs of struggle everywhere—doors splintered inward, furniture overturned, long drag marks leading toward the central square.

A faint, broken sound reached Vergil’s sharp ears. A sob.

He stilled, one hand raised in a silent command for Dante to halt. Tilting his head, he followed the sound to a collapsed shed half-hidden by rubble. The scent of fear and sweat was heavy here, mingled with the metallic tang of blood.

Dante moved to his side, Rebellion at the ready. "Another one?"

Vergil didn’t answer. He simply approached, his steps silent and precise. With one swift motion, he wrenched the broken door aside, revealing a man bound tightly to a support beam inside. His face was streaked with dirt and tears, his clothes torn, his breath ragged.

The man flinched at the sudden light, choking on a sob. “Please—don’t hurt me!”

Dante’s tone softened as he crouched beside him. “Relax, pal. We’re not the ones you need to worry about.”

Vergil remained silent, his cold gaze sweeping the interior. There were no other living souls here—only the stench of the cult’s passage and faint traces of their rituals.

The man’s eyes darted between them wildly, desperation etched into every line of his face. “They took her,” he gasped. “My wife—oh God, they took her!”

Dante’s jaw tightened. “Who did? The cultists?”

The man nodded frantically, tears spilling anew. “I tried to stop them, but there were too many. They said… they said she was worthy. That she’d open the way for their dark master to come through.”

Vergil’s blood went cold.

The man’s voice broke into a sob. “They said only the pure can be offered. They—they called her a vessel. Said the others were just… practice.”

Dante cursed under his breath, fists clenching. “These bastards are getting bolder. First they take innocent people, now they’re hunting for some perfect sacrifice like they’re casting a play.”

Vergil’s expression didn’t change, but inside, his mind was a storm.

Selene’s face rose unbidden, her wide, haunted eyes meeting his as she had confessed what she’d seen. The chanting. The posessed man who was at her shop, observing her no less in the vision seeming possessed, feeling her presence and..his.

The cult wasn’t just hunting innocents anymore.
They were hunting her, now it was truly confirmed.

And the man they served—the one whose presence loomed behind their rituals—was a shadow Vergil had hoped never to face again.

Mundus.

The name echoed like a whisper from his past, dredging up memories of chains and servitude, of power wielded with cruelty beyond imagination.

For a heartbeat, fear curled in Vergil’s gut like a living thing.

He crushed it mercilessly.

Turning sharply, he addressed Dante, his tone clipped. “We need to move. Now. If they’ve taken her to prepare for the main ritual, we are already behind.”

Dante’s eyes met his, grim understanding passing between them

“Then let’s not waste time.”

As they left the shed, Vergil cast one last look at the sobbing man. His voice was cold, but there was a razor edge of promise beneath it.

“You will see your wife again. If they have harmed her…” His eyes narrowed, blue ice burning with lethal resolve. “…they will suffer.”

The man’s sobs turned into a trembling nod as Dante guided him toward safety.

Vergil stepped into the night, the weight of what he’d learned pressing down like a physical force.
The cult’s goal was clearer now.
And the woman they sought—the woman they believed could open the gate—was the same one whose lips had kissed him in desperate passion, whose trust he had claimed, whose soul was now tied to his.

Selene.

For the first time in years, Vergil felt the edge of true fear.
And beneath it, a darker, fiercer emotion that burned hotter than any flame.

No one would take her from him.
Not Mundus. Not the cult. Not anyone.

As his hand fell to Yamato’s hilt, Vergil’s face was calm once more. But inside, the storm had already begun to rage.

~~

The night was thick with the residue of battle.

Ash drifted on the wind like dark snow, clinging to Vergil’s coat as he walked through the charred remains of the village. The acrid stench of demon blood burned the back of his throat, heavy and metallic, a lingering reminder of the day spent slaughtering. Dozens of portals had been sealed, their scorched outlines still glowing faintly like malignant scars on the earth.

It should have felt like progress.
It didn’t.

Each victory was hollow. The battles meaningless. Because with every creature cut down, the truth became clearer: this was only the surface. The real threat had yet to show itself.

Vergil’s strides were precise and measured, but there was a sharpness to them now, a tension that Dante had clearly noticed. His brother had been quiet for most of the trek, but Vergil could feel his gaze like a persistent thorn at his side.

“Y’know,” Dante finally said, his voice deliberately casual, “most people look less like they’re about to murder someone after a whole day of demon killing. You, on the other hand…”

He trailed off, waiting for a bite.

Vergil didn’t give him one. His expression remained unreadable, his voice clipped.
“We are not finished here.”

Dante snorted. “No kidding. You’ve been marching like you’ve got somewhere to be, and it’s starting to creep me out.”

Vergil said nothing. The truth was simple: he did have somewhere to be.
Or rather, someone to reach.

Every step they took away from Fortuna only wound the tether between him and Selene tighter. Even at this distance, he could feel her — faint, but constant. A thread of warmth beneath his skin, pulling, tugging, a reminder that she was out there and vulnerable while this cult moved ever closer.

The thought sharpened his focus, fed his rage.
He had already failed her once by leaving without answers. He would not fail again.

Before Dante could push further, a new sound cut through the night — a woman’s voice, clear and commanding.
“Vergil! Dante!”

Both brothers turned as a familiar silhouette emerged from the ruins ahead. Lady strode toward them, her rifle slung across her back, her expression set and hard. The moonlight glinted off the metal accents of her gear, throwing stark highlights across her face.

Beside her stumbled another woman — young, trembling, her clothes torn and filthy. She clung to Lady’s arm like a drowning soul grasping a lifeline, her wide eyes darting around the ruins as if expecting monsters to leap from every shadow.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. A civilian. Alive.

Lady reached them in brisk strides, her tone clipped. “Got word from Morgan. I made it here before you did.” She adjusted her hold on the trembling woman, steadying her gently. “The cult didn’t get the chance to finish what they started — but it was close.”

Dante’s jaw tightened. “How close?”

Lady’s mouth was a grim line. “Close enough that I had to shoot my way in to get her out.”

The woman whimpered, pressing her face into Lady’s shoulder. Even without words, her terror told the story: she had seen something no ordinary human should.

Vergil’s gaze swept over them both, cataloging every detail with cold precision. The pattern was becoming clearer now, even if no one else saw it yet. Another ritual site. Another attempted sacrifice.
And always, always on ground once deemed sacred.

Pieces slid into place in his mind.
It was never about the place. It was about corruption. Turning what was once holy into a gateway for something far darker.

His jaw clenched as the realization struck deeper.

It was her soul they wanted.

The tether between them pulsed, faint but undeniable, and Vergil forced his expression to remain neutral. Inside, his resolve hardened to steel.

Lady’s voice cut through his thoughts. “There’s more.” She adjusted her stance, shifting the civilian behind her protectively. “Morgan tracked their movements. They’re not scattered like we thought — they’re closing in, forming a pattern. Whatever they’re planning, they’ll strike soon. And if we don’t find their center, they’ll succeed.”

Dante swore under his breath. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

Vergil didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.

He already knew who they were converging on.
And if they reached her before he did, the world would drown in darkness.

Without another word, he moved forward, his coat snapping in the wind, Yamato gleaming at his side. Dante and Lady exchanged a glance behind him, silent questions passing between them.

But no one dared to voice them.
Not when Vergil’s fury was this palpable.

☆☆☆

The rumble of the van’s engine quieted as Nico swung it into the wide garage connected to a large, dimly lit building. The sudden stillness felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the past hour, and Selene’s heart pounded louder than the wheels beneath them.

Nero sat beside her in the passenger seat, his jaw tight, fingers drumming against his knee with restless energy. The sharp reprimand in his voice broke the tense silence as they came to a stop.

“Damn it, Nico, could you not come barreling in like a bat outta hell? Kyrie’s trying to sleep, and the kids—” His tone softened slightly, but the frustration lingered. “You’ll wake the whole damn building if you keep driving like that.”

Nico snorted, tossing her wild curls over one shoulder as she killed the engine. “Relax, hero. It’s my baby, and she likes to sing a little when she rolls in.” She patted the dashboard lovingly, the metal thunk echoing in the garage. “Besides, Kyrie’s probably been up half the night worrying about you anyway.”

Selene sat quietly in the back, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she tried to ground herself. The space around her was alive with strange, conflicting energies—human warmth and faint traces of demonic power intertwined. She forced her breathing to steady as her gaze swept the interior of the garage.

The room was spacious, lined with tool benches and shelves stacked high with parts she couldn’t begin to identify. Weapons in various stages of assembly gleamed under the harsh overhead lights. It was a space built for work and battle, humming with a kind of organized chaos that seemed to perfectly reflect the woman currently climbing out of the driver’s seat.

But it wasn’t the machinery that caught Selene’s attention.
It was Nero.

As he stood and rounded the van, she finally had a moment to really look at him.

Silver-blue eyes, sharp and discerning. The strong line of his jaw, marred by the faintest hint of stubble. His hair—pale, almost white—caught the light as he ran a hand through it in exasperation.
And beneath his irritation, there was a warmth in his gaze, a protectiveness that stirred something deep and unfamiliar in Selene’s chest.

Her pulse quickened as her mind unwillingly drew comparisons.

Nero shared the same unmistakable intensity as Vergil.
The same sharp features. The same barely leashed power thrumming beneath his skin.
And yet… there was something distinctly different. Nero’s presence wasn’t cold or daunting like Vergil’s; it was alive, vibrant, threaded with the kind of fire that came from a heart still firmly rooted in humanity.

For a moment, Selene’s breath caught. The resemblance between Nero and Dante was there too, subtle but undeniable—the shared bloodline weaving through their expressions, their movements, the weight they carried in silence.

And it hurt.
Because it reminded her of him.

Of Vergil’s piercing gaze and the way his touch had burned through her the night they’d crossed a line they could never return from.

Selene’s hands tightened in her lap, nails digging into her palms.
Now wasn’t the time for thoughts like that.

The van door slid open with a squeal, and cool night air rushed in. Nico hopped down to the garage floor, stretching dramatically before spinning on her heel.
“Alright, listen up,” she announced, voice carrying over the metallic hum of cooling engines. “I’m gonna try and get ahold of Lady and the boys, let ‘em know we brought our guest here.” Her eyes flicked to Selene, a curious glint beneath the sharpness. “And that she was targeted. They’re gonna wanna know what the hell’s going on.”

Selene froze, her breath catching.

Targeted.

The word echoed in her skull, louder than the lingering echoes of her last vision.

She swallowed hard, forcing her expression into something calm, composed. On the surface, she was the perfect picture of a frightened civilian swept up in forces beyond her comprehension. But inside, her thoughts churned like a storm.

If Nico called thid woman Lady, if Vergil and Dante learned where she was, they’d come here.

They’d come here for her.
And the cult would follow.

This place—the warm, lived-in building connected to the garage, the people inside it—it was safe. Ordinary.

It didn’t deserve to be tainted by her presence.

Selene’s gaze drifted toward Nero as he spoke quietly to Nico, his hand brushing absently at the holster on his hip. His every movement screamed protectiveness, his shoulders tense, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows as though expecting another attack.

She didn’t need to ask to know who Kyrie was. The way Nero’s voice softened every time he mentioned her told Selene everything. There was a family here.
A woman waiting for him.
Children asleep upstairs, innocent and unknowing.

And Selene would not be the reason they suffered.

Her chest tightened painfully, but her resolve hardened with it.

She had been running for so long—running from her visions, from her power, from the dark truth of what she was.
But now, others were being pulled into her nightmare.
That was something she could not allow.

Even if it meant breaking her own heart.

She forced herself to stand, her legs shaky but determined. Nero immediately turned toward her, concern flashing in his eyes.

“Hey, take it easy. You’ve been through a lot. You don’t have to push yourself right now.”

Selene offered him a small, brittle smile, tilting her head slightly so her dark hair fell forward, shielding her expression.

“I’ll be alright,” she said softly. “Thank you… for bringing me here.”

And she meant it.
She was grateful—more than she could ever put into words.

But even as she spoke, her mind was already crafting a plan.

She would rest for now. She would let them think she was safe here. And then, when the time was right, she would slip away quietly, leaving no trace behind.

Better they think her ungrateful or cowardly than risk them dying for her.

As Nico bustled about, muttering into a communicator, Selene’s gaze lingered on Nero one last time. His protective stance, his guarded warmth, the faint resemblance to Vergil and Dante that twisted like a knife in her chest.

I won’t let them bleed because of me, she vowed silently.

The bond inside her pulsed faintly, a whisper of warmth that spoke of Vergil’s distant presence. It made her ache, but she shoved it down.
For his sake.
For everyone’s.

She would walk away before the darkness came crashing down on this place.

Even if it destroyed her to do so.

The transition from the cold, cavernous garage to the warm interior of the building was almost jarring. Selene blinked against the softer lighting, the air inside tinged with the faint scents of wood polish, cooking spices, and something sweeter—like cinnamon clinging to the walls. It was a home. A real one.

Her chest tightened painfully.

She trailed slightly behind Nero and Nico as they led her through a narrow hallway. Her steps were light, deliberate, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the place. Every few feet, her gaze snagged on details: framed photos of smiling children, colorful drawings taped proudly to the wall, the faint hum of laughter from somewhere deeper inside.

This wasn’t just a base of operations. It was a sanctuary.

Selene wrapped her arms tightly around herself, willing the rising panic in her throat to quiet.
Don’t touch anything. Don’t let them touch you.
Her visions always came with contact—unwanted windows into futures she had no right to see. She couldn’t risk that here, not in a place so filled with innocent lives.

They entered a large kitchen at the heart of the home, and Selene froze.

A young woman sat at the worn wooden table, her hands wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. She looked up immediately as they entered, and relief flooded her delicate features. Soft brown hair fell around her shoulders, and her warm amber eyes lit with both worry and welcome.

“Kyrie,” Nero breathed, his shoulders loosening slightly.

The woman rose gracefully from her chair. “Nero, you’re back,” she said, voice trembling just a little. Then her gaze shifted to Selene—and her expression changed. Worry sharpened into shock as she took in Selene’s pale face, the sheen of sweat on her brow, her trembling frame.

“Oh my goodness.” Kyrie’s hand fluttered to her chest before she stepped forward quickly, instinctively reaching out. “You poor thing—are you alright? What happened to you?”

Selene’s throat closed. She stumbled back a fraction of an inch, the movement small but sharp.
The urge to flee was instant, primal.

“No—please, don’t,” she stammered, voice breathless. “I… I’m fine. Just… tired.”

The words were a brittle lie, but she couldn’t let this woman touch her. Couldn’t risk what her cursed visions might show.

Kyrie froze mid-step, clearly startled by the recoil, but her kindness didn’t falter. She folded her hands gently in front of her instead, keeping her distance, her voice softening. “I understand. You’re safe now, I promise.”

Selene nodded quickly, her fingers digging into her own arms. She could feel the others watching—Nero’s subtle frown, Nico’s raised brows—as if they’d noticed the way she had recoiled.
Heat prickled beneath Selene’s skin, a suffocating awareness that made it harder to breathe.

Kyrie, oblivious to the storm inside Selene, turned back to Nero with a mix of exasperation and affection.
“You didn’t call,” she scolded lightly, though her eyes were soft. “And you forgot the things I asked for the kids. Again.”

Nero winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, Kyrie. Things… got complicated.”

Her gaze swept over Selene meaningfully, and she sighed, the worry in her expression eclipsing her irritation. “I see that. You rescued her, didn’t you?”

Nero nodded grimly. “The cult was on her. She was being followed.”

Kyrie’s sharp inhale filled the room. “Oh, Nero.” She touched his arm gently, her voice quiet but firm. “Then whatever you forgot, it doesn’t matter. You did the right thing.”

The warmth between them, the quiet understanding—it was like a stab through Selene’s chest. This woman radiated a kindness Selene had almost forgotten existed.

And Selene was about to destroy it by merely being here.

Nico, never one to let silence linger, propped herself against the counter with a smirk. “Figured we’d better bring our guest somewhere safe before things got messy. Ain’t exactly easy to shake off those freaky cult bastards.”

Selene’s lips parted, searching for words of thanks, but none came. Gratitude burned on her tongue, tangled up with guilt and fear.

Nico, oblivious to her turmoil, continued breezily, “Since you’re probably wonderin’, this isn’t just some random hideout. We raise kids here. Orphans mostly. Ones who got caught up in the crap this city attracts.”

Selene’s gaze drifted to the framed photos again—smiling faces, tiny hands clinging to one another. Her stomach twisted painfully.

“This place gives ’em a shot at something better,” Nico said, her tone softening just a fraction.

Selene couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even breathe.

Every step she took in this house was a step toward contaminating it. She could feel her darkness bleeding out, infecting this warmth.

Then Nero muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Lot’s changed around here lately. Guess it’s what happens when your father suddenly comes back into your life.”

Selene’s head snapped up.
Her pulse roared in her ears.

“…your father?” she asked carefully, her voice low, fragile.

Nero glanced at her, brow furrowed, as if surprised she’d heard. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “Vergil.”

The name hit her like a physical blow.

Her breath caught, the room tilting violently around her. The table, the walls, Kyrie’s kind face—all of it blurred into a dizzy haze. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her.

Vergil.

Of course.
The resemblance she’d noticed wasn’t coincidence.

Her mind spiraled, memories crashing together—the way Vergil had looked at her that night, the darkness in his touch, the pull between them that defied logic.
And now, the bond inside her pulsed violently, almost frantic, as if echoing her shock.

She barely registered Kyrie’s worried voice. “Selene? Are you alright? You’ve gone pale…”

Selene forced herself upright, her nails biting into her palms until the pain grounded her.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, though it was the most transparent lie she’d ever spoken.

Inside, she was anything but fine.

Her world had just shifted beneath her feet.
And she was no longer sure where she stood—or if she’d survive the fall.

Selene couldn’t breathe.

The name reverberated through her like a physical strike, breaking her carefully maintained composure. Nero’s words—so casual, so unknowing—echoed mercilessly in her mind.

Vergil. His father is Vergil.

Her body swayed, her legs threatening to give beneath her. She clutched the edge of the wooden table, grounding herself in its rough texture as the room tilted violently.

Oh gods.

Her vision tunneled, narrowing until all she could see was Nero’s face. The resemblance she’d noticed earlier now screamed at her—his silver-blue eyes, the sharp lines of his jaw, the raw power that seemed barely restrained beneath his skin.
He was Vergil’s son.

Selene’s heart twisted painfully.

She had been so focused on her own fears, her own visions, that she hadn’t considered what it meant to be connected to Vergil like this. Not just connected to him, but to his family.

And now… now she was standing in the middle of their sanctuary, breathing the same air as Vergil’s son and his innocent family.
Bringing her curse, her darkness, into this place of light.

Her stomach churned violently, bile rising in her throat.
If the cult came here…
If they hurt Nero because of her…

Vergil would never forgive her.

The thought struck like a blade. She could almost see it—his face cold and unreadable, those piercing blue eyes cutting through her. The bond between them, fragile and raw, would shatter completely.
He would shun her. Abandon her.

Her trembling fingers curled tighter against the table’s edge, nails biting into the wood.

And beneath the sharp stab of guilt, another emotion rose—dark and bitter.
Jealousy.

Nero’s existence meant Vergil had once been with someone else.
Another woman had been close enough to him, important enough, to create a life together.

A wife? A lover? Someone he had chosen before Selene even knew his name.

Selene’s breath hitched, heat prickling behind her eyes.
Was that why he’d seemed so guarded with her? So hesitant to give her more than fleeting moments of passion before retreating behind his mask?
Was he still carrying feelings for Nero’s mother?
Still tethered to a past he hadn’t shared with her?

Maybe… maybe he hadn’t wanted this bond at all.

Her chest constricted painfully as the questions spiraled, a storm she couldn’t control.

What if Vergil’s touches, his heated words, had been nothing more than instinct?

What if she’d been nothing but a mistake?

The jealousy burned hotter now, wrapping around her ribs like barbed wire. The image of Vergil with another woman—someone who had known his touch, who had been part of his life before Selene—stabbed through her like poison.

She hated herself for it.
For wanting him so desperately.
For feeling less than, like she would never measure up to the ghost of someone who had given him a son.

Selene pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a sound that was part sob, part bitter laugh.
This was all too much.

She couldn’t do this.

Not to herself.
Not to him.
And certainly not to Nero.

Her racing thoughts solidified into a single, terrible truth: she had to leave.

Not tomorrow. Not when it was convenient.
Soon.

Before this spiral consumed her.
Before her presence painted a target on this home and its inhabitants.
Before Vergil returned and saw the mess she’d made.

He deserved better than this chaos.
His son deserved better.

Selene’s heart cracked at the thought of his face if Nero were ever harmed because of her. The cold fury that would replace his usual calm. The disgust he would feel toward her.

She would rather die than see that day come.

Her thoughts tumbled further, memories colliding with painful clarity:
Vergil’s mouth on hers, his voice low and sinful as he’d claimed her.
The way his eyes had darkened when he’d whispered her name in the quiet after.
The feel of his hands, possessive and trembling, as though he’d fought to keep himself from shattering.

Moments that had felt like forever.
Moments she’d clung to like lifelines.

Now they felt like lies.

If he had truly wanted her, wouldn’t he have told her about Nero? About the family he already had?

The bond inside her pulsed sharply, almost painfully, as though sensing her anguish.
Selene bit down on a sob, willing herself to calm.

She couldn’t stay here.

She refused to be the wedge that drove Vergil and his son apart. Refused to be the reason this sanctuary fell to the cult’s madness.

Even if leaving tore her soul apart, it was the only path forward.

Kyrie noticing her spiraling, but maybe she thought from the exhaustion. Oh how she wished it was just that, she wished she could tell her everything because of the warmth and serene that radiated off her body like a beacon calling the damage. Selene swallowed hard, shaking her head lightly, her visor back in focus. "Here follow me." Kyrie gestured to the hallway, taking a step toward that direction and waited for Selene to follow.

Selene followed Kyrie down the hall like a sleepwalker, her steps soundless against the polished wood floors. Every inch of this house radiated warmth—faint scents of cinnamon and lavender lingered in the air, and the soft glow of lamps lit the space in hues of amber and gold.

It felt… lived in.
Safe.

Her chest constricted with every detail she absorbed. This was a place of laughter, of shared meals, of children’s voices echoing down these very halls. It was the kind of life she had never known, and she felt like a shard of glass dropped into a bowl of water—an intrusion, sharp and wrong.

Kyrie moved gracefully ahead of her, speaking softly over her shoulder. “There’s a spare room just down here. You can take a bath, rest, and… breathe a little. I’ll bring you some clothes for the night.”

Her voice was kindness woven into sound. It made Selene ache all the more.

She didn’t deserve this.

Behind them, Nero and Nico lingered near the doorway to the hall, their voices hushed. Selene didn’t need to hear the words to know she was the topic. The weight of their eyes was enough.

Nico’s tone had a certain sharp edge to it, like she was already connecting dots in silence. Nero’s was softer but troubled.
“She went pale when I mentioned my father,” he murmured, confusion threading through his voice.

Selene’s stomach dropped, but she kept her face neutral, her body moving forward as though she hadn’t heard.

Kyrie’s gentle reply floated down the hall, a balm over the tension.
“She’s been through a terrible day, Nero. Don’t read too much into it yet.”

A pause. Then Nico’s voice, deceptively casual, laced with humor that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Or maybe she just isn’t used to Vergil’s brand of ‘friendly.’ Guy’s about as warm as an ice bath.”

The sound of Nero’s huff of laughter was low, reluctant, but it broke the moment. Still, Selene could feel Nico’s gaze boring into her back. That woman was perceptive—too perceptive.

They reached the guest room at the end of the hall. Kyrie opened the door with a quiet motion, stepping aside so Selene could enter.

The room was simple but welcoming. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and a single lamp casting a gentle pool of light. Through another doorway, Selene glimpsed a clean, tiled bathroom.

“You can wash up in there,” Kyrie said softly. She didn’t step inside, as though respecting Selene’s space. “I’ll bring you something comfortable to wear once you’ve settled in.”

Selene nodded, her throat too tight for words.

Kyrie’s smile was warm but careful. She seemed to sense Selene’s fragility, her need for distance. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. For now, just… rest. You’re safe here.”

Safe.

The word nearly broke her.

She managed another nod, and Kyrie slipped away, closing the door with a quiet click.

Selene stood in the center of the room, trembling, her hands fisted in her sleeves. The silence was overwhelming.

Nero was Vergil’s son.

The truth sat in her chest like a heavy stone, making it hard to breathe. The resemblance she’d noticed earlier—the sharp features, the familiar intensity—suddenly made painful, perfect sense.

And now she was here, standing in this house, bringing danger straight to him.

If the cult came, Nero would be in their path. His family, the children sleeping peacefully somewhere in this home—they would all be caught in the crossfire because of her.

The memory of Vergil’s hands on her skin, his mouth whispering her name, flashed through her mind like fire.
He had a son.
A life she hadn’t known about.

A hollow, ugly pang throbbed in her chest—jealousy, sharp and raw. There had been another woman before her, someone who had known Vergil in ways Selene could never take back. Maybe that was why he’d always seemed so restrained, so careful, even when passion burned between them.

But she couldn’t let herself dwell on it.

Because none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that Vergil’s son was under this roof, unaware of how deeply she was entangled in the cult’s plans.
If anything happened to Nero, Vergil would never forgive her.
He would shun her completely.

Selene wrapped her arms tightly around herself, fighting the trembling that threatened to consume her.

She couldn’t let that happen.
She wouldn’t.

Kyrie’s earlier kindness replayed in her mind—the soft promise of safety, the way her voice had carried genuine warmth. Selene couldn’t bear the thought of this woman suffering because of her. She couldn’t bear to see innocent children dragged into darkness.

Her decision solidified, quiet and unshakable.

She had to leave.
Before dawn, if she could.

Her presence here was a poison. The longer she stayed, the more danger she brought to them all.

Through the thin walls, she heard muted voices—the hum of conversation, the occasional laugh, the rise and fall of domestic life. It was everything she had never had… and everything she didn’t deserve.

She crossed to the bathroom, her reflection catching in the mirror as she passed.
Pale skin, haunted eyes, lips pressed into a thin line.
A stranger.

“You can’t stay,” she whispered to herself, voice cracking. “You have to run before they see what you really are.”

The tether beneath her skin thrummed faintly, a reminder of Vergil’s presence even miles away. It made her ache, but she forced herself to shut it out.

She would leave before the darkness reached this place.
Before Nico’s sharp mind pieced together the truth, before Nero’s questions grew into something dangerous.

Even if it meant breaking her own heart, Selene would vanish—
for Vergil,
for Nero,
for everyone under this roof.

And she would never look back.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet now, but not peacefully so. It was the kind of stillness that hummed with unspoken questions.

Nero leaned against the edge of the kitchen table, arms folded tight across his chest, shoulders tense. His expression was clouded with frustration and confusion, silver-blue eyes distant as he stared at nothing.
Kyrie sat nearby, her hands folded gently in her lap, her posture composed but her amber eyes tracking Nero’s every subtle movement.

Nico was the only one who seemed at ease, leaning back against the counter, long legs crossed, twirling an unlit cigarette between her fingers. But the sharp gleam in her gaze betrayed her mind at work, connecting dots that no one else had even noticed.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Finally, Nero exhaled roughly, breaking the silence. “I don’t get it,” he muttered, raking a hand through his pale hair. “She’s… I don’t know, different. Everything about her is off.”

Kyrie tilted her head slightly. “Different how?”

“Everything,” Nero said, a note of exasperation in his voice. “The way she moves, the way she acts. She looked like she was gonna collapse the second we got her through the door.”

“Not just looked,” Nico interjected smoothly. She rolled the cigarette between her fingers, her voice lazy but edged with meaning. “Back in my van, on the way here, I thought she was gonna seize up on me.”

Kyrie’s brows drew together, alarm flashing across her delicate features. “Seize up?”

“Yeah,” Nico said, pushing off the counter and pacing a few steps. “Body went stiff as a damn board, eyes rolled back, like she wasn’t even here. Only lasted a few seconds, then poof—back to normal like nothin’ happened. Didn’t even remember it afterward.”

Kyrie’s hands tightened slightly in her lap. “That doesn’t sound like a normal fainting spell.”

“Nope.” Nico popped the “p” with deliberate emphasis. “And it ain’t just that. You notice how she wears those gloves? Like, all the time? Not a fashion choice, sugar. That’s a tell.”

Nero frowned. “A tell of what? Maybe she’s just… I don’t know, shy.”

“Shy?” Nico gave a sharp little laugh, shaking her head. “Nah. Shy is blushin’ when someone flirts with you. This girl? She treats touch like it’s poison. You saw how she reacted when Kyrie reached for her.”

Kyrie’s voice softened, thoughtful. “She recoiled… but it wasn’t revulsion.” She met Nico’s gaze, their silent understanding passing between them. “It was fear.”

“Exactly.” Nico pointed the cigarette at Kyrie like a conductor’s baton. “Whatever her deal is, it’s tied to physical contact. I’d bet my van on it. She ain’t just afraid of people touching her—she’s terrified of what might happen if they do.”

Nero’s frustration deepened. “You’re both talking like she’s cursed or something. That’s a stretch, even for our line of work.”

Nico’s sharp grin widened, but her tone stayed measured. “Stretch or not, there’s somethin’ she ain’t tellin’ us. Hell, Kyrie, you didn’t see her in the van like I did. She kept her hands folded so tight I thought she’d leave bruises on her palms. The only time she broke that stillness was when…” Nico’s voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing as the memory clicked into place.

“When what?” Nero pressed, sensing her hesitation.

“I knew I wasnt crazy, i know i heard Vergils name when she mumbled it,” Nico said slowly, studying Nero’s face. “and I know damn well you heard it too."

Kyrie’s breath caught, her brows lifting. She turned to Nero sharply. “You didn’t mention that.”

Nero held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t notice at first! Everything was happening so fast. I figured she was just having a panic attack or..". Nero rubbed his neck, a frown back on his face. "I don't know what I heard, all i know is that she snapped out of it and acted like everything was peachy."

“Yeah,” Nico drawled, her smirk fading into something sharper. “It was personal, who would say someone's name like that if it wasn't."

Nero blinked, baffled. “Personal? She doesn’t even know him.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know him,” Nico said, her tone dropping like a stone. “But I’d bet he damn sure knows her.”

Kyrie’s lips pressed together, as though she wanted to disagree but couldn’t find the words.

The communicator on Nico’s hip crackled sharply, startling them all. She snatched it up with a practiced motion, pressing the button.
“This is Nico.”

Static hissed for a moment before Lady’s calm, cool voice filtered through. “Finally. I couldn’t hear your last message clearly—signal was trash out here. Fill me in.”

Nico exhaled, relief flickering across her face. “Lady, you got no idea how glad I am to hear your voice. We’ve had a hell of a night on our end.” She quickly summarized everything: Selene being hunted, the cult’s persistence, how they’d brought her here for safety.

Lady’s response was quick, no-nonsense. “Good move. We’ve been handling our side, but the cult activity’s worse than expected. Dante and I are heading back now.”

“Perfect timing, babe. We’ll be waitin’,” Nico said, her tone breezy despite the tension coiled in her body.

There was a pause, then Lady’s voice returned, lower now, carrying a note of concern. “What about Vergil?”

Nico froze. She glanced instinctively at Kyrie, then at Nero, before answering. “Thought he was with you guys.”

A sharp exhale crackled through the line. “He was. Up until about half an hour ago.” Lady’s tone shifted, edged with unease. “As soon as I got your earlier message—just the parts I could hear—he stopped what he was doing. Didn’t even wait for Dante or me to regroup. Just… left. No explanation. It was like someone lit a fuse under him.”

Kyrie’s eyes widened slightly, her calm composure cracking for just a heartbeat.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nero said, throwing up his hands. “Vergil ran off? My dad? The guy who moves like he’s allergic to urgency?”

Lady’s reply was clipped. “You heard me. Whatever was in that message set him off. Dante tried to follow, but Vergil was already gone.”

The line went dead with a final pop of static.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead light.

Nero finally swore under his breath. “Great. That’s just great. Any idea where he went this time?”

Nico didn’t answer right away. She was staring at the communicator in her hand, her mind racing. Slowly, she set it down on the counter, her usual smirk replaced with something far more serious.

When she looked up, her eyes met Kyrie’s.

Kyrie, already watching her, met the look without flinching. A silent exchange passed between them—sharp, knowing, heavy with unspoken truth.

“Why do I feel like you two just had an entire conversation without me?” Nero asked, scowling.

“Because we did,” Nico said smoothly, her grin returning just enough to mask her true thoughts.

Nero groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re both impossible.”

Kyrie rose gracefully, resting a soothing hand on his arm. “We’ll explain when we’re certain,” she said softly, though her tone carried a weight Nero didn’t catch.

Men, she thought wryly, were always the last to see what was right in front of them.

But both women knew this wasn’t random.
Vergil hadn’t vanished into the night on a whim.

Whatever pulled him away was tied to Selene.
And the storm that was coming was going to change everything.

The communicator sat on the counter like a snake ready to strike. Its faint, dying hiss of static seemed to fill the kitchen even after Lady’s voice faded.

No one moved at first.
No one breathed.

Nero’s jaw flexed as he stared at it, his hands balling into fists. “I don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice a low growl. “My old man doesn’t just… run off. Not like that. Something’s wrong.”

“You’re damn right something’s wrong,” Nico muttered, grabbing the communicator and flipping it shut with a sharp click. She paced across the kitchen, boot heels clacking against the wood floor, her mind clearly spinning. “The question is what.”

Kyrie rose slowly from her seat, her calm presence a stark contrast to the storm brewing between them. Her hands were folded neatly, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her composure. “Whatever it is, we can’t afford to wait until he decides to tell us,” she said quietly. “We need to assume the worst.”

Nero turned to her, incredulous. “The worst? Kyrie, you think this is—what—about that cult?”

“It’s always about the cult,” Nico said flatly, cutting him off. She tapped the side of her head with her unlit cigarette. “Think about it, sugar. This girl shows up outta nowhere, scared outta her mind, bein’ hunted by some nutjobs performin’ blood rituals—and the second I send Lady a message about bringin’ her here, Vergil bolts like his coat’s on fire.”

Nero’s frown deepened. “You think he went after them alone?”

“I think he’s reacting to somethin’,” Nico said, her voice sharpening. “And I don’t like it one damn bit.”

Kyrie’s gaze drifted toward the hallway where Selene now rested. Her expression softened for a moment, but worry quickly crept back in. “If she’s the focus of all this, we need to keep her safe,” she said firmly. “The children, too.”

At the mention of the children, the atmosphere shifted. Nero’s shoulders tensed, protective instincts flaring. Kyrie placed a gentle hand on his arm, steadying him, but her own voice held a note of quiet fear.

“If the cult gets bold enough to come here,” she continued, “this house will be their first target. They won’t care who they hurt to get to her.”

Nero’s gut twisted. “You think they’d go after the kids?” His voice cracked slightly.

“They’ll go after anything that gives them leverage,” Nico said grimly, tossing her cigarette onto the counter. “And trust me, psychos like that? They ain’t picky.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the slow, ticking clock on the wall.

Then Kyrie took a deep breath, centering herself. “We need a contingency plan,” she said, her tone calm but decisive. “If this escalates, we’ll move the children somewhere safe.”

“Where?” Nero asked sharply.

“There’s a monastery outside Fortuna,” Kyrie explained. “It’s secluded, fortified. The sisters there would take them in without question.”

Nero nodded slowly, though his hands were still fisted. “Alright. That covers the kids. But what about Selene? If this cult is hunting her specifically, she can’t stay here.”

Nico smirked faintly, though there was no humor in her eyes. “I was just gettin’ to that, hotshot.” She crossed her arms and leaned casually against the counter, looking for all the world like she wasn’t dropping a bombshell.

“If Vergil’s reactin’ the way I think he is,” she drawled, “then maybe we oughta stash her somewhere he’s already got his eye on.”

Nero blinked. “Meaning…?”

“The DMC,” Nico said simply.

Nero stared at her like she’d grown another head. “You want to take her there? To Dante’s office? That’s—”

“—exactly where she’ll be safest,” Nico interrupted, her tone razor-sharp. “Think about it. Strong defenses, open layout, plenty of firepower lyin’ around. Plus, Dante’ll be there, and Lady’s comin’ back too. If anyone can keep her safe, it’s that crew.”

Kyrie considered this, her expression pensive. “And Vergil?” she asked softly.

Nico’s smirk returned, sly and knowing. “Oh, sugar, that’s the best part. If Vergil’s so riled up he’s takin’ off in the middle of a mission, then clearly, somethin’ about this girl matters to him. I don’t know what it is yet, but if he comes back and finds her tucked away nice and secure at Dante’s place…” She let the thought hang, unfinished but heavy.

“You’re saying we use her as bait?” Nero snapped, his protective instincts roaring to the surface.

“Not bait,” Nico corrected, lifting her hands. “Insurance. Vergil’s a wild card, always has been. If he’s actin’ this twitchy now, we need him close, not runnin’ off on his own. If he knows she’s safe at the DMC, maybe he’ll quit stormin’ around like a demon with its tail on fire.”

Kyrie’s brows knit as she weighed the suggestion. “It’s risky,” she admitted. “But it might be our best option. Keeping her here only endangers the children.”

Nero’s jaw worked, frustration and worry battling inside him. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “I don’t like any of this.”

“None of us do,” Kyrie said softly, squeezing his arm. “But we don’t have the luxury of liking it. We have to be smart.”

Nico pushed off the counter, her expression turning serious. “Alright, here’s the plan. Kyrie, you start packin’ emergency bags for the kids—clothes, food, whatever they’ll need if we have to move ’em quick. Nero, you and I will set up a perimeter around the house tonight. Traps, alarms, the works. No one sneaks up on us without a fight.”

Nero nodded grimly, finally channeling his frustration into action.

“And Selene?” Kyrie asked, glancing toward the hallway.

Nico’s gaze followed hers, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Tomorrow, we move her to the DMC. Quietly. No drama, no arguments. The less she knows, the better.”

“You think she’ll fight us on it?” Kyrie asked.

“Oh, sugar,” Nico said with a slow, sly grin. “That girl’s fightin’ somethin’ every second she’s awake. I don’t know what it is yet, but it ain’t us. Trust me.”

Finally, Kyrie spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “We don’t have the luxury of waiting to see what he’ll do. Whatever caused that reaction, whatever pulled him away, it’s connected to her.” Her gaze flickered to the closed door down the hall where Selene rested fitfully.

Tomorrow would test them all.
But tonight, Kyrie allowed herself a single, steadying breath before turning away.
There was nothing left to do now but wait for dawn and pray that their fragile sanctuary would hold.

♡♡

Selene lay stiff beneath the unfamiliar quilt, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Her eyes burned, gritty with exhaustion, but sleep refused to come. Every time she closed them, images surged forward—the cult’s shadowed figures, the wild chant of their voices, the glint of blades, and those terrifying visions that blurred the line between what was real and what was not. Her heart thudded against her ribs, a panicked rhythm she couldn’t quiet.

The house had grown silent at last. She could feel the hush settling over it like a blanket, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood and the faint whisper of wind against the windows. At first, she’d stayed perfectly still, waiting, listening. Footsteps padded down the hall earlier: Kyrie’s soft and measured, Nero’s heavier, slower, as though weighed down by his thoughts. Then quiet. No more voices. No more movements. Nico had vanished somewhere—either to whatever room she claimed here or perhaps to her van parked in the adjoining garage. Selene imagined her sprawled in that messy vehicle, cigarette dangling from her lips, tools scattered around like puzzle pieces.

Now, with the whole house still, Selene finally allowed her mind to race. She’d spent the last hour lying motionless, forcing herself to breathe slow and steady in case anyone checked on her. But beneath the cover of darkness, her body trembled. The tension she’d held in all day was unspooling like a frayed rope.

She couldn’t stay here.

That much was clear.

Her gaze drifted to the faint outline of the window across the room. The curtains stirred lightly from the cool draft sneaking through the frame, revealing a slice of moonlight. Beyond that was freedom—a world she could vanish into. The thought terrified her and soothed her all at once.

But where would she go? Fortuna wasn’t safe. The cult’s reach seemed endless. No corner felt untouched by their shadow. And with Vergil now tangled in this web—her breath caught painfully in her chest at the thought of his name—every path forward seemed darker. Nero’s words earlier rang in her ears, unbidden.

She turned on her side, clutching the pillow to her chest as a deep ache spread through her ribs. Vergil had a family, a life that had existed long before she stumbled into his orbit. Perhaps there had been a woman, once, someone he had cared for. Maybe that was why he’d pulled away so coldly this morning, why he hadn’t offered her even a thread of explanation for what they’d shared. Perhaps she’d been nothing more than a momentary lapse in his rigid control, a mistake already regretted.

And now here she was, lying in his son’s home, endangering his family without even meaning to. If Nero or Kyrie—or those sweet, innocent children—were harmed because of her, Vergil would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself.

It didn’t matter if she had nowhere to run.
It didn’t matter if her chances of survival alone were slim.

As long as they were safe, as long as no one else suffered for her presence, that was all that mattered.

Selene’s breathing grew shallow as she planned silently in the darkness. She would wait. Timing was everything. The house needed to be fully asleep before she moved. Kyrie was likely already in bed, her light steps gone quiet. Nero, exhausted from the day, laying down with her, though Selene suspected he was probably lying awake like she was. Nico was the wildcard—Selene wasn’t sure if the woman truly slept or simply dozed in brief snatches like a fox guarding its den. She would need to slip past her without drawing attention.

Her mind spun through options. Could she go back to her bookshop? No, that would be the first place the cult would search. Fortuna’s streets were too exposed. Perhaps she could vanish into the old train yards on the outskirts of town, a place so desolate even demons avoided it. From there, she might catch a freight headed out, travel under cover until she was far beyond their reach. She’d lived alone before. She could do it again.

But even as she plotted, her pulse quickened with dread. Every step away from this place meant stepping into a world where Vergil would no longer be a shield between her and the darkness. The memory of his hands, his voice, the way his very presence steadied the wild chaos inside her—she clenched her teeth, forcing those thoughts away. Wanting him, needing him, didn’t matter anymore.

He’d chosen his distance.
And she would honor it by protecting what he loved, even if it meant tearing herself apart to do it.

The silence of the house stretched on, thick and oppressive. Selene listened carefully. Nothing but the soft groan of the old floorboards settling. No footsteps. No murmured voices. Finally, she pushed herself upright, her body trembling from the effort. The pajamas Kyrie left her, a lovely silk shirt with slik pants, a reminder of Kyries kindness. She wrapped a thin shawl around her shoulders, steeling herself against the chill.

She would leave quietly.
No notes. No explanations.
The fewer threads tying her to this place, the safer they would all be.

She sat there in the dim light, staring at the door, forcing herself to breathe evenly. When the moment came, she would rise and walk out into the night, alone.

Whether she lived or died didn’t matter.
As long as no one else got hurt, it would be worth it.

Selene’s resolve hardened as the silence of the house deepened, wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. Her body was trembling, though not from fear this time—there was determination coursing through her veins, a desperate clarity that steadied her hands even as her heart pounded violently against her ribs. She couldn’t stay here. She wouldn’t.

Slowly, she slid her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the soreness ripple through her muscles, a reminder of Vergil’s touch, of the way she had surrendered herself to him completely the night before. The memory clawed at her chest, threatening to break her concentration, but she shoved it down, burying the ache under a wall of resolve. She would not falter now. This was for him. For his son. For everyone under this roof.

She crossed the room on bare feet, moving like a shadow, careful to avoid the spots in the old wooden floor that creaked when stepped on. At the foot of the bed sat her shoes—plain, sturdy things she used for errands around town. She crouched down, fingers brushing the worn leather, and slipped them on, wincing at the faint scuff of the soles against the rug. Once they were laced, she tugged her hair free from its loose tangle and began braiding it quickly, fingers weaving the strands into a tight plait that wouldn’t snag or slow her down once she was outside.

A chill swept through the room as she reached for her coat. It hung on the back of the chair where Kyrie had gently placed it earlier, its familiar weight oddly comforting as she slipped it over her thin pajamas. The fabric smelled faintly of home—of her shop’s old paper and dusty wood shelves—and for a moment, her chest ached with longing. Would she ever see her shop again? Would she ever return to the life she’d built in fragile solitude?

Shaking her head, Selene forced herself back to the present. Those questions didn’t matter now. Survival mattered. Protecting the innocent people who had taken her in mattered.

She moved to the window, her breath shallow as she reached for the curtains. The pale moonlight spilled across her face, cool and silver, casting long shadows on the floor. Carefully, she peeked through a narrow gap in the fabric.

The yard outside was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Nico’s traps were hidden too well to see, but Selene could sense them—a prickling in the air, a subtle shift of energy that raised the fine hairs on her arms. She swallowed hard, realizing she’d have to be incredibly careful not to trigger them. The last thing she wanted was to wake Nero or Nico with an accidental alarm before she was clear of the property.

Her gaze swept across the line of trees at the edge of the property. The forest beyond looked like a wall of darkness, impenetrable and silent. Somewhere out there was freedom. Somewhere out there was safety. She had to believe that.

Selene unlatched the window slowly, her breath catching at every faint metallic click. The night air rushed in, crisp and biting, smelling of damp earth and pine. She hesitated, scanning the yard again. The van was parked off to the side, its hulking shape shadowed beneath a nearby tree. A faint glow leaked from one of its windows, and Selene’s stomach sank. Nico.

If Nico was awake inside that van, even partially dozing, Selene’s chances of slipping past her unnoticed were slim. The woman had the instincts of a predator, sharp and unrelenting. Selene would need to move like a ghost, silent and unseen, if she wanted any hope of escape.

She pulled the curtains closed behind her, leaving only the smallest gap to check her route one last time. Her fingers trembled as she rested them on the window frame, her body poised to climb out. This was it. Once she stepped outside, there would be no turning back.

Her mind betrayed her in that moment, conjuring an image of Vergil’s face—the intense blue of his eyes when they’d locked with hers, the way his voice had sounded low and dark when he’d sworn to return for answers. The phantom sensation of his hands on her skin made her knees weaken, a violent longing surging through her chest.

“No,” she whispered fiercely to herself, forcing the memory back into the shadows where it belonged. “This is the only way.”

The cult wouldn’t stop hunting her. And if Vergil followed his instincts, if he came back here, his rage would draw even more attention. She couldn’t risk him walking into a trap because of her. She couldn’t risk Nero, Kyrie, the children, or even Nico being caught in the crossfire of her cursed existence.

Selene steadied her breathing and shifted her weight, carefully testing the window’s edge with her foot. The wood was cold beneath her skin, but sturdy. She calculated the drop—it wasn’t far, just enough to jolt her knees when she landed. If she angled herself right, she could slip into the grass with barely a whisper of sound.

One last time, she checked the positions of everything she could see: the van’s faint glow, the house’s dark windows, the trees beyond. Her mind mapped out every step she would need to take—the silent sprint across the yard, the careful navigation around the traps she could sense but not see, and finally, the plunge into the forest’s waiting darkness.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath, her braid brushing against her back like a soft whip of resolve. Her body was ready. Her mind was set.

For a brief moment, guilt clawed at her again, sharp and suffocating. She wished she could explain, could tell Kyrie that her kindness had not been wasted, that Nero’s protection had been deeply felt even if she never deserved it. She wished she could look Vergil in the eye one last time, not to beg him to stay, but to thank him for the fleeting, impossible moment of safety he had given her.

But there was no time for wishes now. There was only action.

“Goodbye,” she breathed, the word barely audible as it slipped past her lips. It was meant for all of them, a farewell to the fragile shelter she was about to abandon.

With one final glance at the sleeping house, Selene gripped the window frame, shifted her weight, and prepared to disappear into the night. Even if it meant losing herself completely, she would ensure that no one else would bleed for her sins.

Selene lowered herself from the window with as much care as her trembling body allowed. The cold night air bit into her skin through her thin pajamas and coat, her breath puffing out in pale clouds. Her feet found the edge of the wooden siding, and she pushed off, landing in a crouch on the damp grass. Pain jolted up her legs, but she clamped her teeth together, stifling the cry that nearly burst from her throat. Not graceful by any means, but blessedly quiet.

For a heartbeat, she froze, listening.

The house remained still. No lights flicked on, no doors burst open. The traps Nico had laid remained silent. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the whispering night, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, carefully, as she crouched low in the shadows.

Now came the hard part.

Selene rose slowly and began to move, each step deliberate, the grass slick beneath her shoes. She hugged the side of the house, avoiding the patches where she sensed Nico’s defenses humming in the soil. The moonlight was merciless, casting everything in stark silver and black, making her feel exposed with every breath. She didn’t dare glance toward the garage where the van was parked; a faint glow still leaked from one of its windows, and her gut twisted with fear. If Nico so much as glanced outside, this would all be over.

Reaching the outer yard, she kept her body low, darting from shadow to shadow, her shawl fluttering lightly behind her. Each step felt like a gamble, each rustle of grass a potential alarm. When she finally reached the first line of trees, relief surged through her chest so fiercely that she almost sobbed aloud. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

If she saw the warm glow of Kyrie’s home one last time, she might falter. She might turn around, throw herself at their mercy, and beg them to understand. And she couldn’t afford that weakness.

By the time they woke, she would be nothing more than a memory.

Selene pushed herself faster, her braid whipping behind her as she plunged deeper into the forest. Branches clawed at her coat, damp leaves crunched beneath her shoes, and the night swallowed her whole. The deeper she went, the darker it became, the moonlight fading into fragmented shards through the canopy overhead. The air grew colder, wetter, carrying the heavy scent of moss and earth.

Her lungs burned as she forced herself to keep a punishing pace. Every heartbeat was a mantra: Faster. Farther. Don’t stop.

But in her desperate focus, she didn’t notice the subtle shift in the air until it was too late.

A blur of movement streaked past her, low to the ground and impossibly fast, like a shard of sapphire lightning slicing through the darkness. The wind it carried nearly knocked her off her feet. She stumbled, her hands shooting out to steady herself against a tree trunk slick with dew.

Selene’s breath caught, her ears straining in the sudden, unnatural quiet that followed.

Then she heard it.

A deep, guttural sound, primal and low, that vibrated in her bones—a sound like heavy, ragged breathing mixed with the grinding snarl of some caged beast. It was close. Too close.

Her heart seized, a flash of terror freezing her blood. The vision of the cult’s chanting, of the demons they summoned, flared in her mind with brutal clarity. For a moment, she thought she might collapse under the weight of it.

Slowly, Selene turned her head, her body trembling so violently she feared the movement alone would give her away. Between the gaps in the trees, a shadow shifted—a hulking form that moved with both speed and terrible precision. The faintest glint of blue flickered in the darkness, like moonlight striking a blade.

The air thickened, heavy with menace, and her every instinct screamed at her to run.

But her legs refused to move.

The sound of wings unfurled above her—a single, powerful beat that sent leaves scattering like frightened birds. Selene’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as the creature—or man, or whatever hunted her—closed in, its presence pressing against her like a tangible force.

She backed away blindly, her shoulder slamming into rough bark. Splinters tore at her palms as she groped for balance, her mind a swirl of panic. She had fled to protect the others, to keep them safe, but now she was alone in the dark with something far worse than cultists.

Selene’s breath hitched, her chest seizing painfully as that strange, unearthly pulse reverberated through her entire body. It struck like a lightning bolt beneath her skin—familiar, unmistakable, impossible to ignore. Her trembling legs nearly gave out beneath her.

She knew that sensation.

The tether she’d tried so hard to deny, the one that had burned through her veins ever since Vergil had first touched her, roared to life now with brutal clarity. It wasn’t fear that rooted her to the spot—it was recognition, raw and undeniable. That pulse belonged to him.

The blur of sapphire light flashed again through the trees, bright and violent like a crack of lightning splitting the darkness, and then it faded. The air stilled for a heartbeat before the forest itself seemed to shudder. The oppressive dark energy swirling around her spiked sharply, coiling like a predator preparing to strike. It wasn’t chaotic like the cultists’ magic or the corrupted demons they summoned—it was deliberate, controlled, and furious.

Her throat went dry, her lips parting in a silent gasp as her eyes widened.
Vergil.

The realization slammed into her like a physical blow. He had found her.

Branches rustled ahead, a sound too precise to be mere wind. And then, between the thick trunks, a figure emerged—a silhouette of power and menace. The moonlight pierced through the canopy at last, silvering his hair and illuminating the cruel, beautiful lines of his face. His long coat flared around him as he moved, and in his hand, Yamato gleamed like a shard of night itself.

He didn’t rush toward her. He didn’t speak.

Vergil stared her down.

Those icy, piercing blue eyes locked on her, unblinking, seething with a storm of emotions she couldn’t name. They pinned her in place as thoroughly as if his hand were around her throat. Selene felt her lungs seize, her breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts.

But beneath her terror was another truth: she wasn’t afraid of him. Not exactly.
The fear was for herself—what his presence did to her, how her body responded instinctively to his dark, commanding aura.

The tether between them pulsed violently, a physical ache in her chest. His fury rolled through it like thunder, raw and unrestrained, and she nearly whimpered at the force of it.

He took a step closer, his boots silent on the forest floor, his movements precise and predatory. Even in his human form, he radiated the same restrained violence she’d seen when demons fell before him. Every inch of him screamed control—but barely.

He wasn’t merely angry.
He was hunting.

The realization sank in, chilling her blood. Vergil wasn’t here as her protector or her reluctant ally. In this moment, he was a force of nature, a man whose fury had been stoked past reason. The bond between them had led him to her, and now he stood there deciding what to do with that betrayal.

Selene stumbled back a step, her heel catching on a root, and his gaze sharpened dangerously. The muscles in his jaw tightened, the moonlight catching on his cheekbones like a sculptor’s cruel cut.

“Vergil,” she managed to whisper, her voice hoarse with both longing and dread.

His name seemed to hang in the cold night air, met only by the sound of his slow, deliberate breathing. His shoulders rose and fell once, controlled, though she could see the dark aura rippling around him like a living shadow.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The message in his eyes was unmistakable: You dared to put yourself in danger.

Selene’s heart splintered beneath the weight of his fury. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She hadn’t meant to wound him. But in his mind, her desperate flight was a rejection, a reckless act that endangered her.

Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t move even as every instinct screamed for her to drop to her knees or fling herself into his arms.

Vergil took another step forward, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low and dangerous, laced with a quiet rage that sent a shiver down her spine.
“You left.”

Two simple words, sharp as Yamato’s blade, and they carved through her like a wound she might never heal.

She wanted to explain, to tell him why, to scream that she was doing this for him, for Nero, for everyone. But her throat locked, her body frozen by the dark power radiating from him.

Vergil circled slightly, his head tilting just enough to catch the light, his expression unreadable but his fury palpable. He looked at her not as a man might look at a frightened woman—but as a hunter assessing his prey, as though deciding whether to bind her tightly to him… or destroy anything that had dared touch what was his.

The night seemed to close in around them, the forest shrinking beneath the oppressive weight of his anger. Even the wind dared not stir.

Selene’s pulse raced wildly, the tether between them burning hotter with every second. She had thought she was free, that she’d left before dawn to protect them all.

Selene’s backpedaling faltered as her foot caught on a protruding root, the bark slick from the evening dew. Her palms pressed against the rough surface of a nearby tree trunk as she tried to steady herself, the cold and damp sinking into her skin. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, each inhale ragged and painful.

Vergil advanced with agonizing slowness, his movements deliberate, controlled—but beneath that control, there was a simmering rage so thick it vibrated through the tether between them. The blue glow of his aura pulsed with every step he took, shadows warping around him, his very presence bending the world into submission. He wasn’t simply walking toward her—he was stalking her, each step a silent accusation.

Selene’s legs trembled as she instinctively retreated until the tree’s trunk pressed into her spine, hard and unyielding. There was nowhere left to go. She was caught between the cold bark at her back and the man who now towered over her, filling every inch of space, his aura saturating the air like a storm about to break.

He stopped only when his boots were inches from hers, his height casting her in shadow beneath the pale moonlight. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his icy blue gaze sweeping over her from head to toe. It wasn’t the heated gaze of the man who had once touched her with reverence and fire—it was the assessing stare of a warrior, a hunter, and something darker, more possessive.

His jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared slightly, inhaling her scent as though confirming something primal. Selene shivered, her body betraying her by responding to his closeness even through her fear and guilt. His eyes narrowed, reading every flicker of emotion in her face, every hitch of her breath.

Then his gaze shifted past her, sweeping the surrounding trees. His head tilted slightly, like a predator listening for the faintest whisper of movement. His shoulders tensed, his hand brushing against the hilt of Yamato. His protective instinct, sharp and unrelenting, surged through the bond between them.

The silence of the forest stretched. Only the soft rustle of leaves high above and the distant croak of a night bird broke the stillness. When Vergil was certain they were alone, certain no cultists or demons had followed them into this moment, his attention returned to her fully.

And this time, his eyes burned.

Anger. Fury. Fear disguised as wrath.

“Why,” he growled, his voice low and cutting, “are you running from me?”

The words sank into her chest like a blade. Selene opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat was too tight, the bond between them humming violently with his emotions.

Vergil leaned closer, his tall frame bending slightly toward her, until the cold heat of his breath ghosted across her face. His gaze never wavered, pinning her like prey. “Where,” he hissed, each word deliberate, “did you think you would go?” His tone darkened further, a dangerous edge sliding beneath the surface. “You, who have been marked. Hunted. Desired by creatures who would tear this world apart to claim you.”

His eyes flickered briefly to the forest beyond, then snapped back to her, his voice sharpening.

“You are a target. A beacon in the dark. And you believed you could simply… run?”

Selene flinched, tears pricking at her eyes. “I—”

“Speak carefully,” Vergil interrupted, his tone cold and precise, though she could feel the fury radiating through him. “You left a place of safety. You left me. Do you truly grasp the peril you’ve invited?”

Her lips trembled as she tried to form the words. “I didn’t want them to get hurt,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Kyrie, Nero, the children… even Nico. I thought if I left, they’d be safe.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed to slits. His tall frame loomed even closer, his presence wrapping around her like a cage. The bond pulsed, an electric thrumming between them that made her breath catch.

“Foolish woman,” he said, his voice dropping to a dark, guttural timbre that sent a shiver racing down her spine. “Do you not understand? Your absence does not erase danger. It magnifies it. They would pursue you regardless, tearing through anyone in their path. By leaving, you have placed yourself—and them—in far greater peril.”

Selene shook her head, her braid sliding over her shoulder as she pressed her back harder into the tree. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Vergil snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. His eyes, glowing faintly with that eerie blue light, bored into hers with ruthless intensity. “Do you believe I tracked you through this wretched forest simply to lecture you? No, Selene. I came because you are mine to protect. And because I will not allow you to destroy yourself through misguided guilt.”

The word mine struck her like a physical blow, heat flooding her cheeks despite the icy anger surrounding them. Her heart stuttered wildly, torn between shame and the wild, impossible longing she felt whenever he was near.

Vergil’s breathing was heavy now, each inhale sharp, controlled only by sheer willpower. His eyes swept over her again, this time slower, more deliberate. He was assessing her for injury, for weakness, and—unbidden—his gaze lingered briefly on the delicate line of her throat, the tremor of her chest as she breathed.

“You cannot run from what you are,” he said, his tone softer but no less commanding. “Nor can you run from me.”

His head dipped slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, dangerous and intimate.

“Tell me, Selene. Where would you have gone? Where could you possibly hide… when even the darkness itself bends to find you?”

She had no answer. Only the thunder of her pulse, the trembling of her limbs, and the undeniable truth blazing between them:
there was nowhere she could go where he wouldn’t follow.

The cold night air seemed to thicken as Vergil closed the last remaining distance between them, his body towering over hers until the tree bark pressed harshly into her spine. Selene’s breath came in shallow, stuttering gasps as the tether between them burned white-hot, carrying his rage and his dark desire straight into her bones. His hand lifted, bracing beside her head, effectively caging her against the rough trunk. The gesture wasn’t gentle—no, it was deliberate, meant to corner her, to force her to feel the power she had provoked by running.

Her pulse raced wildly as her eyes darted up to his. They glowed faintly in the moonlight, glacial and sharp, a storm barely restrained. The energy rolling off him was overwhelming, a dark tide that threatened to sweep her away. Selene’s fingers curled into the bark behind her, splinters biting her skin, as she tried to draw breath past the knot of fear, guilt, and need tightening in her chest.

“You will listen,” Vergil said, his voice low and deadly, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “You will understand why I am angry.”

Each word dripped with fury, but beneath it, she heard something rawer—fear for her safety, frustration with himself, the deep, gnawing pull of the bond they shared. His breath ghosted over her cheek, hot against the cold night, and her entire body trembled at the nearness of him.

His free hand lifted, fingers skimming along her jaw with deceptive gentleness before clamping down on her chin, tilting her head so she was forced to meet his eyes. “Do you think you can run from me? From what we are?” His voice darkened, vibrating through her core. “Foolish, reckless woman. You almost sealed your fate tonight. If I had been even a moment later…”

His jaw clenched, and for a terrifying heartbeat, Selene thought he might shake her. Instead, he exhaled sharply and released her chin, stepping back half a pace as though reining himself in. But the fury still simmered, his body taut with barely leashed control.

In a swift, controlled motion, Vergil spun her around, his hand gripping her shoulder with unyielding strength. Selene gasped, stumbling forward until her palms slapped against the tree’s rough surface. Splinters dug into her skin as she steadied herself, heart hammering.

“Hold on,” Vergil commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

Her breath hitched. She obeyed instinctively, clutching the bark, the cold biting into her fingers. She didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare defy him. Her braid slid over her shoulder, the loose ends brushing her trembling thighs as she stood rigid beneath his dominance.

Vergil’s hands swept down her back, slow and deliberate, as though mapping every line of her body. The weight of his touch was scorching despite the chilled night air. When his fingers reached the curve of her lower spine, Selene let out a soft, startled sound that was equal parts fear and aching want.

He paused there, his breath heavy, and for a moment she thought he might retreat. Instead, his hands slid lower, over the swell of her hips, his thumbs pressing into her flesh possessively. Selene’s knees nearly buckled as his palms cupped her bottom, his fingers digging in just enough to make her gasp.

“You ran from me,” he growled, leaning close so his lips brushed her ear, his voice a sinfully dark promise. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

His anger pulsed through every word, a storm crashing against her trembling frame. She tried to speak, to explain, but the words tangled on her tongue. “I-I didn’t want them to get hurt,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Vergil snapped, his hands tightening on her hips. The harsh edge of his tone sent a shudder through her, her body bowing instinctively beneath the weight of his dominance.

Before she could form another protest, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her shorts. The cold night air bit at her exposed skin as he dragged the fabric down with deliberate slowness, baring her inch by inch to his searing gaze. Selene’s breath caught, her face flushing hot despite the chill, her fingers gripping the bark until her knuckles ached.

“Feel this moment,” Vergil murmured, his voice dropping to a guttural growl as he stood behind her, towering, dangerous, and unyielding. “Remember it well. Because you will never run from me again.”

His hands roamed possessively over her now-bared flesh, his touch both a punishment and a claim, leaving no doubt that she was his. The forest seemed to hold its breath around them, the moonlight casting them in stark silver as the tether between them thrummed, binding them tighter than chains.

“Do you understand me, Selene?” he asked, his lips so close to her ear that she felt the vibration of his words. “You are mine to protect… mine to command. And if you ever dare to flee from me again…” His voice dropped to a whisper of pure, dangerous promise. “I will not be so merciful.”

“You could have been taken,” he snarled, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear as his towering frame pressed closer, caging her against the unyielding bark. “Hunted. Torn apart before I could reach you. And you think I would forgive that?”

Her eyes burned with tears she didn’t dare shed. His fury wasn’t just anger—it was terror, twisted into rage. It was possessiveness sharpened by the bond they could no longer deny.

Selene’s knees buckled, her forehead pressing against the tree trunk as her tears finally fell. Shame and need twisted violently in her chest. “I—Vergil, I just—”

“Silence.” His command left no room for argument. One of his hands slid between her thighs, forcing them apart with terrifying precision. Selene gasped, jerking forward, but his other hand on her hip kept her exactly where he wanted her.

The first brush of his fingers against her sensitive flesh was light, exploratory, almost gentle. Almost. Selene’s breath fractured into tiny sobs as he teased her, circling her clit, pressing, never quite giving her what she craved. Her body betrayed her, heat and slickness gathering under his relentless ministrations.

“You ran from me,” he murmured, his tone lower now, darker, curling around her like smoke. “And yet… even now, you ache for me.”

“Please,” she gasped, her voice breaking, though she didn’t even know what she was pleading for. Relief? Release? Mercy?

Vergil’s response was a dark, humorless chuckle. “Not yet.”

His fingers moved faster, more deliberate, until Selene’s body trembled violently, teetering on the edge of climax. Her nails dug into the tree bark, splinters embedding in her skin as she fought to obey his command not to let go. She felt herself spiraling higher, closer—until suddenly, his touch vanished completely.

Behind her came a sound that made her blood run cold: the slow, metallic clink of a buckle being undone. The slide of leather. The whisper of fabric shifting.

Selene’s heart pounded so violently she thought it might break free from her chest.

“No… no, please, I—”

“Yes.” His voice was rough, unrecognizable, a guttural promise of what was to come. “You will learn what it means to defy me.”

Before she could brace herself, Vergil’s hands seized her hips, the grip bruising, and with one powerful, unrelenting thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.

Selene screamed. The sound was raw, primal, echoing through the still forest as her body arched violently against the tree. The sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness, stole her breath and shattered her mind. The bond between them flared white-hot, a surge of dark energy exploding outward like a storm.

Vergil groaned against her ear, his breath ragged, his composure shattering as he felt her tightness clench around him. “Mine,” he hissed, each syllable edged with possession and fury. “Every. Piece. Of. You.”

His hips slammed into hers with punishing force, setting a brutal rhythm that left her gasping and sobbing. Each thrust drove the lesson deeper, a physical command burned into her very soul: she was his, and she would never run again.

Selene’s hands slipped on the bark, her body too overwhelmed to hold steady, but Vergil’s grip kept her upright, trapped between him and the unyielding tree. The night dissolved into heat and motion, into the pounding of her heart and the relentless sound of his hips meeting hers.

Selene sobbed, her tears streaking down her flushed cheeks. She wanted to speak, to ask what this meant, but her body betrayed her. Pleasure and pain tangled into a searing knot that stole her breath and shattered her thoughts.

He moved like a man on the edge of losing himself, each motion a message he couldn’t speak aloud. She felt it—the desperation, the fear of losing her, the unspoken truth he didn’t know how to voice. Every thrust was a vow, every brutal snap of his hips a reminder.

Vergil’s hand slipped between her thighs, his long fingers finding her clit with terrifying precision. Selene screamed, her nails clawing the tree trunk as the dual assault of his body and his hand sent her spiraling higher.

Her body convulsed, her first climax crashing over her like a tidal wave. She sobbed, trembling violently, but Vergil didn’t stop. His pace only grew more relentless, his touch merciless.

Another climax followed. And another. He coaxed her past every limit she thought she had, dragging her deeper and deeper into a haze of unbearable pleasure until her voice was hoarse from screaming his name.

“Vergil—I can’t—I can’t take—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarled, his teeth grazing her neck. His voice was guttural, raw, edged with something dangerously primal. “You will.”

Selene’s eyes flew wide as she felt the sharp points of fangs skim her skin. A shiver of terror and desire ripped through her, her body going utterly still even as he continued to take her.

“Vergil…” she gasped, her voice breaking.

He pressed his lips to her throat, his growl vibrating through her flesh. His teeth dragged along her pulse, making her whimper. “Do you feel this, Selene?” he demanded, his thrusts turning frenzied, his hand stroking her ruthlessly. “The fire between us… it will consume you. It will consume me.”

Her world splintered again as another climax tore through her, the bond flaring so bright she swore she could see it behind her closed eyelids. Her entire body shook, boneless and overwhelmed, but Vergil’s grip kept her upright, forcing her to take everything he gave.

“I cannot deny this anymore” he snarled, his fangs pressing just hard enough to make her pulse hammer wildly.

The words sent a rush of heat through her belly, her body tightening around him, drawing a guttural groan from his throat. The noise was sharp and intimate, a sound so deeply Vergil it made her pulse stutter wildly.

He grunted with every motion, the sound low and animalistic, mingling with sharp, broken groans as his control began to unravel. His teeth nipped at her neck again, more insistent this time, dangerously close to breaking skin. She felt the sharp points of his fangs and whimpered, overwhelmed by the terrifying intimacy of it

“Vergil, please—” she sobbed, though she didn’t know if she was begging him to stop or to never stop.

His hips slammed into hers harder, faster, the tension between them reaching a fever pitch. His groans deepened, rough and guttural, vibrating against her skin as his thrusts turned frantic.

The bond between them flared, searing through her chest, and Selene felt him pulse inside her as his climax hit. His breath caught, and a deep, shuddering groan spilled from his lips as his body locked around hers, his hips driving deep one final time.

Selene cried out as her own release followed, crashing over her so violently she thought she might black out. Her body convulsed, every muscle trembling, her voice breaking into sobs.

As his body eased out of its frenzy, he stayed pressed against her, still buried deep, his hand covering hers against the tree. His groans faded into quiet, ragged breaths, but the echo of his claiming lingered between them, an unbreakable vow etched into her soul.

And though Selene’s tears mixed with sweat on her cheeks, though her body trembled from the relentless claiming, she knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
she could never run from him again.

Chapter Text

Vergil’s chest heaved, ragged breaths filling the silent forest as the haze of primal instinct slowly receded. The overwhelming heat of his climax still pulsed through him, the sharp edges of his desire giving way to a creeping clarity. His hands, which had moments ago gripped Selene with bruising force, now trembled faintly against her flushed, trembling skin.

He forced himself to still, to breathe past the raw hunger still clawing at the edges of his control. Slowly—reluctantly—he eased himself out of her, his jaw tightening at the intimate, unbearable sensation. Selene whimpered softly, her body sagging against the tree as if her strength had been entirely spent.

For a moment, Vergil simply stared at her, the reality of what he’d done crashing over him like a wave. The marks on her skin, the tear tracks on her face, the way her body trembled with exhaustion and pleasure… he had done this. To her.

And yet… she was still here. Still his.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—half a growl of frustration, half a prayer of relief. He stepped forward, catching her before she could slide down the trunk, his arms wrapping around her possessively. Carefully, almost reverently, he turned her to face him. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the strength.

He didn’t ask her to. Words were useless things now.

Vergil sank to the forest floor, his back braced against the same tree that had borne witness to his loss of control. With deliberate care, he pulled Selene into his lap, arranging her so that she straddled his thighs, her cheek resting against his chest. His coat pooled around them like a protective shroud, hiding her bare, trembling form from the cold night air.

She was so small like this, so fragile in his arms. And yet, he could feel the strength of her heartbeat through the bond they now shared—a wild, frantic rhythm that matched his own.

He tightened his hold on her, one hand splaying wide against the small of her back while the other cradled her head. The scent of her clung to him, sweet and maddening, laced with the sharp tang of what they’d just done. His own scent mingled with hers, heavy and undeniable, marking her as his in a way no words ever could.

Vergil lowered his head, pressing his lips to her temple. The gesture was almost awkward, unfamiliar, but necessary. He needed her close. Needed her to know.

“I…” The single syllable scraped from his throat like a broken thing. He swallowed, shutting his eyes tightly. He wasn’t good with words—never had been. And what he felt now was beyond language, beyond reason.

So he didn’t speak. He simply held her tighter, letting the silence say what his voice could not.

This was the second time he had taken her—the second time he had crossed a boundary there was no coming back from. The first time had been different: tender, careful, the night he had claimed her virginity. That night, he had tried to control himself, to give her a choice, to let her see a fraction of the man beneath the demon.

Tonight… there had been no control.

Tonight, the primal part of him had taken over, fueled by terror at her running, by the bond’s unrelenting pull, by the need to show her what she meant to him when his tongue failed him.

And she had taken it. Every punishing thrust, every climax wrung from her body until she had screamed his name to the stars.

A dark, possessive satisfaction curled in his gut at the memory, even as guilt gnawed at its edges. He had pushed her to her absolute limit, and even now she lay boneless and trembling in his lap, her breath shallow, her pulse erratic.

Vergil rested his chin atop her head, his voice a low, rough rumble meant only for her.
“I went too far,” he admitted, though the words felt strange on his tongue.

Selene stirred faintly, a small sound of protest escaping her, but he shushed her with a gentle stroke of his hand along her spine.

“You should hate me for this,” he continued, his tone raw and bitter. “And perhaps… I deserve it.”

His grip tightened involuntarily, as though she might vanish if he loosened his hold.

But when her hand twitched weakly against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt, something inside him broke. She wasn’t pushing him away. She wasn’t running. Even after everything he had done, she was still here.

The realization struck him harder than any blade ever had.

Vergil closed his eyes, inhaling the mingled scent of sweat, earth, and Selene. The primal urge to mark her—truly mark her, to seal the bond permanently—still burned in his blood. His teeth ached with the need to sink into her flesh, to claim her utterly and irrevocably. But he had stopped himself. Barely.

For now.

He would not let that beastly part of himself frighten her, not yet. She didn’t know what the bond truly meant, what his instincts demanded.

But he knew.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t regret it. Not when every fiber of his being screamed that she was his.

Vergil’s hand slid down to rest against her belly, protective and possessive all at once. He hadn’t pulled out. He couldn’t. Even now, the thought of doing so felt wrong, unnatural.

Doubts that had once plagued him—the fear that he was unworthy, that this connection was a mistake—were gone. Burned away in the fire of what they had just shared.

There would be no denying this bond.
No undoing what he had done.
No future in which Selene was anything but his.

Vergil pressed his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers in the cool night air.
“You are mine,” he whispered, the words a vow etched in steel.

And though he would never say it aloud, not yet, a part of him vowed something deeper still:
Never again would he allow her to run.
Never again would he let her doubt what she meant to him.
Even if it meant the world burned around them.

Vergil sat beneath the tree, his long coat spread around them like a dark cocoon shielding them from the night. Selene trembled faintly in his lap, her body limp with exhaustion, her small hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as though anchoring herself to him. The forest was still around them, moonlight slicing through the canopy in pale shafts that illuminated her tear-streaked face.

He studied her in silence, his sharp blue eyes scanning every detail. Her lashes clumped with tears, her lips parted in soft, uneven breaths, her flushed skin cooling rapidly in the night air. She looked utterly spent—physically and emotionally. This intimacy was foreign to him, a battlefield he had never intended to step onto. Yet, as alien as it felt to hold her like this, it wasn’t unwelcome. In fact, it stirred something deep and unfamiliar in his chest.

Her quiet, broken sobs reverberated through him, igniting a protective rage he didn’t fully understand. She wasn’t just crying from physical exhaustion. No—he could feel it through the bond: the weight of her guilt, the sharp edges of her fear and despair digging into her like glass shards.

Vergil tightened his grip around her, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head. His aura pulsed softly, instinctively seeking to calm her though he doubted it could. He hated this—hated seeing her so consumed by shame and grief. Yet part of him knew he’d only made it worse. His fury at her decision to run, his terror of losing her, had erupted into primal lust. He had acted on instinct, claiming her with his body when he should have sought answers with words.

Now, as she wept quietly against him, Vergil struggled to find the language to untangle this mess. His jaw worked, muscles tight as he tried to form the first question, the first step toward understanding why she had left him.

But Selene beat him to it.

“I—” Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. She swallowed hard and tried again. “I know about Nero.”

Vergil stilled completely. His heartbeat slowed, then roared in his ears. She couldn’t possibly mean—

“I know he’s your son,” she said, her voice breaking, a new wave of tears spilling down her cheeks.

A sharp, cold breath hissed between Vergil’s teeth. His entire body tensed, instinctively protective, but he forced himself to remain silent, to listen.

“I didn’t mean to find out,” she rushed on, shaking her head against his chest. “But once I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how much danger I’ve brought to him, to Kyrie, to Nico—” Her voice cracked. “By being around them, I’ve put their lives at risk. I’ve put your son’s life at risk.”

Her words struck deep, sharper than any blade. Selene trembled harder, sobbing openly now, the sound tearing through the stillness of the forest.

“I couldn’t bear it, Vergil,” she confessed. “I thought if I ran, if I disappeared, they’d be safe. You’d be safe.”

Vergil’s grip on her waist tightened almost painfully. Safe? Did she truly believe leaving him could keep her safe? The sheer wrongness of it burned in his chest, threatening to spill out as rage.

But she wasn’t finished.

“And…” She hesitated, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. “And I thought… maybe you didn’t stay with me that morning because you… because you couldn’t.” Her breath hitched. “Because there was someone else. Someone you couldn’t forget.”

Her shame and jealousy rolled through the bond, hitting him like a blow. “I thought she must’ve been Nero’s mother,” she whispered. “That you still loved her. That I… that I was just—” Her sobs choked the rest of the words.

Vergil froze, his sharp mind grasping the shape of her pain. And then, against his own expectations, a sound left him—a sharp, incredulous huff of breath. Not quite laughter, but close enough to be startling.

Selene’s head jerked up, her tear-filled eyes wide with confusion and hurt.

“No,” Vergil said at last, his voice deep and precise, though softened by something almost like exasperation. His lips curled faintly—not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Selene, no. It was not because of another woman.”

Her brow furrowed, disbelief warring with hope.

“I did not leave you that morning because I loved someone else,” he continued, his tone firm, cutting through her spiral like a blade. “I left because I…” He faltered, his jaw clenching as words failed him. Admitting weakness, admitting what truly drove him away, went against everything in his nature.

Selene’s trembling fingers gripped his shirt tighter, desperate for the truth.

Vergil exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “I am… inexperienced with this,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost rough. “With… us. That morning, I did not know how to stay without losing the walls I’ve built around myself. So I ran. Like a coward.” His eyes narrowed, sharp and glacial. “But do not mistake my fear for lingering affection toward another. That… is not who I am.”

Selene’s lips parted, a silent sob escaping as the tension in her frame eased slightly.

“I care nothing for Nero’s mother,” Vergil added, his voice hardening with truth. “She was… a complication of circumstance. Nothing more. I have not loved her. Not once.” His gaze softened, his thumb brushing a tear from Selene’s cheek with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Do you understand?”

Her breath caught, a shaky nod answering him.

“Good.” Vergil’s arms tightened around her as though he could physically shield her from her own self-blame. “Never let such foolish thoughts plague you again.”

For a long moment, there was silence—save for Selene’s quiet, uneven breathing and the steady, protective beat of Vergil’s heart beneath her ear.

“I will not elaborate further,” he said finally, his tone brooking no argument. It wasn’t cruel—just firm, absolute.

Selene’s lips parted as though to protest, but she caught herself, swallowing her questions. He saw the flicker of understanding in her gaze, the way her shoulders slumped slightly. She knew he wasn’t telling her everything.

Vergil exhaled slowly, lowering his head so his forehead brushed lightly against hers. It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was the closest he could come. “Whatever you imagine Nero’s mother was to me, erase it from your thoughts. She was nothing. You, Selene…” His voice faltered for a fraction of a second before sharpening again. “You are the only one who matters now.”

Her breath stuttered, a small sob escaping her lips.

Vergil’s arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, as if he could shield her from the doubts clawing at her mind. He wasn’t good at this—at speaking truths better left unsaid—but he could show her. His actions would speak where words failed.

And though Selene didn’t press him further, though she didn’t voice the questions trembling on her tongue, he felt them hanging between them still.

She knew he wasn’t telling her everything.
And he knew that one day, she would demand the whole truth.

But not tonight. Not while she trembled in his arms, the bond between them a fragile, burning thread he would never let break.

Selene drew in a trembling breath, her body still weak and pliant against Vergil’s. The warmth of his coat wrapped around her like a shield, but it couldn’t banish the icy dread coiling in her chest. Her throat felt raw, as if her very voice resisted what she was about to say. Yet the silence between them had become unbearable, and if she didn’t speak now, she feared she’d suffocate beneath the weight of it.

“Vergil…” Her voice broke on his name, softer than a whisper.

He stilled beneath her, the subtle shift of his body giving her his full attention. She felt the intensity of his gaze on her even before she dared to look up.

“There’s… there’s something I didn’t tell you,” she said, her words faltering like fragile steps across thin ice. “Back in Nico’s van, when Nero was trying to get me to safety… I had a vision. One that… hasn’t stopped haunting me.”

His arms tightened instinctively, a protective reflex, though his expression didn’t change. “Go on,” he said, his voice controlled but edged with warning.

Selene’s lashes fluttered, her breath hitching as memories clawed their way to the surface. “I saw you,” she whispered. “You and Nero. You were standing together… and there was so much rage in him. He was yelling at you, and I couldn’t hear every word, but I felt it. The betrayal, the desperation.” Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the edges of the forest around them. “And me… I was there too.”

Vergil’s breath caught, a barely perceptible change, but his grip on her waist grew almost painfully firm.

“They were holding me down,” she continued, her voice shaking. “I couldn’t move. Something sharp was pressed against my neck, and there was a man—or something worse—standing behind me, demanding a trade.” Her hands trembled as she clutched at his shirt, needing to feel him solid and real beneath her fingers. “My life… or…” She faltered, the words nearly choking her. “Or for you to open a gate.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, the blue of them darkening like a storm gathering. His aura flickered dangerously, but he forced himself to remain still. “A gate,” he repeated, each syllable a sharp, lethal blade.

Selene nodded quickly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t know what it meant. But the way he said it, Vergil… it felt like the entire world hinged on that choice. If you chose me—if you saved me instead of sealing that gate—everything would fall apart.”

Her sobs came faster now, her voice unraveling under the weight of her terror. “Don’t you see? That’s why I ran. That’s why I tried to leave. If I’m the piece they need, if I’m the reason you’d hesitate, then I’m the reason the world burns. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you choose me over everyone else.”

Vergil’s body went utterly still. He had faced gods, kings, and monsters of every imaginable form, but nothing could have prepared him for the raw, agonizing honesty in her words. The idea that she—this fragile, stubborn, infuriating woman—believed herself to be the catalyst for his ruin struck deeper than any blade.

Her head bowed against his chest, her sobs muffled. “I don't know your past, or anything that you went through Vergil. I can’t be the reason you lose all of that you have now.”

For a long, terrible moment, he said nothing. His mind churned with images of gates, of blood and betrayal, of choices that had haunted him for years. The memory of Mundus’s chains, of the endless thirst for power that had once defined him, clawed at the edges of his composure.

And yet, through it all, there was Selene.

The trembling weight of her in his arms.

The bond between them, alive and burning like a star.
The truth she didn’t yet understand—that he could no more choose to abandon her than he could sever his own soul.

When Vergil finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled, but laced with a dark undercurrent of fury. “You believe,” he said slowly, “that I would allow anyone—anything—to force such a choice upon me?”

Selene flinched, startled by the sharpness in his tone.

“You think you can dictate my path by running from me, by carrying this… this guilt that is not yours to bear?” His fingers tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. His expression was cold steel, but beneath it, his eyes burned with an intensity that threatened to consume them both.

“No one decides for me, Selene. Not the cult. Not this so-called vision. Not even you.”

Her lips trembled, caught between a sob and a protest.

Vergil leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, his voice a fierce whisper. “If there comes a day when the world burns, it will not be because I chose you. It will be because I allowed anyone to believe they could take you from me.”

Selene’s breath caught, her tears spilling anew—not from fear this time, but from the overwhelming force of his vow.

“You are not a weakness,” he said, each word deliberate, unyielding. “You are the tether that keeps me from becoming what I once was. And I will never regret choosing you.”

Her sob turned into a choked, desperate sound, her arms winding tightly around his neck as if to hold herself together. Vergil’s own embrace tightened, his coat enveloping them both, sealing them off from the world as the night closed in.

But deep inside, beneath the vow and the fury, a single, chilling truth lingered:

Her vision had shown a path he could not yet see.

And though he would defy fate itself to protect her, Vergil knew that darkness had a way of creeping in through even the smallest cracks.

Then she shifted against him.

Her small hand lifted, trembling, and before he could react, her lips brushed against his cheek. A featherlight kiss. A touch so soft it shouldn’t have affected him at all. And yet his entire body went rigid, his breath stuttering in his throat.

Selene didn’t stop. She kissed the other side of his face, then along the sharp line of his jaw, her lips trailing lower in a slow, reverent path. It wasn’t just affection—it was an apology, a plea, a desperate attempt to show him what she couldn’t say aloud.

Vergil’s grip on her tightened, his fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes. What are you doing to me? The thought snarled through his mind, unspoken but searing.

When her lips reached his throat, his pulse leapt violently beneath her mouth. She lingered there, kissing softly, again and again, and something inside him shattered. This woman—this fragile, stubborn creature—was showing him a kind of intimacy he had never known, and it undid him more completely than any battle ever had.

“Selene…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost a warning.

She lifted her head then, her tear-streaked face tilted up toward his. And before he could stop her, before he could raise the walls he had relied on all his life, she kissed him.

It was not tentative. It was everything: raw and aching, filled with longing and defiance. She coaxed him gently at first, her lips moving with soft persistence, inviting him to surrender.

With a sharp, guttural exhale, Vergil gave in.

His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, crushing her against him as his lips finally moved against hers. The kiss was awkward for the briefest heartbeat—hesitant, unfamiliar—but then instinct took over, and it deepened into something fierce and consuming.

Selene whimpered softly into his mouth, tilting her head to meet him fully. The sound undid him completely. A low, guttural noise rose from his chest—half groan, half growl—as his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

She was fire and softness, defiance and surrender, and he was drowning in her. Through the bond, he felt her desire, her terror, her love, and it nearly drove him to madness.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. Their foreheads pressed together, the cool night air mingling with the heat of their ragged breaths.

Selene’s voice was a whisper, fragile and trembling. “This thing between us… I don’t understand it. Why does it feel like I can feel you under my skin."

Vergil’s eyes burned, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “You are not alone in that,” he admitted, each word dragged from the depths of his soul.

Selene trembled in his lap, her body slick and soft against his, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. She pressed her lips to his throat again, slow and deliberate, and every touch sent a shockwave through him. He bit back a groan, his fingers curling into the bark of the tree behind him, trying to will himself into stillness.

“Vergil…” she whispered, her voice raw, almost pleading. “What is this? This… pull between us?” Her words vibrated against his skin as she kissed along his neck, her tongue barely flicking out to taste him. “Why does it feel like this? Like I’m… drowning in it? I can feel your desire—inside me, around me. It’s like it’s my own.”

Her confession was a blade to his composure.

Vergil swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. He had no simple answer for her, not one he dared to speak. Trish’s words haunted him even now, whispering of ancient bonds and fated mates, of how a demon’s heart could be bound utterly and irrevocably to another. He understood the truth of it now more than ever, but telling her outright would bind her to him in a way she might not be ready for.

Instead, he stayed silent.

And that silence drove her to act.

Selene shifted, her hips rocking forward against him in a slow, desperate grind. The move was unintentional at first, a searching motion born of instinct, but when she felt his sharp inhale—when she felt the solid, undeniable length of him beneath her—she moved again.

Deliberately.

Vergil’s head snapped back against the tree, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as her slick heat slid against him through the bare friction of skin. Even through the haze of his self-control, he felt how wet she was, how soaked she’d become from their earlier joining and now from sheer, unrelenting need. The mess of them—her release mingled with his—made every glide sinfully easy, dangerously intoxicating.

Her whimper sent a violent shiver down his spine.

“Selene,” he ground out, his voice dark and broken, “you test me beyond reason.”

But she didn’t stop. Her lips returned to his throat, kissing him feverishly, almost frantically, as though trying to say with her mouth what she couldn’t with words. Each kiss stoked his hunger higher, his desire sharpening into something unbearable. His hips jerked upward without his consent, meeting her rhythm, his hardened length sliding perfectly between her folds.

Selene gasped, her back arching as she clung to his shoulders. “It’s… stronger now,” she panted, grinding harder. “Vergil, it hurts not to move… not to feel you.”

Her confession tore through the last shreds of his restraint.

Vergil’s hands clamped around her hips, fingers digging into her tender flesh as he forced her to still. She whimpered in protest, but his gaze pinned her in place—sharp, hungry, merciless.

“You don’t understand,” he growled, his voice vibrating through both of them. “This bond is not some fleeting desire. It is absolute.” His lips brushed her ear, his teeth grazing the delicate shell. “Every kiss you give me feeds it. Every touch… every grind of those sinful hips,” his grip tightened, making her gasp, “makes it stronger. Until there is nothing left but us.”

Selene’s thighs quivered where they straddled him, her body trembling in time with his words. “Then… tell me what it is,” she pleaded, tears mixing with sweat on her flushed face. “Tell me why I feel like this, why it feels like I’ll break if you don’t—”

Her words dissolved into a cry as Vergil thrust upward suddenly, grinding himself hard against her soaked core.

The sensation was devastating. She was so wet, so sensitive, that it was like fire and lightning all at once. Her body arched against him, her voice breaking as she sobbed his name.

Vergil’s own breath tore from his throat in a guttural groan. “It is fate, Selene,” he snarled, the words dragged from him like confession and curse all at once. “You are bound to me. As I am to you. There is no escape from this… no severing what has been forged between us.”

She froze, trembling, the truth hitting her even as her body instinctively rocked against him again, seeking the pleasure only he could give.

Vergil’s gaze darkened, his hunger eclipsing all hesitation. “And if you continue to move like that,” he hissed, his voice breaking with need, “I will lose myself completely.”

Vergil’s breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, his chest rising and falling beneath Selene’s trembling hands. Every nerve in his body screamed to take control, to flip her beneath him and claim her the way his instincts demanded. But through the bond, he felt her—the shaky determination beneath her desire, the desperate need not just to be taken, but to give.

To show him she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

For once, Vergil didn’t fight it.

He leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, his pale hair falling loose around his face, his sharp blue eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. His grip on her hips softened, guiding rather than forcing, as he murmured low, ragged words against her ear.

“Take what you need, Selene,” he said, his voice dark velvet, threaded with hunger and restraint. “I will not stop you. But you will listen to me.”

Selene’s breath hitched, a shiver running through her at the command beneath his promise. Her thighs trembled where they straddled him, the slick heat of her bare core brushing the rigid length of him. She was already so wet, his earlier claiming having left her messy and aching, her body eager to welcome him again.

Vergil’s hands roamed upward, sliding beneath the hem of her shirt. His touch was achingly slow, deliberate, until he reached the delicate swell of her breasts. He paused there, a cruel tease, his fingers circling lazily over the fabric covering her sensitive peaks.

“Remove this,” he ordered softly, his tone brooking no hesitation.

Selene’s cheeks flushed, but she obeyed, tugging the shirt over her head and casting it aside. The night air kissed her bare skin, sending goosebumps racing across her flesh.

Vergil’s sharp inhale was audible, his eyes drinking her in as though committing every curve, every soft detail, to memory. His hands cupped her breasts fully now, his thumbs brushing her hardened nipples with calculated precision. Selene gasped, arching into his touch, the motion causing her slickness to slide against his hardness in a maddening tease.

“Beautiful,” Vergil murmured, almost to himself. His voice trembled with reverence and lust, a rare moment of vulnerability. “You have no idea what you do to me, Selene.”

Her only answer was a needy whimper as her hips shifted instinctively, grinding down against him.

Vergil growled low in his throat, both warning and encouragement. His hands slid back to her hips, positioning her carefully over him. The thick head of his cock brushed her entrance, and Selene froze, her breath catching sharply. Even after being stretched by him before, the sheer size of him felt overwhelming, impossible.

Vergil felt her hesitation through the bond. His grip tightened, steady and grounding.

“Breathe,” he commanded softly, his voice wrapping around her like silk and steel. “Do not fight it. Feel me. Take me in.”

Slowly, he guided her downward, his body straining with the effort to remain still. Selene gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as the stretch burned and thrilled her all at once. Inch by inch, he filled her, the sensation so intense she thought she might break apart.

Vergil’s head fell back, his jaw clenched tight, a guttural groan tearing from his throat despite his iron control. She was so tight, so unbearably warm around him, every pulse of her body threatening to unravel him completely.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his thumbs stroking soothing circles on her hips even as his own restraint frayed. “You are perfect like this… made for me.”

When she finally sank fully onto him, Selene cried out, her body trembling violently. Vergil’s hands slid up her spine, grounding her, keeping her steady as her chest heaved with ragged breaths.

For a moment, they simply stayed like that—joined completely, the bond thrumming between them like a live wire.

Then Vergil shifted his hands, one returning to her hip while the other rose to cup her breast. His thumb flicked her nipple, coaxing another gasp from her lips.

“Move,” he ordered, his voice dark and commanding, though his body trembled beneath hers. “Slowly. Let me feel you.”

Selene whimpered but obeyed, lifting herself slightly before sinking back down with a shuddering moan. The sensation was overwhelming, the friction exquisite. Her movements were awkward at first, uncertain, but Vergil guided her with steady hands, his deep, rumbling voice coaxing her through each rise and fall.

“That’s it,” he praised, his tone rough with barely restrained lust. “Again. Show me how much you need me.”

As she grew bolder, her pace increased, each thrust driving him deeper inside her, their bodies slick with sweat and the mingled evidence of their desire. Vergil’s groans grew louder, raw and unfiltered, his head tipping back against the tree as his control slipped further.

“You feel this?” he growled, thrusting his hips upward to meet hers, sending shockwaves of pleasure through them both. “This is what the bond demands. What we demand.”

Selene’s only response was a sob of pleasure, her nails raking down his chest as she moved faster, harder, chasing the release building inside her.

Vergil’s hand gripped her breast, kneading firmly, his thumb teasing her peak as he leaned forward to capture her mouth in a bruising kiss.

“Take it, Selene,” he snarled against her lips, his thrusts matching her frantic rhythm now. “Take everything I give you… and know you will never want another.”

Selene’s body convulsed in pure ecstasy, her scream breaking into ragged sobs as her climax tore through her. She clung to Vergil’s shoulders, trembling violently, her thighs quivering around his hips. She thought—hoped—he would let her recover, give her a moment to catch her breath.

But Vergil had no intention of stopping.

Even as her body pulsed and clenched around him, he continued to guide her, his powerful hands lifting her hips and driving her back down onto him with an unrelenting rhythm. His own hips thrust upward, the slick heat between them making every movement obscene, every sound raw and primal.

Selene gasped, half a cry, half a plea. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, his voice low and guttural, vibrating through her chest. His eyes burned with fierce hunger, his pupils dilated, his breath coming in ragged pulls. “You will. You are far stronger than you believe, Selene. This bond demands every part of you… and I will take nothing less.”

Her head fell back, tears streaking her flushed cheeks as the pleasure tipped into something almost unbearable. She was too sensitive, her body too raw, and yet the bond between them made every thrust feel like fire in her veins, like she’d never truly lived until this moment.

Vergil shifted suddenly, his grip adjusting. “Lean back,” he commanded, his voice brooking no refusal.

Confused and dazed, Selene obeyed, arching away from him, her trembling hands finding balance on his thighs as her body stretched before him, bare and utterly vulnerable. The moonlight spilled over her skin, illuminating every curve.

Vergil’s breath caught sharply at the sight, a guttural sound of reverence slipping past his lips. “Exquisite,” he murmured, almost to himself, before his hunger took over completely.

He bent forward, capturing one of her flushed peaks in his mouth.

Selene screamed, the sound echoing through the trees, her body arching violently as his tongue flicked and teased her sensitive flesh. His lips closed around her nipple, sucking with deliberate, maddening pressure, while his other hand rose to knead and tease her other breast, his thumb brushing her hardened peak in perfect rhythm.

“Vergil!” she cried, her voice breaking.

He hummed against her, the vibration sending shivers of pleasure straight through her core. “That’s it,” he coaxed, lifting his mouth just enough to speak between worshipful kisses. His voice was hoarse, dark, and achingly tender. “Give me those sounds, Selene. Let me hear how perfectly you take me.”

His hips thrust upward sharply, driving deeper into her slick heat. Selene’s back bowed, her arms trembling as she tried to hold herself up. The overwhelming stretch of him filled her completely, every nerve in her body singing with raw sensation.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Vergil growled, his breath hot against her chest. “This fire, this bond—it binds us. It consumes us.”

Her lips trembled, a sob catching in her throat. “M-more-,” she gasped, her voice nearly lost to the sounds of their bodies colliding. “Vergil—please”

Fuck.

His groan was guttural, triumphant, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin as his thrusts grew harder, faster, his control unraveling. “Good,” he snarled, the word vibrating against her flesh. “Now come for me again.”

His mouth returned to her breast, sucking fiercely, his hand sliding down her trembling stomach to tease her swollen, sensitive flesh where their bodies were joined. Selene’s scream ripped through the night as her second climax crashed over her, blinding and all-consuming. Her body clamped tightly around him, drawing him deeper, forcing his rhythm into a frenzied pace.

Vergil’s own groans deepened, primal and raw, but still he didn’t let go. Even as her body went limp and trembling, he coaxed her through it, whispering dark praises between hungry kisses to her chest.

“That’s it, my beautiful Selene,” he murmured against her skin. “Break for me. Shatter until there’s nothing left but us.”

She sobbed his name, helpless beneath the relentless onslaught of his passion.

Vergil thrust deep one final time, his hips slamming upward as his climax tore through him, feeling her walls tighten around him and flutter. A guttural groan ripped from his throat, his body shaking as he spilled into her, his hold on her fierce and unyielding as if anchoring her to him.

Even as the night fell silent again, the bond between them thrummed violently, alive and undeniable.

Vergil didn’t release her immediately. Instead, he cradled her trembling form against his chest, his lips brushing her temple as he whispered a vow only she could hear:

“You will never run from me again.”

Vergil stayed still for a long moment beneath the tree, his back pressed against the rough bark, Selene limp and trembling in his arms. The wild thrum of the bond still echoed between them, vibrating beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. Her soft breaths puffed warm against his throat, her body utterly spent, every muscle slack with exhaustion.

He looked down at her, studying the flush on her cheeks, the smudges of tears at her temples, the faint tremors that wracked her even in unconsciousness. A pang of something sharp and unfamiliar pierced him—guilt, perhaps. Or something deeper. He had taken her again, and this time it had been more. More intense, more primal, more binding. She had given herself completely, and he had demanded everything without restraint.

His chest tightened.

Vergil brushed his thumb along the curve of her cheek, slow and careful, as if she might shatter if he touched her too roughly. Her skin was warm and damp, sticky with sweat and their mingled release, and the possessive, savage part of him thrilled at the sight of her marked so thoroughly by him. She was his, claimed in every way.

But another part of him—the part that had been V, that had known weakness and vulnerability—ached at the sight. She had trusted him enough to bare herself completely, and he had answered that trust with ferocity he could not put into words.

Selene whimpered softly, her lashes fluttering but not opening. The sound was small, fragile, and it cut through him like a blade.

“Selene,” Vergil murmured, his voice low and stripped of its usual sharpness. It came out almost reverent, a prayer rather than a name.

She stirred faintly, turning her face toward his chest, seeking warmth. The bond pulsed between them, soothing her even as exhaustion dragged her back into unconsciousness.

Vergil forced himself to move slowly, carefully gathering her discarded clothing. He found her shorts crumpled in the leaves, the fabric torn slightly at the seam from his earlier frenzy. A flicker of shame crossed his face, quickly hidden. He dressed her himself, easing her trembling legs into the garment with surprising gentleness, his hands steady despite the roiling storm inside him.

When she was covered, he reached for his coat. The familiar weight of it settled across his shoulders for a moment before he wrapped it around her instead. The dark blue fabric swallowed her small frame, cocooning her in his scent and warmth. She instinctively curled into it, clutching the lapel with one delicate hand as though anchoring herself to him.

His breath caught at the sight.

Vergil lingered, just watching her for a heartbeat, before he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. In a single, fluid motion, he lifted her into his arms. Bridal style. Close and protected.

The moment he rose to his full height, Selene sighed in her sleep, her head nestling into the crook of his neck. The sound was so trusting, so painfully vulnerable, that his grip on her tightened.

The night air bit at his exposed skin as he stepped into the open, the cold wind whispering through the trees. Selene did not stir; his coat and body heat kept her shielded, untouched by the chill. Vergil tilted his head slightly, scanning the darkness with the heightened awareness of a predator.

The forest was silent, but he didn’t trust it. Not tonight.

He began walking, his strides long and purposeful. Each step was precise, his boots barely making a sound as he moved through the underbrush. The shadows clung to him like old companions, the moonlight glinting off his pale hair and sharp features.

His mind, however, was anything but calm.

The cult was out there, plotting, hungering. And now that Selene had been claimed—now that their bond was unbreakable—she was a beacon. A target so tempting that every dark creature would sense her.

They will not take her from me. The thought was a vow, sharp and absolute.

He adjusted his grip slightly, tucking her closer against his chest. Selene murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Even in unconsciousness, she sought him, trusted him. The bond thrummed with her need for him, her faith in him, and it filled him with a strange, possessive warmth that startled him.

“I'll always be here,” he whispered into her hair, the words barely audible beneath the sound of the wind. His voice was soft but carried the weight of an unyielding promise.

As the lights of Kyrie and Nero’s home finally came into view, Vergil slowed his pace. His sharp blue eyes swept over the building, noting every possible point of entry, every shadow where an enemy could hide.

The house was quiet, the windows glowing softly with the warmth of hearth and safety. A stark contrast to the violence of the night.

Vergil exhaled slowly, a rare moment of relief brushing through him. Soon, Selene would be behind strong walls, surrounded by allies, where the chill of the night could no longer touch her.

He mounted the steps silently, his grip on her never faltering. The door gave beneath his push, and he stepped inside, the heat of the home wrapping around them both.

Selene stirred faintly at the change in temperature, her lashes fluttering. She made a soft, instinctive sound and burrowed deeper into his coat, pressing her face to his throat.

Vergil’s arms tightened automatically, his body a wall between her and the world.

He would lay her down, cover her with blankets, and ensure she rested. Only then would he leave her side to prepare for what came next.

But as he crossed the threshold, a dark thought lingered at the edge of his mind, chilling even his iron will:
The cult knew she existed.
And now, bound as they were, they would stop at nothing to claim what was his.

His jaw hardened.

Not while he still drew breath.

Vergil’s boots were nearly silent as he crossed the threshold of the home, his body casting a tall, imposing silhouette in the warm glow of the interior light. The cold night air swirled briefly in his wake before the door closed behind him with a soft click. Selene shifted faintly in his arms at the change, her small sound muffled against his coat as she curled instinctively closer to his chest.

The moment he stepped fully into the living room, Kyrie appeared at the foot of the hall. Her usually serene features were flushed and drawn tight with worry, her nightgown hastily thrown on, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her wide, brown eyes went first to Vergil—and then to the limp figure in his arms.

“Selene—!” Kyrie’s voice caught on a strangled gasp.

Relief and shock collided violently across her face, her hands flying to her mouth as if to hold back a sob. She took an instinctive step forward, only to halt when she registered the whole picture: Selene wrapped in Vergil’s heavy coat, her small body visibly trembling even in sleep, the sight of Vergil himself looking sharper, darker, more dangerous than ever beneath the low light of the room.

“I…” Kyrie’s voice faltered, trembling. “We thought—she-. Her room was empty, and when we saw… we thought the worst.”

Her gaze flickered past Vergil to the door as if expecting someone else to burst through. “Nero went out looking for her as soon as we realized she’d vanished,” she rushed to explain, her words tumbling over each other. “I—I sent him into the forest. He’s been searching everywhere, Vergil. I was about to call Nico back from the van—”

Vergil’s head turned, his expression impassive but his aura sharp as a blade. “Unnecessary.” His voice was calm, deep, and entirely final. “She is safe now.”

The simple declaration silenced Kyrie instantly, though her mind still reeled. Her gaze swept back to Selene, taking in every detail: her pale, flushed cheeks, the tear tracks still visible even in unconsciousness, the way her body seemed utterly spent, boneless in Vergil’s arms. A tiny, broken sound escaped Kyrie’s throat as tears welled in her own eyes—not of pain, but of overwhelming relief.

“Oh, thank the stars…” she whispered, clutching her hands to her chest. Her knees almost buckled with the weight of it, the adrenaline of panic beginning to ebb now that she saw Selene alive, breathing, held so securely.

But with that relief came a new realization. Her sharp, maternal instincts caught on the strangeness of the scene: the way Vergil’s coat was wrapped tightly around Selene, the raw tension radiating from him like an unsheathed sword, the unmistakable protectiveness in his stance. He wasn’t merely carrying her. He was guarding her. Possessively.

Kyrie’s lips parted slightly, questions swirling in her mind.

“Vergil…” Her voice softened, cautious now, as though approaching a wild animal. “What… what happened out there?”

Vergil’s gaze slid to her slowly, the glow of his eyes catching the light. For a long, heavy moment, he said nothing, his silence more commanding than words. Finally, he shifted his hold on Selene, drawing her closer against his chest as though the very question was a threat to her.

“She was… foolish enough to leave safety,” he said, his tone clipped, almost clinical, but beneath it simmered something darker—fury barely restrained. His jaw tightened as he added, “I found her before anyone else did.”

Kyrie blinked, startled by the subtle, unmistakable emphasis on I.

Behind her, the door burst open with a rush of cold air. Nero stumbled inside, his face flushed, sweat plastering dark strands of hair to his forehead. His breathing was harsh, his coat flapping open from his frantic search.

“Kyrie!” he shouted, only to stop dead when he saw them—his father standing tall and composed, Selene safe in his arms. Relief and confusion warred on Nero’s face.

“What the hell…?” His voice was rough, disbelief cracking through it. His wide blue eyes darted from Selene to Vergil, then back again, like puzzle pieces refusing to fit together. “I’ve been tearing through the forest like a maniac, and you—how did you—” He cut himself off, raking a hand down his face. “I don’t even know what’s happening right now.”

Vergil didn’t so much as glance at him. Instead, he stepped deliberately past both Nero and Kyrie, his stride unhurried but commanding, the way a king might walk through his domain. The house seemed to fall silent around him as he crossed into the hall leading to Selene’s room.

“She requires rest,” Vergil said without looking back, his tone brooking no argument. “No one disturbs her.”

The words landed like an order rather than a suggestion.

Kyrie exchanged a stunned glance with Nero, her earlier panic slowly giving way to shock. Relief still burned in her chest, but now it was tangled with unease. She’d never seen Vergil like this—carrying someone so carefully, his expression carved from marble yet his actions betraying something fierce and unspoken.

When the door to Selene’s room finally clicked shut behind him, the house felt different, as though a storm had passed through and left the air charged with ozone and tension.

Nero finally found his voice, his tone low, incredulous.
“…Okay. What the hell was that?”

Kyrie, still clutching her hands to her chest, exhaled shakily, her mind spinning. “I… don’t know,” she admitted softly, her voice trembling.

Her gaze lingered on the closed door, fear and wonder mingling in her eyes.

“But whatever it is...I'm just glad shes safe.”

Chapter Text

Vergil lingered at Selene’s bedside longer than he intended, his tall frame casting a dark silhouette against the pale light streaming through the curtains. She was so still now, bundled tightly beneath the blankets, his heavy coat draped protectively over her like a shield. Her delicate fingers clung to the lapel even in unconsciousness, as though part of her knew he was the only barrier between her and the darkness hunting her.

Her breathing was soft, uneven, but no longer panicked. He had checked her twice, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders with hands that still trembled faintly—not from weakness, but from the storm of feeling he could not contain.

The bond thrummed in his veins, insistent and possessive, like a second pulse. It tied him to her in ways he could not have imagined. Ancient. Absolute. Irrevocable.

And it terrified him.

Trish’s knowing words echoed through his mind like a curse:
"This isn’t lust, Vergil. It’s the mate-bond. Rare. Dangerous. Once it’s formed, there’s no undoing it. Half-demons like you? You’ll feel it even more intensely than a full-blooded demon. You’ll never be free of her."

At the time, he’d dismissed her warning as nonsense. Now, with Selene trembling beneath his coat, he knew she’d been right.

He knelt beside the bed for a fleeting moment, his gloved hand brushing a strand of damp hair from Selene’s flushed face. Her lips parted on a small sigh, her body instinctively leaning into his touch. That simple, trusting gesture nearly shattered the last of his composure.

“I will keep you safe.. ” he whispered, a vow threaded with danger and something softer, unspoken.

Straightening, Vergil forced his features back into their usual cold mask. Whatever chaos roared inside him had no place outside this room. With a final lingering glance at her peaceful face, he turned and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Downstairs, the air was thick with unease. Kyrie sat at the kitchen table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her usually calm features drawn tight with worry. Nero paced near the window, boots thudding against the wood, his face a storm of frustration and confusion.

The front door opened, and a rush of cold night air swept in. Dante stepped inside, Lady close behind. His crimson coat swirled dramatically as he kicked the door shut, his expression uncharacteristically serious as his sharp gaze swept over the tense scene.

“Well, this looks cozy,” Dante drawled, though there was little humor in his tone.

“About time you showed up,” Nero snapped, stopping mid-pace. “Maybe you can explain what the hell is going on because no one else will.” He pointed accusingly toward the staircase. “Vergil just shows up out of nowhere with Selene like he’s some knight in shining armor, doesn’t say a word, and now he’s acting like none of us exist.”

Dante lifted a brow, glancing toward the stairs, then back to Nero. “Easy there, kid. You’re wound tighter than Nico’s shorts.”

“Don’t ‘easy there’ me!” Nero shot back, anger sparking in his eyes. “You didn’t see his face when I came in after searching everywhere like some half crazed nut job for this woman, for him to act like he had no reason to explain to me what happened."

Kyrie reached for Nero’s arm gently. “Nero, please,” she urged softly. “Let’s just hear them out first.”

Nero huffed but fell silent, his fists clenching at his sides.

Lady crossed her arms, her sharp gaze flicking between Dante and Vergil’s empty space. “Vergil disappeared right after Nico called in to inform us, but the message was all static. Now, clearly, he went after her—but why? What’s really going on here?”

Dante let out a long sigh, running a hand through his messy white hair. His usual grin was gone, replaced by something heavier. “Guess there’s no easy way to say this.” He shot a quick glance toward the stairway, then at Vergil, who had just descended in time to hear his name. The elder twin’s eyes narrowed sharply, warning clear in his gaze.

“Don’t,” Vergil said, his voice low and dangerous.

Dante ignored him. “No, they deserve to know,” he countered, his tone firm but calm. “Keeping them in the dark isn’t gonna help anyone—not you, and sure as hell not her.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, his knuckles white at his sides.

Turning back to the others, Dante exhaled slowly. “Alright. You know how Dad and Mom always seemed like some epic love story, right? Sparda and Eva? Turns out, it wasn’t just romance, I mean it probably led to a love story eventually but-.” His blue eyes softened slightly. “It’s rare, but demons sometimes find a person they’re bound to. A connection they can’t fight, no matter how much they might want to.”

Kyrie’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Mates? You mean like…”

“Exactly like that,” Dante confirmed, nodding gravely. “And before anyone freaks out, no—this isn’t some fairytale thing. It’s primal. Once it happens, there’s no undoing it according to Trish.”

Nero blinked, utterly thrown. “Wait… are you saying Vergil—my dad—is…” His voice cracked as his face twisted between disbelief and anger. “…bonded to Selene? For life?”

“Pretty much,” Dante said simply.

Nero’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. So he just… what? Decides to tether himself to her without telling anyone? And now we’re all just stuck dealing with the fallout?”

Vergil’s eyes flared dangerously, but before he could speak, Dante held up a hand. “Nero.” His tone cut through the rising tension like a blade.

“No, seriously, Dante—this is insane!” Nero snapped. “Why didn’t he tell us? Why didn’t you tell us? You’ve been hiding this the whole time!”

“Because it’s not something you just casually bring up over dinner,” Dante snapped back, his voice sharp but not cruel. “You think this has been easy for him? Hell, you think he understands it any better than we do?”

Nero faltered, his anger giving way to uncertainty.

Dante sighed, running a hand down his face. “Look, kid… Vergil’s been through enough. We all have. But this thing with Selene? It’s messing with him. You didn’t see his face when he realized she was gone tonight. I did. And trust me, you don’t want to see him like that again.”

Kyrie swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “What… what happens if something happens to her?”

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the crackling of the hearth.

Dante’s usual levity vanished completely. “Honestly?” he said quietly. “We don’t know. And that’s the problem.” His gaze flickered toward Vergil, who stood perfectly still, his face carved from ice. “But judging by how deep this bond already runs… it wouldn’t just destroy him. It could destroy all of us. I really don't want to bring up the past, cause its still fresh in everyones mind.” he took a deep breath, before continuing slowly. "But we don't need a repeat of the..end of the world."

The unspoken name hung heavy in the room. Even Nero flinched at the memory.

Lady’s sharp eyes softened slightly as she glanced at Vergil. “So that’s why you’ve been so… guarded.”

Vergil’s throat worked, and for a moment, guilt flickered in his eyes before he forced it away. “I do not expect your trust,” he said coldly, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “But I will not allow any harm to come to her. Or to any of you.”

Dante gave a slow nod, his tone gentler now. “That’s why we’re here.” He turned to Nero, resting a steady hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “And you need to know—Vergil’s not your enemy in this. The cult is. Selene’s just… caught in the middle.”

Nero looked between them, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Finally, he exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders. “…Alright. But this doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.”

“No one’s asking you to be,” Dante said with a faint smirk, though his eyes stayed serious. “We just need to focus on keeping her safe. Because if the cult takes her…” His tone darkened. “…none of us want to see what happens to Vergil—or the rest of the world.”

Kyrie nodded silently, understanding at last, while Lady remained quiet, processing it all with an unreadable expression.

Vergil stood apart from them, silent and still, his sharp features giving nothing away. But inside, guilt twisted like a blade. Even now, even after everything, they still watched him with wariness, memories of Urizen’s rampage lingering like a shadow.

And he couldn’t blame them.
Because a part of him feared they were right to.

Vergil stood in silence, still as a statue while the others spoke around him. The low firelight of the living room threw his sharp features into stark relief, carving him into a figure both regal and haunted. He could feel their eyes on him—the lingering unease, the fear they tried to hide beneath understanding words. It was not unwarranted. He knew exactly what memories stirred in their minds when they looked at him.

Urizen.
The rampage.
The brink of annihilation.

He had been both man and monster, split apart by his own folly, by an insatiable hunger for power and a desire to shield his fragile humanity from the pain of living. When they’d been forced to cut him down, to put an end to his madness, he had seen their faces—Dante’s grief, Nero’s rage, Lady’s sharp disappointment. Those expressions lingered in his mind like scars that would never fully fade.

And now, as Dante spoke of the bond and what it might mean, that fear gnawed at him from within.

Could this bond twist me as power once did?
He didn’t want to believe it, but the thought festered like poison. The primal nature of this connection to Selene was unlike anything he had ever known. It was raw, uncontrollable, a living thing thrumming through his blood. What if one day he lost her—through death, betrayal, or the cult’s schemes? Would he fracture again? Would he burn the world to ash in his grief, as Urizen nearly had in his hunger for dominion?

His gloved hands curled into fists, hidden in the shadows of his coat. He loathed the tremor he felt there—a hint of nervousness, of fear.

He wanted to change. Truly. It wasn’t merely a desire to atone for past sins, though those weighed on him like chains. It was the quiet, desperate need to prove—to himself most of all—that he was not doomed to repeat the cycle of destruction. That he could be more than a weapon forged by destiny. That he could deserve forgiveness… and perhaps even love.

And Selene—sweet, fragile, defiant Selene—was at the center of that fragile hope.

But as Nero’s frustrated words cut through the silence, Vergil’s chest constricted. His son’s voice trembled with anger, yes, but also confusion, a pain neither of them knew how to name.

“You didn’t tell me,” Nero said, his voice cracking. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me. You just… disappeared. Again.”

Vergil’s gaze flickered to him, and for the briefest moment, something vulnerable passed through his piercing blue eyes.
Father and son—both so alike in ways they refused to admit. Both stubborn, both guarded, both aching to bridge the gulf between them yet unable to find the words.

He wanted to say I am trying. That he did not know how to be the father Nero deserved, but he was making an effort, however clumsy. He wanted to tell Nero that he saw himself in him—the same fire, the same yearning for belonging—and that it terrified him.

But the words tangled in his throat. They always had.

Dante’s voice broke through, steady and deliberate.
“Hey, kid. Cut him some slack.”

Nero’s head snapped toward his uncle, disbelief on his face. “Cut him some—Dante, he—”

“No,” Dante interrupted, his tone uncharacteristically sharp. “Listen. You think you’ve got Vergil figured out? You don’t. None of us do, not really.” His gaze flicked to his brother, softer now, almost protective. “But I do know this: he’s trying. You might not see it, hell, he probably doesn’t even know how to show it, but he’s been clawing his way back ever since that mess with Urizen. Every step he’s taken since has been about proving he’s not the same man who built that damn tower.”

Lady’s eyes softened slightly, a rare flicker of compassion breaking through her sharp exterior. “Dante’s right,” she said quietly. “I hated you for what happened with Temen-ni-gru, Vergil. I wanted to put a bullet in you myself back then. But… I also know what manipulation looks like. I know what it means to be used as a pawn by someone stronger. You were drowning in your own pain, and someone else twisted that into something monstrous.”

Vergil’s breath caught faintly at her words. Forgiveness. He had never expected it from her.

Lady continued, her tone firm but no longer cold. “I don’t hate you anymore. You’ve been trying to fix what you broke, even if it’s messy. Even if you screw it up.”

Dante gave a small, crooked grin. “See? Even Lady’s cutting you a break. That’s gotta mean something.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, but beneath the icy mask, something warm flickered. Gratitude he could never voice.

Dante turned back to Nero, his hand landing heavily on his nephew’s shoulder. “And you—don’t think I don’t see it. You might be angry now, but you know he’s trying. You’re too much like him not to. You just don’t know how to say it either. Guess that whole bottling-up-emotions thing runs in the family.”

Nero’s mouth opened, then shut. His cheeks flushed faintly, a mix of embarrassment and realization.

The room fell quiet, the tension easing slightly under Dante’s steady hand.

Vergil watched them, his heart a strange, painful knot in his chest. They didn’t fully trust him yet—perhaps they never would. Memories of Urizen’s reign still haunted them all, shadows lingering at the edges of every glance. But tonight, he saw something shift. Lady’s forgiveness, Dante’s defense, even Nero’s reluctant silence—it was proof that maybe, just maybe, they could see him as more than the monster he had been.

He wanted to tell them he would never let this bond with Selene drive him to destruction. That she was not a weakness, but a tether to his own humanity. But even as the thought formed, doubt gnawed at him.

Could he truly control it? Or would history repeat itself in blood and fire?

Kyrie’s soft voice broke the silence, trembling with worry.
"So is the cult aware of this..bond?"

Dante’s expression darkened, all trace of humor gone. “Honestly? We don’t know,” he admitted. “And that’s what scares me. If anything were to happen to Selene…” His voice dropped, steady and grim. "I'm just as clueless as you guys, but we have to assume they do.”

Nero’s fists tightened, his anger giving way to worry. Kyrie’s eyes shimmered with unspoken fear. Even Lady’s sharp demeanor softened as she glanced at Vergil.

Vergil turned away from their gazes, his cloak swirling around him like a shadow. Guilt burned beneath his skin. Even now, even with all he’d done to atone, they still feared what he might become.

But as he glanced back toward the stairs, where Selene slept peacefully, a different resolve hardened within him.

No more running. No more hiding behind cold detachment. He would prove himself—not just to them, but to her.

To be worthy of forgiveness.
To be worthy of love.

And this time, he would not fail.

The tension in the room was already razor-sharp when the front door slammed open hard enough to rattle its hinges.

“Are you KIDDING me?!”

Every head turned as Nico stormed into the living room like a category-five hurricane. Her curls had come mostly loose from the messy tie at the back of her head, and her goggles were pushed crookedly up onto her forehead. She was flushed, chest heaving, breathless in a way that made it clear she’d run straight from the garage the second she’d realized something was wrong.

And judging by the wild fire in her eyes, someone was about to pay for it.

“I have been tearing my shop apart like a madwoman,” she bellowed, stomping into the middle of the room, “thinking y’all got jumped by a damn cult or sucked into a demon portal, and meanwhile…” She stopped abruptly, scanning their faces—Vergil’s rigid stance near the stairs, Dante’s uncharacteristically serious posture, Kyrie’s pale face, Lady’s crossed arms, and Nero looking like a cornered animal. “…Meanwhile, judging by these guilty-as-sin expressions, you found Selene and didn’t think to tell me?”

Kyrie’s cheeks flushed with guilt as she rose halfway from her chair. “Nico, please—we—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘please’ me, sweetheart.” Nico cut her off sharply, spinning on her heel to zero in on Nero like a hawk locking onto prey. Her voice rose with every word, the drawl thickening as her fury built. “You! You’ve got a communicator, you’ve got two damn hands, and you couldn’t take ten seconds to call me?” She jabbed a finger into his chest, her words striking like bullets. “I had to find out she was back because the garage felt too damn quiet! What if something happened to y’all while I was sittin’ there, clueless, like some idiot?!”

Nero’s face went crimson as everyone turned to stare at him. “I—uh—”

“No excuses, Nero!” she shouted, jabbing him again for emphasis. “You’ve been back for how long? And not one little, tiny message?!”

Nero threw his hands up defensively. “We were a little busy, Nico! I also was searching eveywhere too! Then I came back-Kyrie was freaking out—”

“And I was freaking out too!” Nico fired back, practically vibrating with indignation. “You think it’s easy to sit there wondering if my best people are lying dead in a ditch while I’m out there trying to build demon traps outta spare motorcycle parts?!”

Dante coughed into his fist, poorly disguising a laugh.

Vergil’s icy glare slid to Dante, sharp enough to cut steel. His brother wisely snapped his mouth shut, smirk faltering.

Nero groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Look, Nico, I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up. I should’ve called you.”

“You think?!” she snapped, though the edge in her voice began to soften as her sharp eyes scanned the others more closely. She saw Kyrie’s drawn face, Dante’s grimness, Lady’s stoic calm, and finally Vergil standing near the stairs, his usually impassive features shadowed with something almost… turbulent.

The fire in Nico’s anger began to flicker out, replaced by a creeping unease. “…Wait,” she said slowly, her voice dropping. “What the hell happened here?”

Kyrie stepped forward, her hands twisting in her skirt. “Selene’s safe now,” she said gently. “She’s upstairs, resting. Vergil brought her back.”

Relief flooded Nico’s face so quickly it was almost dizzying to watch. Her shoulders sagged, the tension in her body melting like wax under a flame. She let out a long, shaky breath, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Thank God,” she muttered, her usual sass tempered by sincerity. “I was ready to rip this whole damn city apart looking for her myself.”

Then, just as quickly, her sharpness returned—though now it was tinged with exasperation rather than pure rage. She smacked Nero lightly on the shoulder, making him wince. “And you, mister, are buying me a bottle of the good stuff for the stress you just gave me.”

“Ow! C’mon, really?” Nero protested, rubbing the spot.

“You’re lucky I didn’t come in here swinging a wrench,” Nico said, crossing her arms. “You forget to call me again, and you’ll be walking around with matching bolts in your knees.”

Dante leaned casually against the wall, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Well, this is definitely more entertaining than explaining demon cult rituals.”

“Shut it, Dante,” Lady muttered, though her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smirk of her own.

Nico turned her attention back to the group, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Alright, spill it. What’s going on? Why does this room feel like a funeral mixed with a hostage negotiation?”

Dante exhaled slowly, his earlier humor fading. He glanced at Vergil, who stood unmoving, his cloak casting long shadows in the firelight. His brother’s face was unreadable, but Dante knew better than anyone what storm brewed beneath that icy mask.

“Guess it’s time to fill her in,” Dante said, his tone quiet but resolute. “And maybe this time, we’ll all get on the same page before someone else blows a gasket.”

Nico crossed her arms and raised a brow. “Better make it good, cowboy. ’Cause right now, I’m still tempted to smack Nero upside the head.”

Vergil’s eyes flickered, sharp and warning, but he said nothing. His silence was louder than words as Dante prepared to explain the truth—a truth that would bind them all together, whether they were ready for it or not.

~~

The house had grown impossibly quiet once everyone else was gone.

Nico’s van had rattled down the road, her muttered curses about “incompetent communication systems” fading into the night along with the heavy purr of the engine. Kyrie had finally managed to pull Nero away, her gentle voice coaxing him toward their room despite his protests that he wasn’t tired. Lady had left shortly after, her boots clicking sharply against the floor as she declared she’d prepare the DMC building for Selene’s arrival and make sure their stronghold was fortified before things escalated further, since obviously it was established because of the kids here.

Now there was only silence. Silence, and the two brothers standing in it.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. The air felt thick, oppressive—laden with words unsaid. Vergil stood near the base of the staircase, his body perfectly still, hands clasped tightly behind his back in a posture of cold control. But Dante could see the cracks beneath it, the way his brother’s shoulders were just a little too rigid, his jaw a little too tense.

Dante leaned casually against the arm of the couch, though his eyes never left Vergil. He’d spent two years trying to read him to catch up on what he had missed for years before the urizen incident, and even now, after everything they’d been through, Vergil was still a fortress. But Dante knew what to look for now—the subtle tells in his brother’s silence, the tiniest flickers of emotion in those icy blue eyes.

“Y’know,” Dante said at last, breaking the stillness, “you’re really bad at this whole ‘subtle’ thing. You’re standing there like a damn statue, but I can practically hear you thinking.”

Vergil’s head tilted slightly, his gaze narrowing but not turning to meet Dante’s. “I assure you, I am merely… reflecting.” His voice was clipped, smooth, deliberately neutral.

“Reflecting, huh?” Dante’s mouth quirked into a humorless smile. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.” He pushed off the couch and took a few slow steps toward his brother, boots whispering against the wood. “But let’s skip the fancy vocabulary, Vergil. You’re not reflecting. You’re spiraling.”

Vergil’s fingers twitched slightly behind his back. A barely-there reaction, but Dante caught it.

“See, you don’t need to tell me,” Dante continued, his tone softening. “I already know what’s running through that head of yours. You’ve been quiet since you brought Selene back. Too quiet. And I’ve been your brother long enough to know that silence isn’t calm—it’s fear.”

That finally made Vergil turn his head, ever so slightly, to give Dante a sharp, unreadable glance. But he didn’t deny it.

“You’re terrified,” Dante said plainly, his voice steady. “Not of her. Not even of this cult. You’re terrified of yourself. Of what you might do if you lose control again.”

The words hung heavy in the air, as sharp and cutting as a blade.

Vergil’s throat worked, but he said nothing. His eyes flickered briefly toward the ceiling—toward the room where Selene slept—then back to the fire, his face schooled into an impassive mask.

Dante sighed, dragging a hand through his white hair. “I get it, brother. I really do. After Urizen… after everything… it’s no wonder you’re standing there thinking you’re one bad moment away from destroying the world again.” His voice dropped lower, quieter, almost gentle. “But you’re wrong.”

Vergil’s brow twitched at that, the tiniest crack in his composure.

“You think this bond is some curse,” Dante went on. “You think it’s just another chain wrapped around your neck, ready to drag you under. But that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

He walked slowly around Vergil, coming to stand beside him rather than across from him, giving him space but making sure their eyes could meet if Vergil dared to look.

Vergil’s eyes closed briefly, his chest rising with a slow, shaky breath he didn’t want Dante to notice.

“That’s not weakness, Vergil,” Dante said firmly. “That’s… human. Selene isn’t here to break you. She’s here to ground you. To give you something real to fight for. Hell, maybe even to remind you there’s more to life than power and regret.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling fire. Then Vergil finally spoke, his voice low, almost hesitant. “…And if she is taken from me?”

Dante didn’t hesitate. “Then we get her back.”

Vergil’s head turned sharply, surprise flashing in his eyes.

“Is it still not clicking in your head?” Dante said, softer now. “You’re not alone anymore, Vergil. You’ve got me. You’ve got Nero. Trish, even Lady and Nico are in this fight with you. If something happens, we’ll handle it together.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “But you gotta let us in. Stop trying to carry everything on your own, like you’ve always done.”

Vergil’s jaw worked, a silent battle waging inside him. He wanted to believe Dante’s words. Wanted to trust that Selene wasn’t a catalyst for his destruction but a lifeline to his redemption. Yet the fear gnawed at him, relentless.

Dante seemed to read his thoughts, as always. “You. Are. Trying."

Vergil stiffened, but Dante pressed on.

“You’re not the same man you were back then,” Dante said firmly. “You’ve been trying, even if you don’t show it well. Hell, even Lady sees it—and she forgave you. That’s saying something.” A faint smile touched his lips. “And Nero… he’s confused, yeah, but he sees it too. He knows you’re trying to be better, even if neither of you knows how to say it out loud. Guess that’s a family trait.”

Something in Vergil’s expression shifted at that. A flicker of pain, of longing, of hope.

Dante’s voice softened to a near whisper. “You’ve spent your whole life believing you didn’t deserve love, or forgiveness. Selene changes that. She’s proof you can have something good, Vergil. You just have to let yourself believe it.”

Vergil turned fully then, his face still carefully composed, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him. They burned with a depth of emotion he couldn’t hide.

He didn’t speak, but Dante didn’t need him to. He’d already heard the answer in his silence.

With a small, understanding smile, Dante clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder—not forcefully, just enough to ground him. “We’ll get through this. Together. And this time, you won’t have to fight alone.”

Vergil didn’t push him away. For the first time, he let the gesture stand. And though no words passed his lips, the slightest incline of his head told Dante everything he needed to know.

Vergil wanted to believe.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

“Just… don’t overthink it, okay?” Dante added, his tone lighter now. “Or at least don’t make me have to kill you again because you got all hot and bothered over your little girlfriend. That’d be a hell of a family dinner conversation.”

Vergil let out a sound that might’ve been a growl—or a very controlled exhale of rage. “…Your levity will be your undoing.”

Dante grinned. “Yeah, but you’d miss it if it was gone.”

That earned him nothing but silence. Still, as Dante turned toward the couch and flopped down with an exaggerated sigh, he caught a flicker of something in his brother’s eyes. Not anger. Not fear. Something warmer, fragile, almost human.

Dante let out a long, exaggerated groan as he sprawled across the couch like a lazy cat, his boots hanging over one armrest and his head pillowed on the other. The worn leather creaked beneath his weight, and the faint light from the fire cast his smirk into something both cocky and strangely warm.

“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfied sigh. “Here’s the deal. I’ll stay down here tonight and keep watch. That way, everyone else can get some damn sleep without worrying about a bunch of cult freaks crashing through the windows.” His tone was casual, but there was a thread of seriousness beneath it. “Besides, if those bastards are planning anything, I’d rather be the one to greet ‘em at the door. And trust me, they won’t like the welcome mat I’ve got planned.”

Vergil’s sharp blue gaze flicked toward him, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight. “I am perfectly capable of guarding this place myself,” he said coolly, though the edge in his voice was dulled by exhaustion he didn’t want to admit. After everything that happened in the forest with Selene..though he would not say it out loud.

Dante smirked, one eye cracking open to meet his brother’s glare. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Verg. But let’s be honest—you’ve been standing there like some brooding statue for awhile. If you keep it up, you’re either gonna implode or spontaneously combust.” He made a dramatic poof gesture with his hands. “And while that would be kinda funny, it’d also make a hell of a mess for me to clean up.”

Vergil’s brow furrowed, irritation simmering beneath his icy calm. “…Your humor grows more insufferable by the hour.”

“That’s my charm,” Dante said easily, folding his arms behind his head. “But seriously, go.” His voice softened slightly, the teasing giving way to something more earnest. “You don’t have to keep playing sentry down here when what you really want is to be with her.”

Vergil’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, his gaze darting toward the staircase despite himself.

Dante caught the subtle movement and grinned like a wolf who’d just sniffed out a weakness. “See? Knew it. Go to your bashful mate or whatever we're gonna call it, Vergil. Before you set yourself on fire from the inside out trying to resist it. I’ll keep the cult of annoying assholes from ruining your little slice of peace tonight.”

Vergil’s shoulders stiffened at the bluntness of the word mate, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Not after everything that had transpired between him and Selene—the tether pulling at his very core, the primal need to protect and claim, the fragile humanity she stirred within him.

His silence was answer enough.

Vergil’s jaw tightened, torn between pride and desire, but finally he gave a curt nod. Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him like a dark tide as he strode toward the staircase.

As his brother’s footsteps faded upward, Dante leaned back on the couch with a satisfied smirk, murmuring to himself, “Knew you’d cave eventually. Guess even the great Vergil can’t fight love… or whatever cosmic crap this bond thing is.”

He propped his feet up on the coffee table, Rebellion resting within reach, and closed his eyes, listening to the crackling fire and the faint creaks of the old house.

“Alright, cult freaks,” he muttered under his breath, his smirk sharpening into something dangerous. “If you wanna ruin this night, you’re gonna have to go through me first.”

~~

Vergil’s boots made no sound against the wooden floor as he ascended the staircase, though the air seemed to thrum with the weight of his presence. Dante’s words followed him like a shadow, clinging stubbornly no matter how hard he tried to banish them from his mind.

"Go to your mate before you combust."
His brother’s irreverent phrasing was grating, yet there was a sting of truth beneath the humor. Vergil hated that Dante had seen through him so easily, but it was the truth all the same: every moment he’d spent standing in the living room, separated from her, had been agony. His body was tense, his mind coiled like a blade ready to snap.

And worse… his heart was restless.

As he reached the top of the stairs, the soft light spilling from the crack beneath her door tugged at something deep inside him. It wasn’t just the bond. It wasn’t just instinct. It was her. Selene. The only person who’d ever made him feel as though his warring halves—demon and human—could exist in harmony.

He paused at the door, his gloved hand hovering over the handle. For a long moment, he simply stood there, his breath quiet and measured. Doubt gnawed at him.

Would she want him near her after everything? After the way he had claimed her in the forest, in a moment of primal fury and desperate need? Would she look at him with fear when she woke? Would she recoil?

The thought was almost unbearable.

But another memory came to the forefront: the way she had clung to him even in her sleep earlier, whispering his name without realizing it, her body melting into his touch as if she had always belonged there.

That fragile, undeniable image drove him forward.

With silent precision, Vergil eased the door open. The hinges barely creaked, a testament to the care he took not to disturb her. Moonlight spilled in through the thin curtains, bathing the room in pale silver. The air was thick with her scent—soft vanilla and jasmine, now intertwined with his own darker, sharper notes. The mixture hit him like a physical force, stirring a deep, primal satisfaction in his chest.

Selene lay curled beneath the blanket, her face turned toward him, strands of her hair fanned across the pillow. She looked peaceful now, but he could still see traces of exhaustion etched into her features. Her body had been through so much—visions, terror, and the raw intimacy they had shared.

Vergil’s breath caught as he took a step closer.
So delicate.
So utterly precious.
And somehow… his.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, staring down at her with an intensity that might have burned if she were awake to see it. His instincts screamed at him to slide beneath the covers, to gather her close and never let go. But his logic warred with that demand.

Would his presence disturb her sleep? Would it bring her comfort—or serve as a reminder of the wild, uncontrolled passion they had unleashed?

His gaze shifted to the chair beside the bed. It was plain, sturdy, and utterly unworthy of his station, but it offered a compromise. He could sit there through the night, watching over her while keeping a respectful distance.

Yes. That was the prudent choice.

He turned slightly toward it… and froze.

The bond surged suddenly, thrumming like a live wire beneath his skin. It wasn’t a whisper this time—it was a command. His entire body rejected the idea of separation, of distance. His muscles ached with it, his chest constricting painfully. This wasn’t just desire. It was need. The kind that could not be denied without consequence.

Vergil exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to remain composed even as the pull inside him grew unbearable.
“No chair,” he muttered under his breath, as though voicing the decision would cement it.

His coat was still draped over Selene’s form, the very one he’d wrapped around her earlier to shield her from the cold. With precise, reverent movements, he peeled it away, careful not to disturb her slumber, and laid it neatly across the chair instead.

Next came his boots. He crouched to untie them, each movement silent and methodical, as though he were preparing for a ritual. Once removed, he set them aside with exacting care.

Finally, he allowed himself to approach the bed. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight as he eased onto it, every motion controlled, his breathing steady even as his heart pounded like a war drum.

He slipped beneath the covers, the warmth of her lingering there like a soft caress. For a brief moment, he hesitated, hovering over her as if uncertain how to proceed.

Then instinct—and the bond—won.

Vergil slid closer until his body curved protectively around hers. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his chest with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier ferocity. He inhaled deeply, his face buried in her hair, drinking in the mingled scent of the two of them.

Relief washed over him in a tidal wave. The restless storm in his mind quieted, the tension in his body unraveling thread by thread. For the first time since he had found her in the forest, Vergil felt… calm. Whole.

Selene stirred slightly in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she instinctively nuzzled closer to him. That simple gesture nearly undid him. His throat tightened, and for a fleeting moment, the great Vergil—the man who had once sought godhood—felt humbled.

“This,” he whispered to the darkness, his lips barely brushing her hair, “is where you belong.”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Vergil allowed himself to close his eyes—not in vigilance, but in peace. Holding her, surrounded by their shared warmth and scent, he surrendered to sleep, certain of one thing: as long as she was in his arms, nothing in this world or the next would harm her.

Chapter Text

The first thing Selene became aware of was warmth.

It wrapped around her like a cocoon, heavy and consuming, pressing into her skin in a way that sent a wave of safety rolling through her weary body. The blankets were soft against her bare legs, the faint smell of smoke from the fireplace downstairs mingling with something darker, sharper—him. That scent alone made her breath hitch, her body reacting before her mind had fully caught up.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering as the pale morning light streamed through the curtains, painting the room in muted gold. It was quiet, so quiet she could hear the soft rhythm of breathing beside her.

That was when she realized she wasn’t alone.

Selene stilled, her heart thudding once, twice, before her thoughts finally caught up. The arm draped around her waist wasn’t just warmth—it was Vergil. His hold was firm yet gentle, his body a solid wall behind her.

For a moment, she lay there, hardly daring to breathe. Memories of last night slammed into her like a tidal wave, one after the other.

The forest.
The raw, primal desperation in his voice when he’d found her running.
The way he had cornered her, his anger a tangible thing, demanding to know why she’d risked herself.
And then—the moment everything shifted. His rage transforming into something far darker, deeper.
The way he’d claimed her against that tree, taking her over and over until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t be without him.

Her thighs clenched involuntarily, a sharp ache blooming between them at the memory. Selene sucked in a breath through her teeth, pressing her face into the pillow to muffle the sound. Her body felt like it had been wrung out completely—sore in places she hadn’t even known could ache, marked by his strength, his need.

And not just once.

She flushed scarlet, recalling the second time. How he had guided her on top of him, her trembling hands clutching at his chest while he coaxed her to move, to take what she wanted. How his voice—low, commanding, reverent—had broken through her embarrassment, making her forget everything but the way he felt inside her.

Selene swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut against the flood of sensations.
Last night had been more than lust. More than physical need. It had been… overwhelming.

Whatever this bond between them was, it had deepened. She could feel it now, humming beneath her skin like a living current. It wasn’t just in her head or her heart—it was everywhere, woven into her very being. And the closer Vergil was, the stronger it grew.

Her fingers twitched against the blanket, tempted to reach back and touch him, to confirm he was real.

Then she felt something strange.

The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. The faint brush of his breath against the shell of her ear. His hold on her wasn’t rigid, like when he was awake and guarded—it was loose, unguarded, peaceful.

Her breath caught.

Vergil… was asleep.

Selene carefully rolled onto her back, moving just enough to see him without disturbing his rest. And when her gaze finally landed on his face, she froze completely.

He looked… different like this.

The sharp angles of his features were softened by slumber, his usually piercing eyes closed, lashes casting faint shadows on his pale skin. His lips were slightly parted, his expression free of the constant tension he carried while awake. He looked almost vulnerable, like a man rather than the fearsome, otherworldly presence he so often embodied.

Selene’s chest tightened painfully at the sight.

She had never imagined she would see him like this. Vergil, the man who exuded power and control at every turn, now lying beside her, wholly defenseless. It made something deep inside her ache—a mix of tenderness and awe.

Slowly, she reached out, her fingertips hovering inches from his face. She didn’t touch him, afraid to wake him, but she wanted to. Wanted to trace the line of his jaw, to memorize every detail of him.

The memories of last night whispered through her mind again, but softer this time. Not just the claiming, the feral dominance, but the quieter moments: the way he had held her afterward, sitting against the tree with her cradled in his lap like she was the most precious thing in existence. The way his voice had dropped to a near-whisper when he told her—without words—that she was his.

Her throat tightened.

What was this bond between them? Was it fate? Some cosmic joke? She didn’t know. But as she stared at him now, seeing him as no one else ever had, she realized something terrifying.

She didn’t want to run anymore.

Even after everything—the visions, the danger, the cult hunting her—Selene couldn’t imagine a world where she didn’t wake up like this. Safe. Warm. Surrounded by him.

Her hand trembled slightly as she lowered it back to her chest, curling it into the blanket to stop herself from reaching out.

For now, she would let him sleep.
For now, she would simply watch, her heart pounding as she committed the image of Vergil—peaceful, human, hers—to memory.

As the morning light grew stronger, Selene lay in silence, unsure of what the day would bring. But one thing she knew for certain: whatever storm awaited them outside this room, she would face it.
Because here, in this bed, with him… she had finally found her safe place.

The soft glow of dawn slowly stretched across the room, warming the cool air with a pale golden light. Selene lay perfectly still for a long moment, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing. It was so surreal, so fragile, that she almost didn’t want to move in fear that it might shatter and he’d disappear like a dream.

Her gaze roamed over him slowly, drinking him in. Vergil was the most untouchable man she had ever met—cold, precise, powerful in ways she didn’t fully understand. And yet here he was, lying beside her in her bed, his long frame stretched out beneath the blankets they shared. His sharp, striking features were softened by slumber, his jaw no longer locked in tension, his lips parted slightly as he breathed.

He looked… human.

Selene’s chest ached. She couldn’t remember ever seeing someone so fierce appear this vulnerable, this peaceful. It tugged at something deep inside her, something protective and tender. She wanted to keep this moment forever, to shield it from the harshness of the world outside these walls.

Her courage wavered, but slowly, carefully, she reached out. Her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed them through his silver hair, marveling at how silky it felt beneath her touch. He didn’t stir at first, so she grew a little bolder, letting her fingertips trail down to his temple, then along the sharp line of his cheekbone.

His skin was cool to the touch, impossibly smooth. She traced along the bridge of his nose, lingering there as she memorized every detail. It was strange to think that someone like Vergil—even with all his power, his poise, his control—could be this… exhausted. His body must have been carrying unimaginable strain, and still he bore it all silently.

Selene’s heart twisted as she thought of the battles he’d fought, the burdens he’d carried, all while keeping the world at arm’s length. Maybe no one else would ever see this side of him. Maybe this was hers alone.

Her thumb brushed lightly against his lower lip, a barely-there caress.

And then—like a viper striking—his hand shot out and wrapped firmly around her wrist.

Selene gasped softly, startled, her breath catching in her throat. His fingers were warm and strong, his grip unyielding yet not painful. His eyelids fluttered open slowly, revealing a flash of icy blue, still clouded with sleep. For a moment, he looked utterly disoriented, his gaze flicking between her face and his hand holding hers, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

His brow furrowed slightly, and in that instant she realized—he hadn’t expected to sleep.
Perhaps he hadn’t even believed he could sleep so deeply, not after everything he’d endured.

Selene’s heart pounded. She lifted her free hand to cover his, awkwardly squeezing in an attempt to soften the moment. Her lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “Good morning…” she said quietly, her voice laced with both nervousness and tenderness.

For a long beat, Vergil simply stared at her. His usually sharp, guarded eyes were hazy and vulnerable, the weight of waking making him seem almost… young. But then something shifted behind them—a flicker of awareness, of realization. His grip loosened, and he released her wrist, though his hand lingered against her skin for a heartbeat longer before retreating.

He sat up abruptly, the motion sharp and sudden, his long coatless frame casting a tall shadow across the bed. Selene’s breath caught again, panic sparking in her chest. The last time she’d woken beside him—after he had taken her innocence and claimed her so completely—he had left her without answers, cold and distant. She had lain there, aching and raw, watching him walk away like none of it had happened.

Was he going to do it again?

The fear tightened her throat. She didn’t know if she could bear that cold rejection twice.

But when Vergil turned his head slightly, the light streaming through the window caught his face, and Selene saw something she hadn’t expected. His expression wasn’t detached or angry. It wasn’t even conflicted.

He looked… content.

There was still a lingering edge of tension to him—there always was—but beneath it, his features were calm. Almost serene. He wasn’t rushing to leave her side. He wasn’t wearing the mask of indifference he so often hid behind. He just… sat there, his gaze briefly trailing over her face, as though committing her to memory.

Selene exhaled shakily, relief flooding through her limbs. She pushed herself up slowly, wincing at the soreness in her body from last night’s intensity. Every moment had tied them closer together, tightening whatever bond fate had woven between them.

As she sat there beside him, the morning light playing across his pale skin and silver hair, Selene realized something:
He wasn’t running this time.

And maybe, just maybe, he never would again.

Gathering her courage, she reached out and lightly touched his arm. “Did you… sleep well?” she asked softly, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

Vergil turned his head fully toward her now, his expression still unreadable, though his eyes held a depth she couldn’t quite decipher. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to answer—but instead, he simply allowed his hand to cover hers, holding it there.

It wasn’t a spoken answer, but Selene understood it all the same.

It wasn’t like the night before—wild, consuming, an inferno neither of them could control. This was quiet, almost gentle. A reassurance without words. Her heart gave a little flutter as heat bloomed in her cheeks.

Then, of course, her stomach had to betray her.

A loud growl broke the fragile silence between them. Selene froze, mortified, her face flushing crimson as she clutched the blanket tighter around herself.
“Oh, no…” she muttered under her breath, wishing the earth would swallow her whole.

Vergil’s head tilted ever so slightly, his sharp blue eyes glancing down at her midsection as though it were a battlefield to assess. He didn’t speak, didn’t even smirk—just blinked, impassive but watchful. Somehow, that was worse than teasing, till his lips twitched as he finally found the amusement of her predicament.

“I, um…” Selene stumbled over her words, completely flustered. “I… didn’t really eat since… yesterday. Before I went out to, uh… look for clues.” She bit her lip, realizing how ridiculous that sounded out loud. “Then, well… everything happened. Nero, the van, the—” She stopped herself, groaning. “Oh, God, just… never mind.”

Vergil’s gaze remained steady, but something subtle shifted in it—a flicker of understanding. Without a word, he stood from the bed with his usual fluid grace, her trying not to oogle at how muscular his arms were without him wearing that heavy cloak to hide them, extended his hand toward her, palm up.

Selene blinked at it, unsure.
“You don’t… have to—”

“Come,” Vergil said simply, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Her heart skipped a beat at the single word. Slowly, she placed her trembling hand in his. His fingers closed around hers with a careful strength, helping her rise from the bed. The soreness in her muscles hit her full force when she shifted her weight, and she winced, sucking in a breath.

Vergil’s head snapped toward her, a sharp look of concern flaring across his otherwise composed features. His grip on her hand tightened slightly, steadying her.

“I’m fine,” she rushed to assure him, though her voice was weak. “Just… sore. My body feels like it’s been through a war zone.”

Something in his jaw flexed at her words, like the admission angered him, though she knew the rage wasn’t directed at her. He didn’t speak, but he slid his other hand to her elbow, supporting her as he guided her toward the adjoining washroom.

The awkwardness of it nearly made her dizzy. Vergil—poised, controlled, intimidating Vergil—looked almost uncertain as he helped her. Not because he didn’t know how to lead, but because it was clear he had never done something like this before. His every motion was precise and deliberate, yet tinged with a strange hesitance, as though he feared doing something wrong.

Selene’s chest squeezed painfully at the sight.

Last night, he had claimed her with the kind of primal certainty that left no room for doubt. But here, in this quiet morning light, it became startlingly clear that intimacy—the soft, quiet moments after—was foreign to him.

And then, like puzzle pieces falling into place, his confession from before echoed in her mind.
Nero’s mother. A fleeting encounter born from lust, nothing more.

Vergil had never known partnership. Never known connection or gentle care.
No wonder this felt awkward for him.

Selene squeezed his hand softly as they reached the washroom doorway, a small gesture of reassurance. She didn’t need him to joke, to pretend. She just needed him, in whatever way he could manage.

He paused, his gaze flicking to their joined hands, before lowering her carefully onto a padded stool near the shower. His hands lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away.

“Rest here, ill set up temperature for you,” he instructed quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

Selene nodded, biting her lip as her eyes darted up to meet his. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with sincerity.

Vergil gave the barest inclination of his head before straightening to his full height. His posture was as regal as ever, but there was something softer in his expression now—a subtle crack in the mask he always wore.

As Selene began to untangle her hair with her fingers, the faintest scent drifted in from beyond the washroom: warm bread, sizzling oil, something sweet and rich. Her stomach growled again, louder this time, and she groaned in embarrassment.

Vergil’s sharp gaze turned toward the door, nostrils flaring slightly.

“After your shower..we'll make sure you'll eat.” he stated plainly, as if confirming a tactical observation on the battlefield. "I just..hope it isn't my brother attempting to cook.”

Selene’s lips curved into a small, bashful smile. “Kyrie, maybe… or Nico.” She chuckled softly, the sound breaking some of the tension in the room. “Either way, I think breakfast’s ready.”

Vergil’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened infinitesimally as he looked back at her. "Do..you need me to help you."

For a moment, Selene simply stared at him, her chest warming despite the cool tile beneath her bare feet.
The man who had raged and burned like a storm last night now stood here, awkward and careful, quietly making sure she was fed and cared for.

Maybe he didn’t know how to express it yet.
Maybe words weren’t his way.

But in his actions—in every deliberate, protective gesture—Selene could feel it.
The bond between them was growing stronger.
And so was her heart.

Steam curled upward in delicate tendrils, fogging the glass pane and blurring the edges of the small washroom. The hiss of warm water filled the space, mingling with Selene’s soft, uneven breaths.

She stood near the tiled wall, her back to Vergil, clutching the towel tightly around herself. Even though he’d seen every inch of her last night—claimed every part of her with a hunger that still made her tremble—this felt different. This was deliberate, unhurried, quiet. Intimate in a way that sent a different kind of shiver down her spine.

Vergil’s hands reached for the towel slowly, almost hesitantly, as though asking for permission without words. His long, elegant fingers brushed hers, and Selene’s heart stuttered in her chest. She loosened her grip, letting him take over, and the towel slipped away, pooling soundlessly at her feet.

Her skin prickled under his gaze. It wasn’t lustful—not like last night’s storm of passion—but assessing, reverent, like a sculptor memorizing the lines of his masterpiece. Still, it made heat creep into her cheeks, and she had to look away before her knees buckled.

Vergil didn’t speak. Instead, he reached past her to adjust the water, testing the temperature with his palm before nodding, apparently satisfied. When he turned back to her, his expression was unreadable but softer than usual, his sharp eyes holding an unspoken question: May I?

Selene swallowed and nodded. “You… can help me.”

Something flickered in his gaze—relief, maybe, or a flash of desire he quickly buried. He stepped closer, his presence enveloping her entirely, and guided her gently beneath the spray of warm water.

The heat cascaded over her aching muscles, and Selene let out an involuntary sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging. She hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been holding until now. Vergil’s hands came to rest on her upper arms, steadying her as she adjusted to the sensation.

He hesitated. She could feel it—the way his touch lingered but didn’t roam, as though he was questioning every move he made. Vergil, master of the blade, conqueror of realms she assumed was the case, was uncertain about how to wash someone’s hair. The thought almost made Selene smile.

“Relax,” she murmured, tilting her head back so the water flowed through her tangled hair. “It’s just me.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened slightly, but he obeyed. His hands moved with painstaking care as he gathered her hair, working through the snarled strands with his fingers first, then smoothing shampoo through it. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and Selene found herself melting beneath the slow, rhythmic motions.

The silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable. Still, Selene’s mind buzzed with questions. Last night, he had known her body in ways no one ever had, yet… did he know her? The simple things, the quiet pieces of who she was?

Her voice trembled slightly as she broke the silence. “You know,” she began, “you’ve never asked me about… well, anything.”

Vergil paused mid-motion, his fingers still threaded through her hair. “…Anything?” he echoed, his tone cautious.

Selene turned her head slightly, glancing at him over her shoulder. Water droplets clung to his silver hair, sliding down the sharp planes of his face, making him seem almost ethereal. “Like… what I like. My favorite color. What I do when I’m not…” She gestured vaguely, meaning the shop, the visions, the chaos. “…dealing with all this.”

His brow furrowed ever so slightly. “…I was unaware such details were… important.”

“They are to me,” she said softly, smiling despite her nerves. “Maybe I’ll just tell you. My favorite color is deep green, like the forests after it rains. I love books—obviously—but I also like puzzles. And I’m obsessed with tea. Different blends, different flavors.”

Vergil hummed, a sound that was half acknowledgment, half curiosity. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She bit her lip, emboldened by his lack of dismissal. “What about you?” she asked gently. “What do you like, Vergil?”

For a moment, he was completely still, as though no one had ever dared to ask him that before. Then, slowly, a strange thing happened: the faintest huff of air escaped him, a sound so subtle she almost missed it. A chuckle.

Selene’s eyes widened, warmth blooming in her chest at the rare, precious sound.

His lips quirked, just slightly—too controlled to be a full smile, but unmistakably there. “I… suppose I appreciate silence,” he admitted at last, his voice low. “And the discipline of the blade. Though… tea, as you say, is tolerable.”

Selene giggled, unable to help herself. “Tolerable, huh? I’ll take that as a win.”

Vergil’s hands resumed their task, more confident now as he rinsed the suds from her hair. Though his movements remained precise, there was a new ease to them, as if some invisible barrier had cracked.

“You are… curious,” he murmured after a pause, almost to himself.

Selene tilted her head back, smiling up at him. “And you’re opening up. Even if it’s just a little.”

He met her gaze then, and for a fleeting moment, she swore she saw the faintest spark of warmth in those icy blue depths. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it was enough to make her heart race.

As the water continued to cascade around them, Selene realized something profound:
He didn’t need grand declarations or perfect words.
This—his awkward attempts at care, his quiet humor, the trust in letting her see him like this—was more intimate than anything he’d said before.

And for her, it was everything.

The warm rush of water spilled over her shoulders, soothing the deep ache in her muscles. Selene let out a soft, relieved sigh, her head tilting forward as the last of the shampoo slid down her hair in shimmering rivulets. Vergil’s hands lingered briefly at her scalp, as if ensuring no trace of suds remained, his touch firm yet startlingly gentle.

When he finally pulled back, Selene opened her eyes to find him reaching for a small white towel folded neatly on the shelf beside the shower. His movements were meticulous, almost ritualistic. He soaked the cloth beneath the warm stream before carefully applying body wash, working it into a rich lather with a precision that spoke of his disciplined nature.

For a brief moment, Selene simply watched him, her heart fluttering at how surreal this felt. The man who had once been nothing but shadows and sharp edges was now standing here, preparing to care for her in a way that felt almost reverent. His back was to her, the pale lines of his shoulders gleaming under the water, his silver hair plastered to his neck. Even his posture seemed… softer somehow, though his focus never wavered.

When he finally turned back toward her, cloth in hand, there was no hesitation in his step—only in his eyes. His gaze swept over her body slowly, deliberately, tracing the faint red marks he had left across her skin last night. The way his jaw tightened told her everything: he remembered exactly how each mark had been made.

Vergil extended the towel without a word, waiting until she nodded before beginning. His movements were slow and careful, almost clinical, but there was an unmistakable reverence beneath the surface. When the cloth glided over her collarbone and down her arms, Selene had to bite back a shiver.

It was strange—he could be so commanding, so utterly in control when passion overtook him, and yet here he seemed almost… unsure. Like each stroke of the cloth was a question he wasn’t certain how to ask.

To break the silence, and maybe ease his discomfort, Selene’s lips curved into a tentative smile.
“So… I told you my favorite color,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the water. “It’s only fair you tell me yours.”

Vergil’s hands paused at her shoulder. He glanced up at her through damp strands of silver hair, his expression unreadable. “…Blue,” he admitted after a long beat, his tone low and precise. “The shade of deep water. Or the night sky just before dawn.”

Selene’s chest warmed at the simplicity of his answer. “Fitting,” she murmured, her eyes tracing the icy hue of his gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Without looking directly at her, he moved the cloth lower, over the curve of her back and down her side, carefully avoiding the most sensitive areas for now.

“Alright,” she continued, emboldened by his reply. “Favorite scent?”

He made a faint humming sound, his version of a thoughtful pause. “…Jasmine,” he said at last, his voice even quieter this time. “Its simplicity appeals to me.” His eyes flickered over her face, and something unreadable passed between them. “It is… grounding.”

Selene’s breath caught. Jasmine. The same note that wove through her own natural scent, one he had breathed in countless times since they first touched. The implication wasn’t lost on her, and her heart gave a sharp, traitorous leap.

As if sensing her reaction, Vergil lowered his gaze and continued his task, working the lather down to her stomach and hips. His touch was painfully careful now, mindful of the bruises and crescents of his fingers from last night’s claiming. Selene flushed, remembering the way those marks had been made, her body throbbing faintly at the memory.

Determined to keep talking—to keep this moment from sinking into heavy silence—she pressed on.
“What about something you like to do when you’re not, you know… saving the world or dealing with cultists and demons?”

Vergil’s hands stilled for the briefest moment against her hip, a subtle hitch in his perfectly controlled movements. When he finally spoke, there was a faint dryness to his tone. “…I do not ‘save the world,’” he corrected, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “I… train. Read. Refine my skills. There is little else that holds my interest.”

Selene tilted her head, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders. “Reading, huh? Now that I didn’t expect.”

This time, there was a huff of air—so faint it was almost lost beneath the hiss of the water. A near laugh. “You assume I am nothing but blade and battle,” he said, his tone carrying the barest edge of amusement.

“Well,” Selene teased softly, “that is how you act most of the time.”

Vergil’s lips quirked, a fraction of an inch. It wasn’t a smile, not really—but it was something rare and precious.

He moved behind her now, trying to avoid to get wet from the splash of water, the cloth gliding over her spine with featherlight care. When he reached the marks on her lower back, he slowed even more, his thumb brushing against a particularly vivid bruise. Selene sucked in a breath, both from the tenderness and the intimacy of his touch.

“I left..alot of marks on you,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Selene turned her head slightly, catching his reflection in the misted glass. “You don’t regret it… do you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His answer was immediate, his voice steady and certain. “No.” The single word carried the weight of a vow.

Her heart fluttered wildly. Whatever this bond between them was, whatever challenges lay ahead, Vergil’s actions spoke louder than any confession could.

As the water cascaded over her, washing away the remnants of last night, Selene realized something profound:
He was learning to care for her in ways that had nothing to do with claiming or protection.
And she was learning to see the man beneath the warrior—the man who liked deep blue skies, the grounding scent of jasmine, and quiet moments like this.

It wasn’t just cleansing.
It was connection.

Steam swirled thickly around them, turning the small washroom into a hazy cocoon of heat and intimacy. Selene’s pulse thundered in her ears as Vergil’s hands moved with deliberate care, the soft cloth gliding across her skin in a rhythm that was both soothing and electrifying. His focus was entirely on her—every motion precise, every touch purposeful.

But it was only on her.

His clothes clung to him, damp from the water that splashed onto him as he tended to her, the dark fabric outlining the lean strength beneath. He had stripped off his boots and outer layers, but his shirt and trousers remained stubbornly in place, as though he were determined to keep himself separate from the moment.

Selene’s brows knit as a flicker of frustration bloomed inside her. Why was he standing there, fully dressed, while she stood bare before him, vulnerable in every way?
He had already seen every inch of her, claimed her, made her body his in ways no one else ever had. She knew he desired her—he had proven that with every breathless moment of last night, every heated touch, every mark left on her skin. So why was he holding himself back now?

The answer struck her like a bolt of clarity.
It wasn’t shame or fear of her seeing him.
It was him, always focused outward, always giving, never allowing himself to receive.

Selene’s lips parted, her voice trembling but firm. “Vergil…”

He paused mid-motion, lifting his gaze to hers. The pale blue of his eyes seemed almost silver in the mist, sharp and penetrating even here. “…Yes?”

Selene turned fully to face him, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders and chest. Her heart hammered, but she didn’t flinch under his stare this time. She wouldn’t hide from him. Not anymore.

“Take these off,” she said, gesturing to the layers of fabric that separated him from her. Her voice was soft but steady, carrying a quiet authority she didn’t know she possessed.

One dark brow arched in question, his head tilting ever so slightly. “And why would I do that?” His tone was calm, but there was a subtle undercurrent of intrigue.

“Because,” she said, stepping closer until the steam wrapped them both in a veil of heat, “I want to help you, too. You’ve been taking care of me, tending to me, making sure I’m okay… but you’re just standing there, Vergil. You’re soaked, uncomfortable, and still thinking only of me.” Her fingers trembled as they rose to rest lightly against his chest. “Let me return the favor. Let me take care of you.”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned between them, broken only by the steady hiss of the water. His gaze dropped briefly to where her hand pressed against him, then lifted back to meet her eyes. There was conflict there—a tightening in his jaw, a flicker of hesitation—but beneath it, unmistakable heat.

Finally, a soft huff of air escaped him. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close, and it sent a strange thrill down Selene’s spine.

“You are… insistent,” he murmured, his lips curving in the faintest quirk.

Selene’s cheeks flushed crimson, but she didn’t back down. “You’ve seen me… completely,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve had all of me. Do you really think I would be frightened to see you like this?”

His eyes darkened at her words, the sharpness in them softening into something molten. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension drained from his frame. With a controlled exhale, Vergil reached for the clasps of his shirt.

Selene held her breath as he began to undress, peeling away each layer with methodical precision. The damp fabric clung to his skin before sliding free, revealing pale, sculpted muscle marked by faint scars and the power coiled beneath his calm exterior. His body was as breathtaking as his presence—strong, lean, every inch of him honed by battle and discipline.

He caught her staring, and to her astonishment, a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

“Does this satisfy your… frustration?” he asked, his tone threaded with the faintest hint of teasing.

Selene’s blush deepened. “It’s… a start,” she admitted, her lips curving in a shy smile.

Vergil’s mouth quirked slightly in response, a ghost of humor gracing his usually impassive face. “Very well,” he said smoothly, stepping fully under the spray of water beside her. “Then by all means… indulge yourself.”

The invitation sent a rush of warmth through her chest, mingled with desire and gratitude.

Selene reached for him with trembling hands, her fingertips tracing the planes of his chest, the water gliding over their joined skin. It felt right—balanced. He had tended to her wounds, her needs, her heart. Now, she would tend to his, even if he didn’t yet know how to ask for it.

As she worked the lather across his shoulders and down his arms, she dared to keep talking, to keep drawing him out. “You never told me what your favorite book is,” she said softly, her words accompanied by the slow, circular motions of her hands. "Since you said you liked reading."

Vergil tilted his head slightly, his eyes closing for a brief moment as if savoring her touch. “William blake…,” he admitted after a pause. “Greek mythology. The quiet sanctity of knowledge preserved.” His lips curved faintly, his voice lowering.

Selene’s breath caught at that, her heart skipping.

He opened his eyes and met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “Now,” he said, his tone dropping to a rich, velvety timbre, “you have no excuse to stop asking your questions, if that is what you truly desire.”

Selene laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rhythm of the water as she leaned closer. “Then I’ll keep asking,” she promised, her voice warm with affection.

Vergil allowed it, even humored her—his stoic façade lowering, just slightly, as he indulged her curiosity while standing bare and unguarded before her. For the first time, Selene felt as though she wasn’t just peeling back his layers of clothing…
She was peeling back the layers of the man himself.

Steam clung to Selene’s skin like a second layer, curling thickly in the small washroom until the world beyond this moment no longer seemed to exist. The steady rush of water filled her ears, mingling with the quiet rhythm of Vergil’s breathing beside her. Now that he stood bare before her, his pale skin glistening under the stream, it felt like a fragile dream she was terrified to break.

Her gaze roamed up the long, lean lines of his frame, every inch honed by discipline and strength. His hair, usually immaculate and swept back with military precision, was now damp and clinging in wild silver strands to his face and neck, softening the intimidating sharpness of his features.

Selene swallowed, a wave of warmth fluttering in her chest and lower still. Gods, he’s beautiful.

She shook herself slightly, remembering her earlier resolve. Vergil had taken care of her, washed her gently, tended to her needs as though she were the most delicate thing in the world. Now it was her turn to return that care, to see if she could coax him into allowing himself to simply… be.

“Lean down a little,” she murmured, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady.

Vergil’s icy-blue gaze flicked to hers, his brow arching ever so slightly. He didn’t question her request, but the faint quirk of his lips told her he found some quiet humor in it. Still, he obeyed, lowering his tall frame just enough for her to reach his head without straining.

Even then, she had to rise up on her toes, her small hands barely managing to work the shampoo into his thick, silver hair. Her fingers threaded through the silken strands, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing circles.

Vergil’s breath caught—a subtle hitch, almost imperceptible—but then his eyes fluttered shut. His posture shifted, shoulders easing, the rigidity that always clung to him melting away under her touch. For the first time since she had met him, he looked… peaceful.

Selene’s heart nearly burst at the sight.

“You like this,” she whispered softly, almost teasing, but with an undertone of wonder.

“Mmm,” Vergil hummed in reply, the sound deep and low, vibrating through his chest. It wasn’t quite a word, but it was enough to make her smile.

Encouraged, she kept working the lather through his hair, careful and unhurried. The tension she’d felt coiled within him—the same energy that had been so fierce and consuming the night before—seemed to unravel beneath her fingertips. When she finally tilted his head back to rinse the shampoo away, the water streamed through his hair like molten silver.

“Perfect,” she breathed, half to herself, as his eyes opened slowly.

Those striking eyes locked onto hers, softer now, quieter.

Before the intensity could overwhelm her, Selene reached for the same cloth he had used on her earlier, soaking it under the warm stream and lathering it with soap. This time, she was the one to tend to him.

Her touch was reverent as she pressed the cloth to his chest, gliding it over firm muscles that twitched slightly beneath her ministrations. His skin was smooth yet strong, every inch of him the embodiment of control and lethal grace. Selene’s gaze drank him in shamelessly, memorizing every line and curve as her hands traveled across his torso.

Vergil didn’t speak. His head tilted slightly, watching her through half-lidded eyes, his breathing slow and measured. The only sound was the water and the occasional sharp inhale when she brushed across an especially sensitive spot—like the scar near his ribs, or the hollow of his throat.

Selene didn’t want to disturb this rare serenity with anything heavy. No questions about the painful past he carried, no reminders of the wounds that ran deeper than flesh. Instead, she reached for something small, something light, while her hands traced slow circles over his skin.

“You know,” she said gently, “I never asked any of your missions went, before you ever met me. Before all of this.”

Vergil’s lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly. “…Tedious,” he replied after a pause. His voice was smooth, but there was a subtle edge of disdain.

Selene bit back a smile. “Tedious?”

“A nest of lesser demons in a crumbling cathedral.” His tone carried just a hint of irritation now, like a man recounting a minor inconvenience rather than a battle. “Hardly worth my time. Though Dante insisted upon accompanying me, claiming that my ‘grim face’ needed the company.” His voice deepened slightly at the last part, clearly mimicking his brother’s irreverent humor.

Selene giggled softly, picturing it. “I take it he was more of a nuisance than a help?”

Vergil exhaled through his nose, a sound so subtle. “As always.”

Encouraged by his willingness to share, Selene tilted her head, continuing to run the cloth along his arms and shoulders. “He really gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

Vergil’s gaze met hers then, a sharp flash of blue beneath damp lashes. “…He is… infuriating,” he admitted, though the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were holding back something softer. “Yet…” His voice dropped lower, almost thoughtful. “There is comfort in familiarity. Even in irritation.”

Selene’s chest ached at the quiet truth in his words. She nodded, her own voice gentle. “I think that’s just how family works. Even when they drive you mad, you still… need them.”

Vergil’s expression shifted, just slightly, as though her words struck deeper than she realized.

Selene didn’t push. Instead, she lowered the cloth to his abdomen, her fingers brushing lightly against the muscles there, marveling at how they tensed beneath her touch. The intimacy of the moment was almost overwhelming, but she kept her focus steady, pouring all her care into every movement.

“You’re tense again,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips.

His eyes darkened, heat flaring there, though his voice remained controlled. “I wonder why,” he murmured, his tone low and edged with something unspoken.

Selene’s cheeks flushed crimson, but she didn’t falter. She simply continued to wash him with slow, deliberate motions, basking in the rare, precious quiet between them.

Her hands trembled as she trailed the cloth lower and lower, every stroke deliberate, tender, worshipful. She had memorized the ridges of his abdomen, the faint scars etched into his skin, the flex and release of muscles honed by years of relentless battle. He was perfection wrapped in pale flesh, a living weapon, and yet he stood here now, utterly vulnerable, allowing her this closeness.

And then she saw it.

Through the veil of steam, her gaze drifted lower, and her breath caught sharply.

He was… impossibly large, thick and heavy, already half-hard as if his body knew what her mind still struggled to process. The sight of him sent a rush of heat through her belly, mingling with awe and disbelief.
The thought of exploring this part of him—of giving him the same care and pleasure he’d given her—burned through her like fire.

How had this man—the one who filled her completely last night—ever fit inside her? The memory of that claiming came crashing back, of the first sharp breach, of the overwhelming stretch, of the way he coaxed her with soft growls and guiding touches until she had shattered beneath him. Even now, her body ached faintly, a lingering reminder of how deeply he’d been within her.

Selene swallowed hard, her hand trembling as she finally touched him.

Vergil’s entire body stiffened, a sharp inhale breaking from his lips. His hands clenched briefly at his sides, then loosened as he looked down at her, his icy-blue eyes darkened with desire. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he forced himself to remain still.

“Selene…” His voice was rough, strained, and so unlike his usual controlled tone that it sent a thrill racing down her spine. “Slowly. Do not… rush.”

She nodded, biting her lip, then began to explore him tentatively. Her fingers wrapped around his heated cock, the weight of him startling against her smaller hand. She started to move instinctively, unsure of the rhythm, but Vergil’s low, guttural groan told her she was on the right path.

Still, his hand soon covered hers, dwarfing it entirely. The contrast made her shiver.

“Like this,” he murmured, his breath brushing the top of her head. His tone was lower now, coaxing, the same commanding calm he used in battle softened with intimate heat.

He guided her hand in slow, deliberate motions, showing her the pressure he preferred, the places most sensitive to her touch. Selene followed his lead, adjusting her grip and pace, learning him moment by moment.

“That’s it,” Vergil breathed, his voice breaking slightly as she found a particularly sensitive spot. His hips shifted forward just a fraction, his body betraying how deeply her touch affected him. “You learn… so quickly.”

The praise lit something inside her, and she grew bolder. Her movements became surer, her confidence building with every sound he made—those deep groans that rumbled through his chest, the sharp intakes of breath when her thumb teased his tip, the way his control slipped further with each passing second.

Selene risked a glance upward. His head was tilted back slightly, silver hair plastered damply to his sculpted face, his throat bared as though surrendering to her.

Vergil’s breaths came harder now, his usually impeccable control fraying under her touch. His hips began to roll subtly into her hand, the rhythm growing desperate.
“Yes,” he groaned, his head dipping forward, silver strands curtaining his face as he met her wide, stunned eyes. “Just like that.”

The sheer vulnerability in his words sent a rush of emotion through her. She wanted to give him more, to see him completely undone.

Driven by instinct, she quickened her pace, now fully confident in the way her hand moved over him. His response was immediate—a deep, guttural sound that seemed torn from his very soul.

His entire frame shuddered, muscles tightening beneath pale skin as he spilled into the rushing water.

Selene didn’t stop until he caught her wrist gently, guiding her hand to stillness. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her heart pounding wildly at the sight of him like this—undone, powerful, yet completely vulnerable before her.

Vergil’s breathing was ragged, his hands resting on her shoulders now as though anchoring himself. His eyes, still dark with lingering desire, softened ever so slightly as they met hers.

Selene’s chest swelled with something fierce and tender as she gazed up at him. Vergil’s head was bowed, his damp silver hair hanging loose and wild around his face as he leaned heavily against the tiled wall for balance. His broad chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pulls, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the small shower stall over the steady hiss of the water.

His control—so perfect, so unshakable—was gone, scattered like ashes at her feet. And she had done that.

A soft, almost shy smile tugged at her lips as she straightened slowly, her legs trembling beneath her. Pride and wonder twined together in her heart. She had learned him, coaxed every groan and hiss and tremor out of this man who so rarely let himself feel. She didn’t care about her inexperience, or that she had been clumsy at first. She’d given all of herself to him in this small, vulnerable way, and the reward had been seeing Vergil—her Vergil—completely undone.

And she wanted nothing more than to do it again.

Selene touched his chest lightly, just over the frantic beat of his heart. His skin was hot, slick beneath her palm, and for a moment, she simply basked in the intimacy of his nearness.

“I… just wanted to make you feel good,” she admitted softly, her voice trembling as it cracked on the last word. “You’re always so focused on me, on protecting me, making sure I’m okay… I wanted to give you something back. Even if it’s just this.”

Vergil’s head lifted at her confession, his gaze locking with hers. His blue eyes were darker now, stormy with something she couldn’t name—lust, yes, but also a depth of emotion that made her chest ache. His lips parted as if to speak, though his breath was still ragged, his body still recovering from the intensity she’d drawn out of him.

But before he could form a single word, a sharp, jarring bang-bang-bang rattled the wooden bathroom door, shattering the moment like glass.

“HEY, BREAKFAST IS READY!” Nico’s voice rang out like a siren, muffled slightly through the door but still far too loud. “GET OUT HERE BEFORE KYRIE STARTS FEEDIN’ THE KIDS ALL THE PANCAKES!”

Selene froze, every muscle locking in horrified panic.
Her wide eyes snapped to Vergil’s, heat rushing to her face so fiercely it made her dizzy.

Oh no. No no no no no.

Had Nico been standing there long enough to hear something? The shower wasn’t exactly soundproof, and Vergil’s guttural groans… him praising her…
Her face burned hotter. She wanted to sink through the tiled floor and vanish.

Vergil, however, went completely still. Slowly, very slowly, his head turned toward the door—not fully, just enough that Selene saw the dangerous narrowing of his eyes, the faint tick in his jaw. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply through his nose.

The kind of frustration that came from being ripped out of a rare, intimate moment he’d given himself over to fully.

Oh fuck, please don't let him smash that door in her face-

Selene clutched his arm, frantic. “Vergil… don’t,” she whispered urgently, knowing how close he was to lashing out. “Kyrie would be upset about damaged property.”

A long, tense beat passed. Then, with a clipped exhale, Vergil’s voice came out low, cold, and controlled.
“I am aware.”

From the other side of the door, Nico’s boots stomped away, before yelling out "Tick tock! Yall can mess around later ya hear!?"

Selene’s stomach plummeted. Her face went crimson from roots to toes. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the strangled squeak that threatened to escape, utterly mortified.

Vergil’s gaze cut back to her, stormy and unreadable. His perfect post-release bliss was gone, stolen away by chaos and noise. He reached up and turned off the water with a swift, decisive motion, the hiss of the shower replaced by the heavy thrum of his breathing and Selene’s racing heartbeat.

“Enough of this,” he muttered, his tone sharp enough to slice through the steam.

Before Selene could say a word, Vergil reached for a towel. His movements were controlled and precise, but she could feel the restrained fury in every motion. He wrapped her securely first, his large hands lingering at her shoulders, ensuring she was fully covered before reaching for another towel to dry himself. His touch was careful, almost reverent, but there was an urgency beneath it—as though he needed to reclaim this moment for them, even in the smallest way.

Selene stayed silent, trembling slightly as he patted her damp hair, the intimacy of the gesture softening the edge of his frustration. She dared to glance up at him.
His face was as composed as ever, but his eyes burned with a quiet promise: this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

As he handed her a fresh towel and helped her step carefully from the shower, Selene’s mind raced with mortification. Did Nico hear anything? Could she tell what they’d been doing? The idea made Selene’s stomach twist in knots.

Vergil, however, seemed focused only on her.
“Compose yourself,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that deep, commanding tone that made her shiver. “They will see only what I allow them to.”

Selene clutched the towel tighter around her trembling frame, trying to draw strength from his certainty. Still, her mind replayed Nico’s hollering words and the possibility of her cheeky grin waiting on the other side of the door.

Vergil wrapped his own towel firmly around his waist, his movements clipped and deliberate. Without glancing back, he extended a hand to her.

“Come,” he said simply, his tone brooking no argument. “We will face this… nuisance together.”

And though Selene’s cheeks burned hotter than the shower’s steam, she placed her hand in his, knowing that no matter what awaited them beyond that door, Vergil would stand between her and the world. Even if the world was Nico’s relentless teasing.

Chapter Text

Selene stood frozen near the door, clutching her towel so tightly that her knuckles ached. The thick tension in the room was almost suffocating, wrapping around her like a second skin. Nico’s booming voice still echoed in her ears, shattering the fragile intimacy she and Vergil had built like a stone smashing delicate glass.

Vergil didn’t move for a long moment. His back was a sharp, pale silhouette against the dim light, shoulders drawn tight beneath the smooth muscles that rippled each time he so much as breathed. She could feel the restraint in him, the storm raging beneath his stillness, like a volcano on the brink of eruption.

When he finally opened the door, he did so with careful precision, his hand on the handle steady but commanding. Selene stayed behind him, instinctively seeking his shadow, her body reacting to his presence even in silence. There was no mistaking the protective aura that radiated off him, the promise that if anyone so much as dared cross the threshold, they would regret it.

“Coast is clear,” Vergil said at last, his deep voice clipped, neutral—yet there was an edge there, a barely leashed growl that sent shivers down her spine.

Selene swayed on her feet, every muscle trembling from exhaustion and the raw ache radiating through her body. Each step she took sent a reminder of the night before humming through her bones—a deep, pulsing soreness that was almost too much to bear. She didn’t want to admit it, but if Vergil hadn’t been there, guiding her, she wasn’t certain she could’ve even made it this far across the room.

Without a word, Vergil’s hand came to rest at the small of her back, steady and unyielding. His touch was firm but careful, a surprising tenderness hidden beneath that controlled strength of his. She didn’t even try to fight him as he led her toward the bed. His presence was grounding, commanding, and terrifyingly reassuring all at once.

When they reached the edge, he eased her down onto the mattress with an unexpected gentleness. Selene gasped softly as she sank into the cool sheets, grateful for the relief of no longer having to support herself. Vergil lingered for a moment, kneeling slightly so his face was level with hers. His piercing blue eyes scanned over her features with the same intensity he used when reading an enemy on the battlefield—searching for weakness, for harm, for anything he might need to fix.

It made her heart pound in her chest. He looked like a man torn between two instincts: the predator ready to destroy whatever dared hurt her and the protector desperate to shield her from the world.

Selene couldn’t stop herself from staring back at him, her breath catching as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. This man… this impossibly controlled, enigmatic man… felt like hers in a way she couldn’t begin to explain. Not just because of what they’d done together, but because of the way he hovered now, as if she were something precious and fragile.

And yet, questions gnawed at the edges of her thoughts.

What exactly were they now? Were they lovers? Something more? Something destined? She didn’t have the words for it, but she knew he did. He knew what this bond meant—she could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his gaze sometimes softened like he was fighting an internal battle. But why wouldn’t he tell her? Why did he hesitate every time the truth lingered on his tongue?

She opened her mouth to speak, but Vergil moved first, standing fluidly and turning away from her. Selene’s questions withered on her lips.

He crossed the room to a dresser, his tall, imposing frame casting shadows in the dim light. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though each step was part of a ritual. Selene followed him with her eyes, mesmerized despite herself. She wanted to cling to this quiet moment, to memorize every detail of him.

And then, with absolute certainty, Vergil let the towel fall from his hips.

Selene’s breath hitched violently.

The sight of him stole her words, her thoughts—everything. His back was a masterpiece of pale, sculpted muscle, marred only by the faint, faded scars of battles long past. The sharp taper of his waist, the powerful lines of his thighs, every inch of him exuded lethal grace. Even his stillness was intimidating, commanding attention as though he were a king surveying his domain.

Her lips parted slightly, her breath trembling. God, she couldn’t look away.

Selene’s heart pounded harder as he bent slightly to retrieve neatly folded clothes from the drawer, his movements elegant and deliberate. The muscles of his back rippled, his control evident in even the simplest actions. She clutched at the mattress beneath her fingers, trying desperately to stay quiet, to keep her need hidden.

And then her gaze drifted further—past him, to the nearby chair.

Her pulse stuttered.

There, laid out carefully and unmistakably, were her clothes. The shirt she’d worn in her shop just days ago, the cardigan she favored for cool mornings, even a simple dress she’d kept folded in her apartment.

Selene’s stomach dropped.

Those pieces had been left behind. She knew she hadn’t packed them, hadn’t seen anyone go near her shop or apartment. They were part of the life she’d been forced to abandon when chaos descended.

Her voice broke the silence, trembling and small. “My clothes…” She pointed with a shaky hand, staring wide-eyed at the folded garments. “How… how are those here?”

Vergil didn’t immediately turn. He stood perfectly still for a heartbeat, his shoulders shifting subtly as if considering his response. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, composed—a soothing balm wrapped around steel.

“Lady,” he said evenly. “Or Nico. They would not leave your belongings unguarded. Nor would they allow anyone dangerous to come near your home.”

Selene’s breath came faster. “But that’s… they shouldn’t have gone there. It isn’t safe. What if the cult saw them? What if—”

“They did not.” His tone was clipped, absolute, cutting through her rising panic like a blade.

That sharp certainty brought her up short. Vergil finally turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “If they had, I would know.”

The finality in his voice made her shiver. She believed him—of course she did—but the thought of anyone entering those sacred, tainted spaces made her chest ache.

Her mind spun with the implications. If they had gone to retrieve her belongings, what did that mean? Were they preparing to hide her? Move her? Or… had Vergil himself ensured this was done, silently arranging everything without asking, without explaining?

The questions burned on her tongue, but when she looked back at him—standing tall, strong, terrifyingly beautiful—her courage faltered.

And so she said nothing.

Instead, she let her gaze linger on him, drinking him in as though he were the only solid thing left in her collapsing world. She wanted to understand him, to peel back the layers of cold control he wore like armor. She wanted to ask who he was beneath the warrior, beneath the power.

But most of all, she wanted to know if what they shared was real. If he felt the same earth-shattering pull that she did every time his eyes met hers, even though last night he kept repeating the word 'bond', but in her pleasure filled mind she never registered what that could mean, but to him? It felt like it meant everything to him.

Selene’s lips parted, her body trembling as her thoughts swirled.

And yet, he still hadn’t given her the truth.

As she sat on the edge of the mattress, she glanced at Vergil. His composure was flawless, as if the fire and chaos of last night had been locked away behind those icy walls once more as he pulled up his trousers with grace she was envious of at the moment.

But she’d seen what was beneath them. She’d felt it.

Something inside her whispered that the bond between them was more than just desire, that what they’d shared was only the first thread of something much deeper. It frightened her… but it also filled her with a strange, steady warmth.

Selene rose slowly, her legs unsteady. She needed to dress, to focus, to keep moving before her mind drowned in questions. The clothes that had been brought here—her own, neatly folded and placed on a chair—felt both familiar and unsettling. Whoever had retrieved them had taken a risk, and that left her uneasy. She brushed her fingers over the fabric before beginning to dress, trying not to think about who had been in her apartment or shop.

Her stomach gave a loud, sharp growl as she reached for her shirt. Selene froze, mortified, clutching at her midsection. It had been so long since she’d last eaten that the hunger was almost painful now.

Vergil’s head turned slightly at the sound, his eyes catching hers for just a moment. There was no teasing, no comment, but the intense blue gaze, and that quirk of his lips said enough.

Selene yanked her shirt over her head quickly, cheeks hot. The fabric felt soft and familiar, grounding her for just a moment. She stepped into her leggings and boots, but the effort sent sharp pulses of discomfort through her already sore body. She tried to hide it, to push past the strain, but as she bent to tie her boots, the room tilted suddenly and her knees buckled.

Before she could hit the floor, Vergil was there.

His hand wrapped firmly around her arm, his other bracing her at the small of her back. His presence was immediate, overwhelming, and strangely reassuring all at once. Selene sucked in a sharp breath as she found herself steady against his chest, her heartbeat roaring in her ears.

“You shouldn’t push yourself,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Selene lifted her gaze to him, startled by the subtle warmth beneath his usually cold tone. His face was impassive, but his grip on her was careful, his body angled protectively as though shielding her from something unseen.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, embarrassed. “I just thought I could handle it.”

His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve endured enough strain,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Recklessness will only slow your recovery.”

He didn’t let her go until he was certain she was steady again. Even then, his hand lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, his touch reluctant to leave her skin.

Selene’s chest tightened. There was so much she wanted to say—about last night, about the questions gnawing at her heart—but now wasn’t the moment. She could feel the distance he was carefully rebuilding, the control snapping back into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.

Still, she held on to the small pieces she’d learned about him: his favorite color, the kinds of books he read, how he showed her how to please him as he let down his guard down. It was a start. And she knew, deep down, that if she was patient, if she earned his trust, he would eventually let her in further.

This might have been the start of something dangerous and complicated… but it was theirs.

Oh but now?

Selene wanted to be irritated—really irritated—but it was impossible when Vergil looked like that.

There he was, standing by the dresser, sliding on his coat with perfect precision. His pale hair, damp from the shower, fell loose for just a moment before he casually swept a hand through it. And of course, it stayed perfectly in place, every strand settling like it had been painted there by some divine hand. Not a hint of disarray.

Meanwhile, she was sitting there feeling like a tangled mess—hair sticking out at odd angles, clothes clinging awkwardly to her sore, aching body, her movements stiff and clumsy like a newborn fawn.

It was infuriating.

Her lips twisted into a mutinous little pout before she could stop herself. Of course he looks like some untouchable prince after everything they did last night and this morning…

Jerk.

Her grumble must have been louder than she realized because his head turned slightly, those piercing blue eyes catching hers.

Oh, he knew.

Selene narrowed her eyes, but that only seemed to make his barely-there smirk deepen.

“You find this amusing, don’t you?” she muttered under her breath, glaring down at her boots.

Vergil made a low sound in his throat that might’ve been a chuckle—quiet, refined, but unmistakably there. The tiniest crack in his perfect composure, and it made her stomach flutter in a way that was deeply unfair.

He stepped closer, and before she could protest, his hand came to rest at her elbow, steadying her as she rose to her feet. His grip was firm but careful, guiding her like she was something fragile, and Selene’s irritation melted into warmth she didn’t know how to name.

“Come,” he said simply, his voice smooth and commanding.

The rich scent of food wafted up from below, her empty stomach twisting in response. A loud, embarrassing growl erupted from her belly yet again, and she clutched it instinctively, mortified.

Vergil didn’t comment. His face remained unreadable, but the subtle tightening of his hand around hers felt like silent reassurance.

Selene allowed herself to be guided toward the door, leaning on him slightly as they walked. She was half-convinced the others downstairs would somehow know the moment they saw her, their knowing gazes full of judgment and questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

But Vergil… Vergil was a steady presence beside her, a wall of cool, unshakable calm against the whirlwind of her thoughts.

“Ready?” he asked, pausing at the top of the stairs.

Selene inhaled deeply, catching the mingled scents of breakfast and faint cigarette smoke drifting up from the kitchen. Chaos awaited them below—that much she was certain of. But with Vergil’s hand wrapped firmly around hers, the storm didn’t seem quite as daunting.

She gave him a small, brave nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes softened. Then, with a silent nod of his own, he led her down to face whatever awaited them.

~~

The sound of morning chaos washed over Selene as she and Vergil descended the last few steps, her hand resting lightly on the banister, his steady presence at her side. The scent of breakfast was everywhere—warm bread and butter, sweet syrup, roasted potatoes seasoned just right, and coffee so strong it seemed to hum in the air. Her stomach gave a low, aching growl in response, and she almost winced at how desperate her body felt for something as simple as food.

The scene below was a whirlwind of energy. Kyrie moved gracefully from table to counter, placing plates piled high with food in front of the group like an expert conductor of this domestic symphony. Nico, already on her second cup of coffee, leaned against the kitchen island with a cigarette balanced between two fingers as she talked a mile a minute about parts she needed for the van. Dante sat casually at the center of the main table, surrounded by a small mountain of pancakes he was demolishing with zero shame, his grin cheeky and syrup smudged.

Nero was beside him, trying to keep up while glaring at his uncle for reasons Selene couldn’t quite follow, though his posture was far more tense. At a smaller table across the room, three children were completely engrossed in their breakfast, giggling and dropping bits of fruit while Kyrie darted back and forth to refill their glasses of juice.

It was… overwhelming. Warm. Loud. Alive.

Selene hesitated at the bottom step, instinctively drawing closer to Vergil. The hum of so many voices, so many emotions in one space—it was almost too much. She wasn’t used to this kind of noise, this kind of closeness. Her pulse quickened as memories of visions tried to rise up, threatening to drown her in images of pain and chaos.

Kyrie turned then, noticing them immediately. Her face lit with relief when she saw Selene, though there was a flicker of caution in her eyes. Selene remembered clearly that Kyrie had been the one to respect her boundary last night, to hold back from reaching out when every other instinct must’ve told her to offer a comforting touch.

Now Kyrie set down the dish she was holding and crossed the room with an encouraging smile.

“Selene,” she said warmly, her voice soft but full of quiet authority. “Come sit and eat. You need to get your strength back.”

Selene hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. Kyrie didn’t reach for her—didn’t even attempt to guide her by the arm, remembering all too well how Selene reacted to touch. Instead, she simply gestured to a chair near the edge of the main table, a place where Selene could sit without feeling surrounded.

Vergil’s hand shifted to the small of her back, guiding her forward with his subtle, grounding strength. His touch was the only one she could bear, the only one that didn’t send her spiraling into visions or panic. Selene leaned into him ever so slightly as she crossed the room, drawing courage from his steady presence.

When she reached the chair, she sat carefully, wincing only a little at the soreness lingering from the night before. Kyrie, perceptive as ever, placed a plate loaded with food in front of her but didn’t linger—giving Selene space, showing her respect through restraint.

“Eat,” Kyrie said simply, the tone firm but gentle.

Selene picked up her fork, her throat tight. The first bite nearly undid her—the eggs perfectly fluffy, the butter melting into the warm bread. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring it like it was the first real meal she’d had in forever. Slowly, carefully, she began to eat, each bite grounding her a little more.

Across the table, Dante gave her a mischievous grin, clearly ready to make some kind of joke, but Nero elbowed him sharply under the table. Dante just chuckled and went back to his pancakes.

Vergil didn’t sit. Instead, he moved to the counter with his usual quiet grace, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot Nico had just finished brewing. He stood there like a sentinel, silent and sharp-eyed, sipping his drink while his gaze swept the room.

Selene caught herself sneaking glances at him between bites. He seemed perfectly composed, his features calm and unreadable—but she knew the truth beneath that mask. She knew the fire that burned under his skin, the way his control could shatter when they were alone.

Her chest tightened.

Here she was, surrounded by chaos and laughter and the warmth of a family that wasn’t hers, but Vergil… Vergil was her anchor. He was the steady hand at her back, the unspoken promise that no matter what storm came next, she wouldn’t face it alone.

Selene was halfway through her plate, savoring every slow, deliberate bite, when Dante finally leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and decided to shatter the fragile quiet.

“Well,” he said, voice casual but carrying easily over the clinking of forks and soft laughter of the children, “guess it’s time we bring you up to speed, princess.”

Selene stiffened slightly, her fork hovering over her plate. She wasn’t sure she liked that nickname, but Dante’s tone wasn’t unkind. He reached for another pancake, like he was discussing the weather instead of life-altering plans.

“Lady and Nico here,” Dante continued, nodding toward nico, “took it upon themselves to make a little field trip last night. They snagged a few things from your apartment before anyone else could get near it. Clothes, personal stuff… you know, the basics. As of right now Lady is back at the DMC setting up your stuff.”

Selene’s heart gave a sharp, startled thump. Her hands stilled on the table as her gaze darted toward Nico.

“You… went there?” she asked softly, barely above a whisper, knowing Vergil not that long ago said the same thing as if he knew somehow.

Nico raised her hands defensively, her cigarette tucked carefully between her fingers as she gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, guilty as charged,” she said, her southern drawl slower than usual. “Figured you’d need your own things once we get you settled somewhere safe. Didn’t mean to go behind your back, sugar. Just… didn’t want you walkin’ around in borrowed clothes forever, y’know?”

Selene swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. The idea of anyone being inside her space, touching the fragments of her life she’d been forced to abandon, sent a pang of unease through her chest. But Nico’s expression was so earnest, so apologetic, that Selene couldn’t bring herself to snap or pull away.

“I… I see,” she said softly, though the words felt like sandpaper in her mouth.

Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His usual smirk had softened, his tone turning more serious even though he still carried that easy, familiar swagger.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “We can’t keep you here. Too many little ears and too much risk if the cult decides to get bold. So, we’re movin’ you to my place. It’s a fortress compared to anywhere else, and…” His eyes flicked briefly toward Vergil, who remained silent and stoic by the counter, his coffee cup poised elegantly in one hand. “…you’ll stay in Vergil’s room.”

Selene’s heart plummeted to her stomach.

Her lips parted in shock, but no sound came out. She stared at Dante, then at Nico, and finally at Vergil. He gave nothing away—no nod, no flicker of approval or disagreement. He simply watched her, his gaze as sharp and heavy as a blade.

For a moment, she expected panic to rise, for her breathing to quicken, for the room to spin like it always did when visions or fear threatened to take her. But… it didn’t come.

Instead, there was only a hollow quiet inside her chest.

Her mind scrambled to comprehend what this meant, what her life would become now. Living under the same roof as Vergil, sharing his space, with the cult hunting her like a prize. It felt impossible, yet strangely inevitable.

“This isn’t permanent,” Dante added quickly, like he’d sensed her spiraling thoughts. “Just until we figure out what these cult lunatics are really planning, and how to shut them down for good. Once the danger’s passed, you can go wherever you want. But right now? You stay close, you stay guarded, and you stay alive.”

Nico exhaled smoke and gave Selene a small, rueful smile. “He’s right, sugar. It’s the safest option. You’ve got a target painted on your back, and there ain’t no way in hell we’re lettin’ them get close enough to take a shot.”

Selene’s fork clinked softly against her plate as she lowered it, her food suddenly less appealing. She tried to process it all, to wrap her head around this abrupt shift in her existence. A day ago, she’d been a woman with a quiet life—a shop owner, a reader of old texts, someone who stayed to the shadows. Now she was a piece in a game she didn’t understand, her every move dictated by forces far beyond her control.

The children’s laughter grew louder, their happy shrieks rising above the heavy conversation like a cruel reminder of innocence she no longer possessed. Selene forced herself to smile faintly at them, even as her chest tightened painfully.

“Kyrie,” Nico said gently. “Maybe… you could take them outside for a little while? They shouldn’t have to hear all of this.”

Kyrie hesitated, glancing at Nero, then nodded in agreement. “Of course.” She ushered the children toward the door, her voice soft and encouraging, their giggles fading as the door shut behind them.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the faint clink of Dante’s fork and Nico’s exhale of cigarette smoke.

Selene sat perfectly still, staring down at her half-finished breakfast. She wasn’t panicking—not yet—but her mind was a storm beneath the surface.

Her life, as she’d known it, was gone.

Selene sat frozen, her fork limp between her trembling fingers as the weight of every gaze in the room pinned her in place. Even the muffled laughter of the children outside did nothing to soften the air; it only made the quiet that had fallen inside feel sharper, heavier.

Nico leaned back against the counter, her usual carefree smirk long gone. She crossed her arms tightly, cigarette dangling between her fingers, and regarded Selene with eyes that were far too serious for comfort.

“Alright, sugar,” she said at last, her voice calm but firm, “I think it’s time we stop dancin’ ‘round this. You’ve got half of us runnin’ ragged to keep you safe. Whatever this cult wants, it’s you—and it’s past time you told us why.”

Selene’s stomach lurched. She felt Vergil’s presence at her back, silent and steady like a wall of shadow and ice. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word since she started eating, but she could feel him. Watching. Waiting. He wouldn’t speak for her; this was hers to face.

Across the table, Nero leaned forward, his tone edged with impatience. “Nico’s right. This isn’t just some random attack. They’ve been hunting you—tracking you like a damn prize—and we need to know what the hell we’re up against. If you know anything—anything at all—that could explain why they’re after you, now’s the time to say it.”

Selene’s throat tightened. She wanted to vanish, to melt into the floor and never have to relive the memories clawing at the edges of her mind. Her hands itched to cover her ears, to hide herself the way she had as a child.
But she couldn’t. Not anymore.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, to the fine lines of her gloves as her fingers twisted together. The leather creaked softly beneath the strain.

“I…” Her voice came out small and brittle. She closed her eyes, forced a breath, and tried again. “I wasn’t born… normal. There’s something inside me. A curse. Or a gift. I don’t know anymore.”

Dante’s fork stilled over his plate, his usual smirk gone, his blue eyes narrowed in sharp focus.

“When I touch someone,” she continued, the words spilling out in halting fragments, “I see things. Pieces of their past, flashes of what might come. It’s not just visions—it’s like I’m dragged into their memories, their emotions. I feel everything. Their joy. Their pain. All of it, like it’s my own.”

Nico muttered a sharp curse under her breath, nearly dropping her cigarette.

“That’s why I wear gloves,” Selene whispered. “Why I don’t let anyone near me. Because if they touch me, even for a second, it’s too much. It… it breaks me.” Her shoulders trembled as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “My father—” She cut herself off with a sharp inhale, biting back a sob.

Vergil’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t move.

Selene forced herself to continue, though her voice wavered. “My father found out when I was little. The first time I saw something, I didn’t understand what was happening. I told him.” She swallowed hard. “And he beat me. Again and again. Told me if I ever spoke of it again, if anyone found out, they’d think I was a monster. That they’d lock me away or worse. So I learned to hide it. To stay quiet. Even when it hurt.”

The room was deathly silent now.

“I never told anyone,” she said, barely more than a whisper. “Not until…” Her gaze darted briefly to Vergil before dropping again. “…not until recently. And even then, I only told one person.”

Dante’s jaw tightened as his gaze flicked to Vergil.

“I don’t know how or why this is happening.” Selene’s hands clenched into fists. The helplessness in her voice rang sharp and clear. “But somehow… somehow, they know. Or maybe—” She hesitated, dread curling cold and heavy in her gut. “Maybe it isn’t about what I’ve done. Maybe whoever is in control can feel me.”

Nero frowned. “Feel you? Like… track you?”

Selene shook her head, frustration and fear warring inside her. “I don’t understand it. But in my visions… I’ve seen him. Or at least a shadow of him around a man. I hear his voice. It’s like… like he’s peering through a window only he can see. Watching me. And the cult—they’re just his hands, reaching through.”

Vergil’s grip on his coffee cup tightened imperceptibly.

Selene lifted her head finally, meeting Nero’s gaze, then Dante’s, then Nico’s in turn. “I don’t know why I was chosen. I don’t know why they want me. But in one of my visions, I saw their ritual. A… a sacrifice to bind something ancient and terrible.” Her breath hitched, trying to process the vision she saw. “They want to use me to open a gate, I think he knows about my gift. I think he’s the reason they found me at all.”

The words hung in the air like a toxin.

Nico cursed again, pacing as she dragged on her cigarette. “So that’s why they’ve been relentless. You ain’t just some target—they need you to make their nightmare come true.”

Nero slammed his hand down, the table rattling. “Dammit.”

Selene flinched at the sound, her breath coming quick and shallow. But then her gaze slid to Vergil, standing silent and immovable in the corner. His eyes met hers, and in that unspoken exchange, she felt his vow as surely as if he’d spoken it aloud: They will not touch you. Not while I live.

Selene’s breath came shallow, ragged, as every gaze in the room pinned her down like a butterfly on a collector’s board. She hated this—hated being at the center of their questions, their worry, their silent judgments. She wasn’t built for this kind of attention. She’d spent her entire life avoiding it, folding herself smaller and smaller so no one could see her for what she truly was.

But now there was no hiding.

Her hands trembled in her lap, the soft creak of her gloves painfully loud in the quiet. The very mention of the cult’s obsession with her had cracked something open inside her, a wound she’d tried to keep stitched closed for years.

“My mother…” Selene’s voice faltered, her throat dry as sand. She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. “She died the day I was born. I never knew her. I don’t even know what she looked like. My father refused to speak of her, no matter how many times I asked.”

A bitter laugh escaped her, sharp and humorless. “Actually, he refused to speak of anything. I grew up in a house full of questions and locked doors. No family stories. No photographs. No warm memories. Just silence and… fear.”

Her fingers dug into the fabric of her gloves, gripping hard as if to keep herself anchored.

“The other kids… they’d whisper about me. Point. Stare. Adults would go quiet when I walked into a room. I used to think they were just cruel or superstitious.” She lifted her eyes, haunted. “But as I got older, I realized it wasn’t just dislike. It was avoidance. Like they could sense something in me—something unnatural.”

Dante’s usual smirk was gone, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, silent but listening. Nero sat stiffly beside him, jaw tight, while Nico’s cigarette burned low between her fingers, forgotten.

Selene’s breath hitched as memories surged. “When the visions started, I didn’t understand what was happening. I was just a child. I touched someone’s hand, and suddenly… I was inside their memories. Feeling their happiness, their pain, their secrets.” Her voice trembled. “I screamed. My father…”

She stopped, pressing her lips together hard. Even now, it hurt to say it.

“As i mentioned earlier..silenced me with beatings” she whispered. “Until I learned to hide it. To hide myself. He made sure I knew what would happen if anyone else ever found out. Said people would think I was cursed. Dangerous. They’d lock me away—or worse.”

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint sound of Kyrie’s voice outside with the children.

“When he died,” Selene continued, her voice growing hollow, “I thought I’d finally be free. That I could live quietly, maybe even… find out who I really am. But no matter where I went, it was always the same. People kept their distance. They knew, somehow, even if I never touched them. It was like I carried a mark I couldn’t see.”

Her eyes burned as she forced herself to meet Nero’s gaze, then Dante’s, then finally Nico’s. “So I started searching. I scoured every record I could get my hands on. Old libraries. Abandoned archives. Even rumors about my family line.” She shook her head. “But there was nothing. No record of my mother’s family. No trace of anyone who might’ve been related to me. It was like my bloodline didn’t exist before me.”

Nico swore softly, flicking ash into a nearby tray, her brows knitting.

Selene’s voice broke then, a whisper of helplessness. “I thought maybe the past had been erased to protect me. Or maybe to hide something shameful. But now… now I think the cult knows the truth I’ve been running from my whole life. They know something about me that even I don’t.”

Nero slammed his hand down on the table, rattling silverware. “What doesn't make sense to me, is why sacrifice all these woman, what would even be the fucking point if they even knew that you existed.”

Dante’s expression hardened, a dangerous edge creeping into his usually playful features. “Simple, they were practicing for the big show. Sounds like we’ve got ourselves another wannabe god trying to crawl into our world.”

Selene flinched, her voice cracking. “I'm so sorry, I feel like such a burden..this is why I ran away yesterday, to spare you this pain, you all have been so kind to me."

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The air felt charged, brittle, ready to snap.

“I should’ve stayed hidden,” she rasped. “I should’ve never met any of you. If I’d just kept to myself, none of this would be happening. The cult wouldn’t have a reason to come after you. They wouldn’t—”

“Stop.”

The single, firm word cut through her spiral like a blade. It wasn’t Vergil’s deep, commanding tone, but Nero’s voice—louder, rawer, and filled with something like anger and disbelief.

Selene froze, lifting her tear-bright eyes to meet his.

Nero leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table, his expression a mix of frustration and fierce protectiveness.
“You don’t get to blame yourself for their actions,” he said, his voice steady even as it trembled with emotion. “These cult freaks? They’re the ones making the choice to hurt people, not you. You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t cause this.”

“But if they’re hunting me—” Selene started, her voice breaking.

“Then we hunt them back,” Nero snapped, his fist slamming against the table hard enough to rattle the plates. “That’s what we do. It’s what we’ve always done. You think this is the first time some psychotic group of demons and lunatics has tried to tear the world apart? It’s Tuesday for us.”

His intensity stole the breath from her lungs.

“You didn’t drag us into this,” Nero continued, softer now but no less firm. “We chose to step in because innocent people are being targeted. Because you’re being targeted. And we don’t just walk away from that. None of us.”

Selene’s lips parted, but no words came. Her guilt still burned, but his conviction wove around her like a lifeline.

“You think you’re a burden,” Nero said, his tone gentler now, almost pleading. “But you’re not. You’re someone who needs protecting. And we’re damn good at that.”

Behind him, Dante crossed his arms and gave a small, approving nod. “Kid’s right,” he said, his voice casual but edged with seriousness. “If anything, you gave us a head start. Better to know who the bad guys are before they kick in our door.”

Nico exhaled smoke, finally speaking up again. “And don’t you go worryin’ about us, sugar. We ain’t exactly helpless here.” She gestured around the room with her cigarette. “Every single one of us has seen hell and lived to tell the tale. If these cult bastards think they can waltz in and take you, they’re in for a rude awakening.”

Selene’s throat closed around a sob she barely held back. The guilt didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a crushing weight, more like a heavy stone she didn’t have to carry alone. But Nero didn’t let the silence grow heavy again.

He let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to calm himself. The anger simmering in his expression wasn’t directed at her—it was frustration at the situation, at the cult, at the fact that none of them had control over what was coming.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, firm, but softer than before.

“Selene,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “you need to listen to me. Really listen.” His blue eyes locked on hers, clear and intense. “You keep talking like you’re some outsider who just stumbled into our lives and ruined everything, but that’s not how this works. That’s not how family works.”

The word family hit her like a physical blow. Selene’s throat tightened, her vision blurring.

“You’re a part of this now,” Nero said, his voice low but unwavering. “Whether you believe it or not, you’re tied to us just as much as you are to him.”

At the mention of him, Nero’s gaze flickered ever so slightly toward Vergil, standing silent like a pillar of ice in the corner. His jaw tightened, like he was holding back words he wasn’t ready to share.

Selene’s breath caught. “Nero…” she whispered, terrified of what he was implying.

But he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he looked back at her, his expression softening, though there was a thread of sadness beneath his resolve.

“I’m not saying this to scare you,” Nero continued, his tone gentler now. “I’m saying it because you need to stop tearing yourself apart over ‘what ifs.’ You didn’t choose for any of this to happen. You didn’t bring this cult into our lives on purpose. And you damn sure didn’t force us to fight for you—we chose that.”

Selene’s chest heaved, her gloved fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat as tears welled in her eyes.

“You’re not some stranger we’re protecting out of obligation,” Nero said firmly, his voice thick with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. “You matter to us. To all of us. And whether you like it or not, you’re one of us now. That means you don’t get to just disappear or take all the blame.”

She stared at him, stunned, her heart pounding in her ears. The sincerity in his words stripped her bare, leaving her raw and trembling.

“And as for father dearest…” Nero’s voice trailed off, his eyes flickering again, briefly, toward his father. There was something unspoken there, a truth he wasn’t ready to voice. “…that’s between the two of you. But don’t think for a second he’d let anyone lay a hand on you.”

Vergil’s gaze darkened, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. His silence was its own kind of storm.

Selene swallowed hard, her tears threatening to spill. She wanted to argue, to protest, to tell them they were wrong about her—but she couldn’t. Not when Nero’s words rang with such conviction, when even Dante gave a small nod, his usual smirk replaced with quiet understanding.

“You’re stuck with us now,” Nero said finally, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips despite the tension. “So stop acting like you don’t belong here. Because like it or not, Selene, you do.”

His words wrapped around her like a fragile shield, holding back the crushing tide of her guilt.

For the first time since the cult’s shadow fell over her life, Selene allowed herself to take a deep breath without feeling like she was drowning. And when she risked a glance toward Vergil, she saw it there too—in his piercing eyes. Silent confirmation. Silent promise.

The room was so heavy with emotion Selene swore she could feel it pressing on her skin. Nero’s words still lingered in the air, thick and raw, and Selene sat trembling, unsure if she should speak or simply crumble into the floor. Vergil remained silent at the far end of the room, his presence like a storm held barely in check, his piercing gaze fixed on her with an intensity that both terrified and comforted her.

Nico shifted her weight uncomfortably, clearly ready to defuse the moment, but it was Dante who finally stepped in—though, true to form, he didn’t do it gently.

“Well,” Dante said, pushing away from the wall where he’d been leaning. His voice was casual, almost too casual, and the corner of his mouth curled into a sharp, knowing grin. “Guess that settles it. You’re stuck with us now, sweetheart.”

Selene blinked at him, startled, her tear-streaked face caught between confusion and a kind of fragile hope.

Dante tilted his head toward his brother with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. “And I do mean literally stuck with us. Because if anything—and I mean anything—happens to you on my watch?” He jerked a thumb in Vergil’s direction. “That tall, broody bastard over there will try to murder me. Slowly. And probably with a monologue involved.”

A choked laugh escaped Nico before she could stop herself. Even Nero’s tense shoulders twitched, like he was fighting a reluctant smirk.

Selene, however, could only stare. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Dante didn’t stop there. He strolled to the center of the room, boots clicking against the wooden floor, his hands spread in mock exasperation.

“I mean, I always figured I’d be the one to take care of my brother. You know, keep him from doing anything stupid like maybe he wanted to take tango lessons, or wearing any other color besides blue and black.” He shot Vergil a sideways glance, smirking but something unspoken passed between them. “But turns out, in the span of what—days?—you swoop in and suddenly you’re his keeper. His… what’s the word, Nico? Handler? Guardian? Babysitter?”

Nico barked a laugh, cigarette nearly slipping from her fingers. “Keeper works just fine,” she drawled, grinning wide.

Selene’s face went crimson, her pulse thundering in her ears. She opened her mouth to protest, but Dante raised a hand dramatically.

“Nope, don’t argue,” he said, cutting her off with exaggerated flourish. “The evidence speaks for itself. I’ve shared a womb with this bastard and he’s never listened to a damn thing I have ever said. But you? Somehow, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

Vergil’s voice cut through the laughter like a drawn blade.
“Dante.” It was a single, frigid word, low and sharp enough to silence the room in an instant.

Dante held up his hands innocently, though his grin only widened. “Hey, hey, I’m just saying what we’re all thinking, bro.”

Nero groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For once, maybe try not to say what you’re thinking.”

Selene sank lower into her chair, overwhelmed. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or vanish into the floor. Her mind whirled with too many feelings—guilt, relief, disbelief—but beneath them all was a fragile thread of warmth. For the first time, the heaviness in her chest lightened just a little.

Dante’s tone softened, though his smirk remained. “Point is, Selene… whether you like it or not, you’re one of us now. And judging by the way my brother’s glaring at me like he’s two seconds away from drawing his sword, I’d say you’re also under his very… personal protection.”

His grin turned sly, almost wicked. “So yeah. You’re officially part of the family. Congratulations. And condolences.”

Nico snorted loudly. Nero muttered something under his breath, but there was no mistaking the faint smile tugging at his lips.

Selene, stunned and flushed, risked a glance toward Vergil. His face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes… those eyes burned with something fierce and possessive, something that stole the breath right from her lungs.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Selene let herself believe Dante’s teasing words:
She wasn’t just a target.
She wasn’t just a burden.

She belonged here—with them.
With him.

Then..

“Y’know what? I don’t get enough credit around here,” he announced, voice rising over the quiet clink of cutlery as he took a seat again. “Everyone likes to act like I’m just the guy who cracks jokes and swings a sword, but let me tell you…” He sat forward suddenly, elbows slamming onto the table as his eyes swept the room with exaggerated seriousness. “I am the only thing keeping this family from completely falling."

Nero groaned. “Oh no. Here we go.”

Dante pointed a dramatic finger straight at him. “See? Exactly what I’m talking about! You—kid—you’re one bad day away from lighting the entire city on fire with that temper of yours. You think every problem can be solved by screaming louder or punching harder.”

“I do not scream!” Nero snapped, his face going red.

Dante raised a brow. “You’re screaming right now.”

Their words clashed and collided, not to wound, but to connect. Even when Dante was smirking and Nero was red-faced with frustration, there was something underneath it all—a thread of care, of belonging.

She didn’t know how to process it.

Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth as she watched them, wide-eyed and uncertain. A lump formed in her throat, sharp and painful. Part of her wanted to smile, to let herself sink into the warmth of this chaotic rhythm… and the other part of her wanted to run and hide.

Vergil’s voice cut through it all, deep and commanding, yet softer when it reached her.

“Finish your food.”

The words weren’t harsh, but they were absolute. Selene blinked up at him, startled, before obeying instinctively.

He stepped closer, his coat shifting with the movement, his presence like a dark shield against the room’s madness. His piercing blue eyes held hers for a long moment, steadying her racing thoughts. “Once you’ve eaten, we leave for the Devil May Cry.” His tone sharpened ever so slightly, the irritation breaking through his carefully composed mask as his gaze flicked toward his loudly bickering brother and nephew. “Before Dante resorts to more theatrics."

Selene almost choked on her coffee, stifling a laugh that bubbled up despite her nerves. The corners of her lips curved into the faintest smile, and she lowered her gaze quickly to hide it.

Vergil didn’t smile—he rarely did—but there was a subtle softening to his features when he saw the amusement flicker in her eyes. It was as if her reaction soothed something raw in him, if only for a moment.

“Eat,” he repeated, quieter this time, almost like a private order meant for her alone.

Selene nodded, her heart thudding in her chest. She shoveled another bite of food into her mouth, savoring the warmth of it while the din of the others faded into the background.

Vergil remained at her side, a calm, silent force amidst the chaos, until she finished the last bite on her plate. His hand brushed lightly against the small of her back as he guided her to stand, the touch firm but careful, his way of reminding her she wasn’t alone.

Soon, they would leave this storm behind.

And face another one together.

Chapter Text

Vergil sat in the cramped back of Nico’s van, arms crossed, every line of his posture taut with barely restrained irritation. The old machine rattled and groaned as it sped down Fortuna’s winding roads, its suspension squealing in protest with every bump. To Dante, it was just another ride. To Vergil, it felt like confinement.

He loathed this vehicle—its noise, its closeness, its smell of motor oil and gunpowder and Nico’s ever-present cigarette smoke. If it weren’t for Selene, he would’ve cut open a rift and traveled through his own means, faster and infinitely quieter.

But Selene sat beside him, her warmth steady at his side. And so he endured.

Every time the van jolted, her shoulder brushed his, her hands tightening in her lap as though the movement startled her. He noticed everything—every subtle shift in her breath, every flicker of emotion in her eyes. She was silent now, gazing out the window at the streaking blur of trees, but not tense the way she had been before.

No, there was a lightness to her posture that hadn’t been there when she first confessed her truth to the others back at Nero and Kyrie’s home.

Vergil had watched it happen. When she’d spoken of her visions and her father’s cruelty, there had been fear in her voice, trembling like a fragile thread about to snap. She’d expected condemnation, expected to be shunned or blamed. Instead, she’d been met with understanding. The others had accepted her without hesitation, and he had felt the shift in her spirit through their bond.

She had seemed… freer.

That fragile freedom stirred something deep within him. Their connection had begun as raw, primal instinct—a need born of blood and darkness. When he had first claimed her, it was lust and hunger that had driven him, their bond a wildfire that consumed them both.

But now, as he sat in this wretched van beside her, it was different.

He didn’t just crave her body anymore. He craved her.

The memory of that morning in the shower rose unbidden, making his chest tighten. Selene had been flushed and shy, but as his hands worked through the tangles of her damp hair, she had begun to speak. Small truths, offered like fragile gifts.

Simple things. Ordinary things. Her favorite color, how she was a tea fanatic

He’d listened in silence, letting the rhythm of her voice wash over him. No one had ever told him things like that—not since Eva, not since the time before everything burned. Hearing them now, from her lips, was… grounding.

And humbling.

They were just small truths, insignificant to anyone else, yet they were pieces of her. And he had realized, in that moment, how much he wanted to collect every single piece.

The van jolted over another bump, dragging him back to the present. Selene shifted, her thigh brushing his. A spark of heat shot through him, immediate and visceral, but he forced his breathing steady. This was no longer just about physical need.

He wanted to know what made her laugh. What frightened her beyond the visions. What she dreamed of in the rare, quiet moments when she felt safe enough to dream at all.

His gaze slid toward her now, drinking in the delicate line of her profile as she stared out the window. The tension that once haunted her was easing, replaced by something softer, more open. She was healing, however slowly, and the thought filled him with a possessive satisfaction he didn’t fully understand.

Across from them, Dante lounged with his boots propped on the seat, humming a tuneless, irritating melody. Vergil’s jaw ticked, his patience fraying.

“Geez, bro,” Dante said, grinning like a fool. “You look like you’re about to stab the upholstery. Relax a little, huh?”

Vergil’s head turned slowly, his eyes glacial.
“If you value your tongue, Dante, you will keep it still.”

Dante laughed, completely unfazed. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome, by the way. You and your lady love are enjoying a chauffeur service, free of charge.”

From the driver’s seat, Nico barked a laugh. “Excuse me? I’m the one drivin’ this thing, Red. You’re just sittin’ there lookin’ pretty.”

“Details, details,” Dante said with a lazy wave of his hand.

And then—quiet, soft, like the brush of silk—Selene’s laugh slipped past her lips.

It was so fleeting, so small, yet Vergil heard it above everything else. The sound settled over him like a calming wave, chasing away the irritation Dante had stirred. His gaze flicked to her, catching the faint blush on her cheeks as she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to smother the sound.

Something tightened in his chest.

For her laughter alone, he decided the van was bearable.

Vergil leaned back slightly, his mind sharpening with resolve. These small truths she had shared with him were just the beginning. He would learn every detail of her mind, her soul, her desires—not because their bond demanded it, but because he did.

Because Selene had become more than a mate his demon blood claimed.

She had become his purpose.

The realization settled over Vergil like a final stroke of Yamato, clean and absolute. It was not some sudden revelation born of lust or instinct; it had been creeping closer with every passing hour, like a predator in the dark, until it finally bared its fangs and struck.

For years, Vergil’s existence had been driven by a single obsession—power. To never again be the helpless boy who thought his mother abandoned him. To never again be consumed by weakness. His entire life had been a climb toward that solitary peak, a cold, merciless pursuit that left no room for anything else.

But sitting here now, in this cursed van surrounded by noise and clamor he despised, he understood something far more terrifying: he no longer craved the peak.

He craved her.

It wasn’t just the bond pulling them together, though that primal connection was undeniable. This was something deeper, more human, something his demon blood couldn’t explain. In mere days, Selene had burrowed into every corner of him, threading herself through his thoughts, his senses, his very soul.

Vergil’s fingers twitched against his knee, aching to reach for her, to close the small distance between them. To take her hand in his and make her understand without words that she was no longer alone—that he was bound to her not by demon blood, but by will.

And now here he was, sitting inches away from the one person who had undone him completely, trying to imagine saying the words that clawed at his throat.

The thought alone was enough to make his stomach tighten—a strange, unwelcome nervousness blooming in his chest. His mouth went dry at the mere idea of confessing even a fraction of what he felt. Not about the bond, not about demon instinct or fate. About her. About what she had come to mean to him beyond the pull of blood and magic.

Would she even believe him?
Would she understand the enormity of what he was trying to say?

A flicker of memory intruded—her soft voice in the shower that morning, confiding those tiny truths to him. She had trusted him then. Perhaps, when the moment came, she would listen. Perhaps…

The van hit a bump, jostling him violently from his thoughts. Vergil’s jaw tightened, his composure fracturing. He realized his breathing had become shallow, his heartbeat a steady drumbeat in his ears. Ridiculous, he chastised himself. He was Vergil Sparda, master of Yamato, a man who had stared into the abyss of hell itself without flinching.

And yet the prospect of speaking a few simple truths to Selene rendered him unsteady.

It was infuriating.

He stared out the window, trying to school his features back into indifference. Outside, Fortuna’s outskirts blurred by, and in the distance he could already sense the faint pull of the DMC headquarters. Their journey was nearly at an end. Soon, there would be no more time to brood.

I will attempt it later, he told himself. When we are alone.

The idea brought no comfort. Only a gnawing impatience—and a sharper edge of self-loathing for his hesitation.

As if sensing the storm within him, Selene shifted beside him. The subtle movement broke through his spiral like a warm hand pressing to a fevered brow. She didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him, but her thigh brushed against his, deliberate this time.

The bond between them thrummed, that strange connection singing in response to her nearness. Vergil stiffened for half a heartbeat, then forced himself to relax by degrees. She knew. Somehow, she always seemed to know when his thoughts were dark and tangled.

Her warmth seeped into him, easing the tension in his shoulders. A simple gesture, and yet it calmed him more than meditation or battle ever had.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he allowed his hand to slide across the seat until it hovered near hers. Not touching—he wasn’t ready for that, not here, not with Dante lounging across from them and Nico humming at the wheel—but close enough that she would feel the intent behind it.

Selene’s breath caught softly. Then, to his quiet astonishment, she shifted closer, her hand brushing his knuckles. The smallest of contacts, but it was enough to steady his thoughts in that moment.

Until..

The fragile stillness inside Nico’s van shattered in an instant.

A violent crash struck the van’s side, throwing it sideways with bone-jarring force. Metal shrieked as claws dug into the reinforced frame. Selene’s breath caught in her throat as her body lurched violently toward the floor, only to be caught by an iron grip. Vergil’s arm locked around her waist, holding her steady with unshakable precision.

The smell of burning rubber filled the cabin as Nico fought the wheel, swearing so loudly it was nearly drowned out by the guttural roar outside. Tires screamed, the van fishtailed, and Selene’s ears rang with chaos.

Her gaze snapped to the shattered side mirror, and for one frozen heartbeat, her mind refused to comprehend what she saw.

A hulking demon clung to the van like some hell-born parasite. Its obsidian hide shimmered with sickly red veins, its jaws opening wide enough to crush steel, drool sizzling as it struck the ground. Its eyes—red, hollow pits—fixed on her.

Behind them, headlights blazed, weaving through the darkness with unnatural precision. A second vehicle. Human-driven. Selene’s heart plummeted as realization struck: the cult had found them.

Vergil’s face hardened, his usual composure cracking under the weight of sheer, unbridled rage. They hadn’t stumbled onto the van by chance—this was planned, coordinated. Someone had betrayed their location.

Selene’s panic surged through the bond, flooding him with her fear like wildfire. His response was immediate, primal.
“Stay down,” he commanded, his voice sharp and commanding enough to cut through the chaos.

Dante braced himself against the roof, his pistols drawn and gleaming. “Looks like we’ve got a party crasher!” he shouted over the engine’s roar. His smirk was feral, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

Nico gritted her teeth, white-knuckling the wheel as she slammed her foot on the gas. “This ain’t a racetrack, you bastards! Get off my ride!”

The van jolted violently as the demon’s weight shifted, its claws dragging sparks across the road. Selene’s pulse hammered so loudly it was almost painful.

How did they find me?

The question echoed in her mind, unanswered and terrifying.

Vergil’s eyes burned like blue fire. The thought of Selene being tracked, hunted, sent an unfamiliar cold fury surging through his veins. He would carve through every cultist alive before allowing them to touch her.

The vehicle behind them closed in, its engine growling like a beast.

“They’re boxing us in!” Dante shouted. “We either fight or they’ll run us off the road!”

Vergil’s hand tightened on Yamato’s hilt. The decision was instant. He turned his head toward Nico, his voice clipped and merciless.

“Drive. Do not stop. Get her out of here.”

Selene’s wide eyes met his, confusion and panic warring within them. “Vergil—”

For a fleeting moment, his expression softened, the cold warrior giving way to the man beneath.

“I will find you,” he vowed, the words low and filled with conviction. “Do not look back.”

The bond between them thrummed, a fierce, unspoken promise.

Dante cocked his guns, grin widening with wild anticipation. “Guess this is our exit.”

“Indeed,” Vergil sneered quietly, his posture tensed.

The van swerved sharply as Nico floored the accelerator, the engine screaming in protest. Vergil moved with blinding speed, kicking open the back doors. The rush of night air hit like a wave, carrying with it the acrid stench of sulfur and burnt flesh.

He turned back one last time, his gaze locking with Selene’s. Through the fear in her eyes, he saw trust. It struck him deeper than anything he ever endured.

Then he leapt.

Dante followed, boots slamming into the ground with a heavy thud as he spun midair, pistols spitting fire at the demon clinging to the van. Bullets tore into its hide, drawing its attention long enough for Nico to surge forward with a burst of speed.

The beast roared, releasing its grip and crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks and dirt. Its massive bulk shuddered, then rose, eyes burning with renewed fury as it turned toward the twins.

Vergil landed in a flash of blue light, Yamato slicing through the gleaming sun as he came to a graceful halt. His expression was a mask of lethal focus, his entire being honed to a single point: destroy the threat.

Dante’s voice rang out beside him, almost gleeful. “You take the big ugly one, and I’ll handle their little road trip buddies.”

“Do not fail me, Dante,” Vergil replied coldly, his tone sharp as a drawn blade.

Behind them, the cult’s van screeched to a halt. Dark silhouettes poured out, armed with blades and crude firearms. There was no chanting this time, no ceremony. They had already summoned their monster. Now, they came to claim their prize.

Selene.

Vergil’s teeth clenched at the thought. These vermin had dared to come for his mate. Their lives were already forfeit.

The first cultist raised a weapon, shouting orders to the others.

Dante grinned, his pistols blazing as he dove into their ranks with reckless abandon.
“Party time!”

Vergil didn’t even look. His world had narrowed to the demon before him—a towering nightmare of claws and rage. It lunged, the ground shaking beneath its weight. Yamato flashed, a streak of azure lightning cleaving through its first strike.

The battle began in earnest. Dante’s wild chaos blended with Vergil’s precise, surgical strikes, twin forces of destruction cutting through everything in their path.

Far ahead, Nico’s van barreled into the afternoon sun, Selene pressed against the seat, trembling. She couldn’t see the fight, but through the pull she felt it. Vergil’s fury was a storm battering her senses, his determination a steady heartbeat amid the chaos.

She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer she didn’t dare speak aloud.

'Please just return safe…'

Behind her, the afternoon erupted in fire and steel, and the cult would have learned too late what it meant to stand between Vergil and the woman he had vowed to protect.

~~

The battlefield was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, long shadows stretching across the broken ground. Smoke curled lazily upward from smoldering patches of earth where earlier explosions had torn the terrain apart. The air stank of sulfur, blood, and ash, so thick it clung to the back of the throat like poison.

Vergil’s boots cut silent, precise arcs through the dirt as he moved, Yamato a streak of azure light in his hands. The massive demon before him was a nightmare given flesh, its molten veins glowing crimson beneath cracked obsidian skin. Every step it took shook the earth, scattering gravel and sending cracks spiderwebbing through the ground.

The creature bellowed, its roar rattling the treetops. Birds scattered from the nearby forest in a dark, frantic cloud, the sky briefly darkened by their wings.

Vergil didn’t flinch. His entire body was honed to lethal purpose, every sense sharpened by cold, precise rage. The moment he’d felt Selene’s terror through their bond, his course had been set: nothing would get past him to reach her.

With a blur of motion, Vergil vanished. The demon’s claws raked empty air as he reappeared behind it, Yamato slashing deep into the creature’s tendon. The cut was perfect, a single clean motion, and black ichor sprayed outward in a wide arc, sizzling as it hit the sun-warmed ground.

The beast stumbled, roaring in frustration, then swung wildly, claws gouging deep trenches into the earth.

Vergil’s breathing never faltered. He moved with an elegance that bordered on unnatural, his coat flaring like the wings of a raven as he spun clear of the blow and retaliated with a series of lightning-fast strikes. Yamato’s blade shimmered blue in the fading sunlight, each cut leaving burning scars on the demon’s hide.

From the other side of the clearing, Dante was a whirlwind of chaotic destruction.

Ebony and Ivory spat fire as he danced through the smaller demons flooding the battlefield. These lesser creatures weren’t summoned naturally—their bodies bore the jagged marks of blood pacts, the unmistakable stench of human desperation mingled with demonic corruption.

Dante cursed under his breath as he shot one demon clean through the skull.

“Figures,” he snarled, unloading both pistols into a cluster of them. “These cult freaks just had to take the express route to hell.”

The ground trembled as more demons clawed their way up through fissures in the earth, their shrill screams cutting through the heavy air. The cultists themselves—robed, masked, and reeking of dark magic—were spread in a rough circle, chanting guttural incantations that made Dante’s skin crawl.

“Vergil!” Dante yelled over the cacophony. “Heads up—blood pact city over here! You take the big guy, I’ll handle these psychos before they make things worse!”

Vergil didn’t answer. His focus was absolute, his strikes methodical and unrelenting. Every movement of Yamato was precise, each swing cleaving through the demon’s hide with terrifying efficiency. The creature staggered under the assault, ichor splashing across the cracked earth, but its rage only mounted.

Then, from among the cultists, a single figure emerged.
Taller than the others, his robe marked with sigils older and more complex, he exuded an authority that silenced even the demon screeching around him. His mask was bone-white, etched with crimson runes that seemed to shift in the fading sunlight.

In his hands, he carried a small, obsidian artifact that pulsed with a sickly inner light. The moment Vergil’s eyes landed on it, a chill gripped his spine.

The leader raised the artifact high—and hurled it directly into Vergil’s path.

It struck the ground with a reverberating thud, sending out a shockwave of pure darkness. The air seemed to warp, the light of afternoon dimming unnaturally as the artifact’s aura bled outward like ink in water.

Vergil froze.

That stench. That presence.

It clawed at his senses, familiar in the worst possible way.

Mundus.

The battlefield blurred. The sounds of battle dulled, replaced by the echoing clang of spectral chains.

Suddenly, Vergil wasn’t here. He was there—back in that void of torment and fire.

Chained, stripped of autonomy, his body a mere vessel for a tyrant’s cruelty. Mundus’s guttural laughter reverberated through his skull, each note a dagger.

The phantom swords pierced him again, one after another, searing pain lancing through his nerves as his blood spilled into the darkness.

You are nothing, the voice hissed. A pathetic half demon, Spardas lessor child.

Vergil gasped, his breath ragged, hands trembling around Yamato’s hilt. The smell of sulfur and burning flesh surrounded him, choking him. His vision twisted until the hulking demon before him became Mundus, towering and unstoppable.

The real demon lunged, claws poised to impale him just as the phantom swords had.

Vergil didn’t move. Couldn’t. His body was locked in place by the crushing weight of memory.

“VERGIL!”

Dante’s shout split the haze like a blade.

A blur of red surged past. Dante slammed into his brother’s side, knocking him clear just as the demon’s claws drove into the ground where Vergil had stood. The impact was so powerful it sent a fissure racing through the clearing, trees splintering and falling like matchsticks.

Dante crouched protectively between Vergil and the beast, Ebony and Ivory roaring as he fired point-blank into its snarling face.

“Snap out of it!” Dante yelled, his voice hoarse with urgency. “Whatever your seeing isnt real!”

Vergil blinked, the nightmare cracking under the force of his brother’s words. His chest heaved as reality reasserted itself—the smoke, the blood, the distant wail of cultists. Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself back from the abyss.

The massive demon shrieked, rearing back for another strike.

Rage surged through Vergil, cold and sharp. Reliving those nightmares again, when he became Neo Angelo and serves that wretched monster fueling the unspeakable rage.

With a guttural snarl, he surged to his feet. Yamato flared brilliantly in his hands, blue light cutting through the afternoon haze. The demon’s claws slashed forward, but Vergil moved like lightning, cleaving through one of its limbs with a single, perfect motion. Black ichor exploded into the air, sizzling as it hit the cracked ground.

Dante grinned despite the chaos, relief flashing in his eyes. “Now let’s show these bastards why you don’t mess with us.”

Vergil didn’t waste words. He advanced, every step deliberate, every strike of Yamato carrying the weight of his fury and his vow to Selene.

The cult leader’s masked face tilted, unreadable, as his forces faltered. Dante tore through the lesser demons and cultists with wild, chaotic abandon, his laughter a harsh counterpoint to Vergil’s deadly silence.

The massive demon, now weakened and bleeding, staggered as Vergil’s onslaught intensified. He ducked beneath a final swipe, twisting his body into a rising slash that cut the beast cleanly from crown to core.

The creature let out a shattering scream before collapsing in a thunderous heap, its body dissolving into black smoke that curled into the afternoon sky.

Vergil stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, the dying light glinting off Yamato’s blade. His gaze fell on the artifact lying in the dirt, still pulsing faintly with dark energy. Even from here, he could feel the echo of Mundus’s presence, whispering of chains and fire.

For a heartbeat, his vision wavered.

The laughter returned, low and mocking.

Then Dante’s hand clapped down on his shoulder, grounding him.

“You with me, Verg?” Dante asked, his tone softer now, though his eyes were sharp.

Vergil inhaled slowly, forcing the memories back into the darkness where they belonged. His grip on Yamato tightened.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice low and dangerous but somewhat still shaken of the weight of the memories that now plagued him.

Dante’s grin was forced, as if he knew that any moment couldn't set Vergil back. “Good. ’Cause these cult freaks are about to learn what happens when they come for any one of us."

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, a cold blue flame igniting within them.

The battlefield reeked of blood and burning ash.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting fractured beams of light through the curling smoke and shadow. The carnage was total. Cultists lay scattered across the ruined clearing, their bodies broken, their blood painting the cracked earth a deep, dark red. The smaller demons they’d summoned dissolved into blackened heaps, their cries still echoing faintly in the air like the ghosts of dying storms.

Only one figure remained standing amid the devastation.

The cult leader of this certain group.

Not the same man who dared neared what was his in that shop.

He was tall and gaunt, his robe torn and soaked through with sweat and ichor. The intricate crimson sigils etched into the fabric seemed to writhe as if alive, reacting to the power he’d wielded to bring forth the massive demon. His mask—bone-white and carved with twisting runes—was cracked down the center, revealing glimpses of blistered skin beneath.

The man’s entire body trembled violently, his hands spasming at his sides. The backlash from the blood pact was tearing him apart from the inside. Even so, he smiled. A sick, knowing grin stretched his ruined lips as his dark, sunken eyes fixed on Vergil.

“You fight beautifully,” the leader rasped, his voice hoarse yet brimming with manic reverence. His words carried across the clearing, cutting through the uneasy silence left in the battle’s wake. “Even after all these years, you move like a blade forged by the heavens themselves… and sharpened by hell.”

Vergil remained silent, Yamato steady in his grip, though his chest still rose and fell sharply from exertion. His coat billowed faintly in the heated wind. He neither moved nor lowered his guard, his cold gaze locked onto the cultist.

The man swayed forward a single step, his thin frame trembling.

“You think you’ve won here, Sparda’s heir,” he continued, his tone turning mocking, each syllable dripping poison. “But this battle? It is nothing but a whisper of what is to come.”

Dante, standing a few paces behind Vergil, reloaded his pistols with a sharp, deliberate click. “And lemme guess,” he drawled, spinning one gun on his finger, “this is the part where you tell us all about your master plan, huh? I’ve seen this movie before, pal. Spoiler alert—you’re the extra who dies in the first ten minutes.”

The leader’s gaze flicked briefly to Dante, then dismissed him as though he were insignificant. His eyes locked back onto Vergil with a fanatic’s focus.

“You carry yourself as though you are free,” he said, his voice rising in fervor. “But I can smell the truth on you. Even now, even standing before me, your soul trembles. He still calls to you, doesn’t he?”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, a flash of something—rage, or perhaps fear—crossing his otherwise impassive face.

The cult leader’s grin widened, revealing bloodstained teeth. “Ah, yes. That reaction. That flicker of darkness in your perfect composure. You can feel it, can’t you? My master misses his greatest creation. His perfect soldier. His obedient weapon.”

Dante’s smirk faltered, his guns lowering slightly. He shot a quick glance at Vergil, who remained eerily silent.

The leader took another step forward, his body trembling violently, cracks spreading along his skin as the blood pact devoured him from the inside.

“When the great Mundus forged you into Neo Angelo, he left his mark so deep that not even time could erase it,” the man hissed, his voice gaining strength even as his body failed. “You may wear this mask of humanity, you may pretend at free will, but deep down, you belong to him. And when he rises again, you will return to his side—on your knees, with your blade at his command.”

Vergil’s grip on Yamato tightened until his knuckles turned white.

For a heartbeat, the world tilted.

The laughter of Mundus echoed in the back of his mind, low and guttural, mingling with the phantom rattle of chains. His breath caught, and that earlier wave of nausea threatened to drown him again.

But then another pulse reached him through the bond—Selene’s presence, faint yet steady, like a beacon in the storm. Fear and determination intertwined in that thread connecting them. It grounded him, burned away the creeping shadow threatening to reclaim him.

When Vergil finally spoke, his voice was low, even, and deadly calm.

“You speak of chains as though you’ve ever worn them,” he said, his words like frost. “But I was forged in a fire far greater than anything your pitiful master could comprehend. And unlike you, I broke my bonds.”

The cult leader laughed, a wheezing, manic sound that sent a chill down Dante’s spine.

“Broke them?” he croaked. “No. You merely traded one leash for another.” His gaze sharpened, almost gleeful.

“Tell me, son of Sparda… when you look at the woman you cling to so desperately, do you not feel it? The mark of fate? Of inevitability? You think you protect her, but in truth, she is the bait on the hook. She will lead you back to him, like a lamb to the slaughter, and soon to be a simple whore for Mundus to enjoy thoroughly, bringing in new life as she was born to do.”

Vergil’s vision tunneled. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

“Shut your damn mouth,” Dante snarled, stepping forward, guns raised.

But Vergil raised a hand, halting him. His voice was a blade drawn slowly from its sheath, soft but sharp enough to cut through the clearing.

“No, Dante. This one is mine.”

The cult leader’s grin faltered, but only slightly. “Do you see it now? The darkness still lives within you. No matter how you fight, no matter how you resist, you will—”

He didn’t finish.

Vergil moved with impossible speed, Yamato flashing in a blinding arc. The cult leader’s words were cut off mid-sentence as his body froze, then split cleanly from crown to waist. His halves slid apart soundlessly before collapsing to the ground.

For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the broken trees.

Vergil stood over the corpse, his chest rising and falling in sharp, measured breaths. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on Yamato was so tight it trembled.

Dante approached cautiously, holstering one gun. “Hey,” he said quietly, tone stripped of humor. “You okay, man?”

Vergil didn’t respond right away. He stared down at the broken body of the cultist, the words still echoing in his mind like poison. You merely traded one leash for another…

At last, he sheathed Yamato with a soft, final click.

“Yes,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the sun bled red into the treeline.

“But this is only the beginning.”

Dante’s jaw tightened. He didn’t press, though unease curled in his gut.

Behind them, the battlefield lay silent—but the shadow of Mundus loomed, unseen, growing ever closer.

The late afternoon sun bled into the horizon, casting the battlefield in a sickly orange glow. Smoke curled upward from the blackened earth, mixing with the coppery tang of spilled blood and the acrid stench of demonic ichor. The silence after the slaughter was oppressive—too heavy, too fragile—as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Vergil stood motionless amid the carnage, Yamato now sheathed at his side, though his hand lingered near the hilt like a coiled serpent ready to strike. His pale blue eyes were distant, unreadable, but beneath that controlled facade his chest heaved in sharp, measured breaths. The words of the cult leader still rang in his mind like poison. You merely traded one leash for another.

Behind him, Dante kicked aside the cracked mask of a dead cultist, his boots crunching against brittle ash. For once, his usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. His coat hung heavy, ragged from the fight, his face streaked with grime and sweat. He stopped a few paces from his brother, studying him in silence. Vergil’s shoulders were rigid, his entire body coiled tight, and Dante knew if he touched him now, even lightly, he might shatter.

For years Dante had pieced together scraps of his brother’s torment—the bare bones of what Mundus had done when he’d stolen Vergil away and forged him into Neo Angelo. But seeing it this close, seeing Vergil freeze at the sight of that artifact like he’d been stabbed through the heart, Dante realized he’d only understood the surface of the nightmare.

And now… now there was Selene.

Dante’s gaze drifted to the distance where Nico’s van had fled, carrying Selene away to safety. His stomach churned. Was it really safety? Or just another trap waiting to snap shut?

He drew a long, slow breath and finally broke the silence.
“You know,” Dante started, his tone low and strangely serious, “I’ve been thinking about this whole mess. About her. About you.”

Vergil’s head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing, but he didn’t speak.

Dante took another step closer, ignoring the gnawing unease in his gut. “It’s a little too damn convenient, don’t you think? You just happen to find your so-called mate outta nowhere, right when some psycho cult shows up? A woman who just happens to have visions, just happens to know where these freaks are before they strike? Feels like more than fate to me.”

Vergil’s fingers twitched near Yamato’s hilt, but his voice was cold and precise when he finally answered.
“You think this is orchestrated?”

“I know it is,” Dante shot back, his voice sharp. “C’mon, Vergil. Think about it. She’s not just some random girl caught in the crossfire. She’s a seer aint she? Mom used to tell us stories about people like her in those books she would read us, remember? Pure souls who could see the threads of fate. That’s why she has those visions. That’s why she feels everything so damn deeply.”

Vergil’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

“And darkness,” Dante continued, his voice rising, “darkness can’t create life. Mom told us that too. It can twist it, corrupt it, but it can’t make something pure on its own. Which means—” His words faltered, the realization dawning so abruptly that he almost choked on it. “Which means if Mundus wanted something like Selene… he’d have to steal it. Or forge it.”

Vergil’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Don’t you get it, brother?” Dante pressed, the urgency in his voice mounting. “Selene didn’t just appear out of nowhere. She was made for this. For you. You think that bond between you is fate? It’s not. It’s a damn chain, one Mundus somehow forged himself or knew about it somehow about her. He’s been playing this game from the start.”

Vergil’s breath caught, though he masked it quickly. Still, Dante saw the flicker of rage—and fear—that crossed his brother’s face.

“And it doesn’t stop there,” Dante said, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “You two are connected, right? That bond of yours is strong as hell, stronger than anything I’ve ever seen or even heard of. What if that’s exactly what he wanted? Think about it, Vergil. Darkness always wants to create life, to make something it can control to come into the human realm.” Dante’s eyes hardened, his next words tasting like ash on his tongue. “What if Mundus planned to use you and Selene to create something new? An heir. A weapon born of your power and her purity, Like how dear old dad did, or hell even to somehow trap you again with this bond, you heard what that maniac said about her bringing in new life, thats the only answer I can think of that would make any sense!”

The wind shifted, carrying the acrid scent of ash and blood.

Vergil’s entire body went still. His face remained a mask of icy control, but inside, a storm raged. The thought of Selene—his Selene—reduced to nothing more than a vessel for Mundus’s schemes made something primal and violent surge through him. His hands curled into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms.

“No,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “Father may have been many things, Dante. But for Mundus to even think to create life here, and expect the same results as Sparda so that he had something here, a kin to destroy life here.." Vergils voice drifted off as the thought struck him.

Dante’s throat tightened at the raw ferocity in Vergil’s tone. But he didn’t back down.

“Fuck,” Dante breathed. He staggered back a step, dragging both hands down his face. The image of their parents flashed through his mind: Eva’s warm smile, Sparda’s towering figure. The stories their mother used to tell about the balance between light and dark, about hiding who they were because the world would never understand.

Suddenly, those memories felt poisoned.

“What if this is his way of mocking Sparda?” Dante said, his voice rising, trembling with fury. “Dad had twins to protect the human world. Two swords, two sons, two halves of the same whole. And now Mundus—he’s trying to mirror that. Twist it into something monstrous. You and Selene, forced together so he can create some unholy legacy, undoing everything Father did, because lets face it everything Mundus did before was for revenge for what Dad did..” Dante took a deep breath as he stared down Vergil. "We don't even know what happened to Father or if he is even alive at this point, but lets put in perspective everything that led up to now? Mom getting killed?Between us? You? Has been Mundus."

Vergil’s composure fractured, his hands curling into fists so tight his nails broke skin. His aura flared, a violent burst of power that made the air tremble.

“I have considered this.”

He finally spoke, his voice like ice cracking under pressure. Vergil stood utterly still, the dying light painting him in jagged shadows. Yamato rested at his side, sheathed, but his hand hovered near the hilt, a habit as natural as breathing. His coat stirred faintly in the evening breeze, though the man himself seemed carved from ice and stone. Dante knew that stillness well—it wasn’t calm. It was the dangerous, razor-thin edge of control.

Dante didn’t move closer, not yet. He’d seen his brother like this before—after battles, after nightmares—but never with this mix of rage and torment swimming beneath the surface. Vergil’s pale blue eyes burned like twin flames, fixed on the horizon, and when he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual, rougher, almost guttural.

“I thought she bewitched me,” Vergil said suddenly, the confession ripping through the silence like a blade.

Dante blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of the admission. “What?”

Vergil’s lips curled in a humorless sneer, though the expression lacked its usual precision. It was too frayed at the edges, too human.

“When I first saw her,” he continued, his words clipped and measured, “everything unraveled. My senses… they were not my own. Every time I drew near, I felt it—this pull. This hunger. As though my body and mind were no longer mine to command.” His hand flexed, the leather of his glove creaking softly. “It was intolerable. I am not a man who surrenders control easily.”

Dante stayed silent, letting his brother speak, his gut twisting with unease. Also cause maybe this is probably the first time Vergil spoke with more than one sentence, he was afraid to ruin the moment with even a look.

Vergil’s gaze sharpened, like a blade narrowing to its lethal point. “I wanted her physically—desperately, savagely. It consumed me. Even before Trish spoke of mates, before anyone uttered a word about this so-called bond, I… knew.” His jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out. “And so I believed she had done something to me. Some spell. Some manipulation. It was the only explanation my mind would allow.”

His voice grew quieter, but somehow harsher, like glass cracking under pressure.

“I accused her silently, even as I touched her, even as I… claimed her. I thought if I found proof, if I caught her weaving some deceit, I could break free of it. I wanted to hate her for what she made me feel, but at the same breath I knew i was..curious.”

Vergil’s hand moved to Yamato’s hilt, not to draw it, but to ground himself. His knuckles whitened against the grip.
“But there was no deceit. No trick. She looked at me with nothing but confusion and innocence, even as her body reacted to mine with the same undeniable need. She knew nothing of this bond, nothing of the chaos it stirred in me. And when I realized that—when I saw her truth…” His voice faltered, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely, revealing the raw emotion beneath.

Dante’s heart tightened. He had seen his brother many ways: proud, furious, broken. But never like this—stripped bare of everything but confession.

Vergil took a slow, shuddering breath and continued.
“It was no spell,” he said softly, almost to himself. “It was… fate. Or perhaps damnation.” His head bowed slightly, as if he finally fully accepted everything.

“But now…” His eyes lifted, blazing with a mixture of longing and fury. “Even knowing now that this wretch had a hand in this, it is not something I will regret even for a moment.”

Dante exhaled slowly, the weight of his brother’s words pressing on his chest. “Kinda want to say something corny right about now to he honest,” he said, trying for levity, though his voice came out softer than usual. "Love at first sight bullshit."

Vergil’s glare cut to him, sharp enough to draw blood. “Do not reduce it to something so… trivial.” His tone held a tremor of something unspoken, as if even he didn’t fully believe his own protest.

Dante spread his hands in mock surrender but didn’t push further. Instead, he stepped closer, his own voice turning serious.

“So you knew it was real—long before Trish laid it all out. Long before you even understood what it meant.”

Vergil gave a sharp nod. “The moment I realized she was not to blame, that she was innocent of my torment, I understood. This bond is not some passing infatuation or illusion. It is… absolute.” His expression twisted with equal parts awe and rage. “And that is precisely why Mundus’s hand is in this. He would never leave something so powerful to chance.”

Dante felt the pieces clicking into place, dread coiling in his gut.

“Which means he planned for you to find her. Planned for all of this. Cause maybe..I was actually right about this being a jab about fathers legacy destroyed.”

Vergil’s silence was confirmation enough. His posture was rigid, his entire frame coiled with lethal purpose.

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice low, too low that Dante had to hold his breath to even hear.

"I will not allow anyone—Mundus, this cult, or even fate itself—to use her as a pawn, or for me to even fall into darkness again.”

For a moment, Dante just looked at him, seeing not the cold, prideful brother he’d spent a lifetime clashing with, but a man standing on the edge of redemption and ruin.

“Then we’ve gotta fight smarter than we ever have,” Dante said quietly. “Because if Mundus is counting on you two being bound together, that means he’s already three steps ahead.”

Vergil’s gaze burned hotter.

“Let him be,” he said, the words like a vow etched in stone.

Dante smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess some things never change.”

But inside, Dante was shaken.

Vergil’s confession wasn’t just about love or lust. It was about freedom.

And Dante knew if Selene was taken, if Mundus succeeded in twisting this bond into a weapon, Vergil wouldn’t just fight.

He’d burn the entire world to ash.

But one thing remained unclear to him, if what he thought was true, If mundus was planning to come back but using a tether connected to this world that was part of him in some way ..and that would mean the woman that were sacrificed..

Dante wanted to nearly beat his brother at that moment, and lecture him about wrapping it up, as if he didnt learn the first time with Nero.

'Fuck'

Dante’s head dropped back with a long, suffering groan. He dragged his hands down his face, muffling a sharp, incredulous laugh that was equal parts frustration and disbelief. The battlefield might have been quiet now, the last embers of the fight dying away, but his temper was only heating up.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice rising as he glared at his brother. “Tell me you’ve at least been careful with her. Please, Vergil, for once in your uptight, sword-swinging life, tell me you’ve got even an ounce of sense left in that head, to cover your other head!”

Vergil’s cold blue gaze slid toward him, sharp and unbothered, as though Dante had asked something utterly trivial. “Your crassness never fails to astound me,” he said smoothly, though there was an edge beneath his tone.

Dante threw his hands up, pacing wildly, his coat swirling like angry fire. “Crassness?! Brother, I just laid out for you that Mundus might be trying to use you two to create something dark and world-ending! And you’re standing there like a statue, giving me that smug face, while you’ve been rolling around with your little girl friend without so much as a second thought?”

He jabbed a finger at Vergil’s chest, his voice climbing higher with every word.

“You’ve been so wrapped up in your bonding or whatever you wanna call it that you didn’t stop to think that maybe—just maybe—you’re giving the enemy exactly what they need to pull off their plan! God, Vergil, you’re a damn genius with a blade, but when it comes to women? You’re a freaking disaster!”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, his composure cracking ever so slightly. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl.

“I am not careless, Dante.”

“Oh, yeah? Then explain yourself!” Dante barked, throwing both arms out. “Because unless you’ve been out buying condoms between demon slayings, I’m not seeing how you’ve been careful here, you already have a twenty year old!”

Vergil’s nostrils flared, his teeth gritting as his temper visibly frayed. But when he finally spoke, his words were deliberate, controlled—a blade honed to a razor’s edge.

“She did not smell fertile.”

The statement was delivered so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that Dante actually froze mid-gesture, his brain grinding to a halt. “...I’m sorry, what?”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, as though daring him to mock him. But taking a step back, tilting his head up as if he tried to process how to even explain himself, and then finally..shrugged.

Dante threw his hands into his hair, tugging at it like he wanted to rip it out. “Oh, that’s so much better! ‘Hey, don’t worry, Dante, I didn’t knock up the mysterious seer who’s at the center of an apocalyptic cult plot, because my magical demon nose told me she wasn’t fertile!’” His voice cracked in disbelief.

Vergil’s glare sharpened into something lethal, his voice dropping even lower. “I do not require your mockery or your approval. I know what I sensed. She is safe—for now.”

Dante took a deliberate step back, lifting both hands like he was surrendering to a cop with a loaded gun. The last thing he needed right now was to push his brother too far and watch him completely combust. Vergil’s shoulders were already rigid, his jaw clenched so tight Dante swore he could hear his teeth grind. And then there was the faintest betrayal in his ears—the tips tinged with a deep red flush.

A flashback perhaps?

It was almost comical. Almost.

“Oh-ho,” Dante said, fighting a laugh he knew could get him sliced in half. “Are you seriously blushing right now? Vergil, the big bad cold-blooded swordsman, is embarrassed about his sex life?"

Vergil’s glare could have cut through solid steel. It didn’t help that his blush only deepened, spreading across the sharp planes of his cheekbones, which made Dante completely lose it. A bark of laughter escaped him before he slapped a hand over his mouth, doubling over.

Vergil’s voice dropped to a glacial tone that promised murder.

“You find this amusing?”

“Amusing?” Dante wheezed between laughs. “Brother, it’s freaking hilarious! You’ve spent your whole life being Mister Stoic, acting like feelings are beneath you, and now here you are—turning red like some kid caught with a dirty magazine!”

Vergil’s hand twitched toward Yamato. “One more word, Dante, and I will silence you permanently.”

Dante couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he saw the faint shift in Vergil’s posture, that almost imperceptible easing of his shoulders. For a brief moment, they’d stepped back from the precipice—the dark spiral of thoughts about Mundus, about fate, about the terrifying implications of Selene’s bond with Vergil. It was still there, hanging between them like a storm cloud ready to break, but Dante had managed to drag them both back from it, if only for a little while.

He rolled his neck, muscles aching from the fight, and let out a long breath, forcing himself to shake off the tension. “Well,” he said, breaking the heavy silence that lingered over the ruined clearing, “as much as I love our heart-to-heart bonding sessions, we should probably get back to somewhere that doesn’t reek of demon guts and cultist crazy juice.” He nudged a nearby demon corpse with his boot, wrinkling his nose at the sickly-sweet stench. “I mean, this is a total vibe killer, don’t you think?”

Vergil gave him a sideways glance, cool and unamused, but Dante didn’t miss the way his brother’s fists loosened ever so slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Dante turned, motioning with two fingers. “Lets start heading out back home…” He trailed off, shaking his head. "Judging by how you havent reacted in a bad way since this whole conversation means she's still safe-"

The transformation was instantaneous.

Vergil’s form shimmered, exploding outward into wings of ethereal blue, his silhouette elongating, armor-like plates of energy forming around him until he was no longer just a man, but a vision of raw, demonic majesty. The sound of his wings unfurling split the air, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in Dante’s bones.

Dante gritted his teeth and followed suit, letting his own devil form ignite from within. A burst of fiery crimson erupted around him, his coat melding seamlessly with the jagged armor that formed across his body, horns curling wickedly from his head. The transformation was like stepping into another skin—familiar, dangerous, and brimming with untamed power.

He gave his brother a sharp-toothed grin, his voice sounded static. “Race you back to the DMC.”

Vergil didn’t even glance at him. His gaze was locked forward, his jaw tight, his fury and determination giving him the look of a predator that had caught the scent of its prey. Without waiting for a signal, he launched himself into the air, his wings slicing through the fading light like blades of blue lightning.

“Always the dramatic one,” Dante muttered, though there was no real bite to it. He crouched, muscles coiling, and then blasted off after him in a flare of crimson energy.

Chapter Text

Selene’s world blurred into a haze of panic and pounding blood as Nico all but yanked her through the Devil May Cry’s heavy front doors. The sharp slam echoed like a gunshot, the reverberation running through Selene’s bones, followed by a rapid click, click, click as Nico threw every lock into place with shaking hands.

Selene stumbled forward, catching herself on the worn wood of the banister, her chest heaving. She didn’t even realize her own breath was coming out in short, shallow gasps until Nico’s firm grip on her shoulder anchored her back to the moment.

“Don’t stop now, sugar,” Nico urged, her southern drawl cracking with urgency. “Upstairs ain’t safe enough yet. Move!”

But Selene’s legs felt like lead, her whole body trembling with exhaustion and terror. Her mind screamed to go back, to turn around and run back outside, because every step she took away from Vergil tore her heart in two. What if he’s hurt? What if he’s—

The sound of pounding boots cut through her spiraling thoughts. Two figures appeared at the end of the hall, striding toward them with the kind of lethal grace that screamed experience.

The first woman was a vision of strength and danger—tall and striking, with a waterfall of golden hair catching the dim light like molten fire. Her massive sword looked like it belonged in a myth, not reality, its size almost absurd. Yet she wielded it as if it weighed nothing, resting it casually against one shoulder. Her eyes, cold and calculating, swept the room before narrowing on Selene, assessing and dissecting her in a single glance.

The second woman followed close behind, her presence no less formidable. Raven-dark hair framed a face all sharp angles and sharper wit, her expression unreadable save for the steel-hard focus in her gaze. She carried a monstrous cannon-like weapon as though it were an extension of her body. Selene swore the air itself seemed to tense around her, the space growing taut with barely contained power.

“What the hell’s goin’ on, Nico?” the dark-haired woman snapped, voice calm but edged with danger. Her eyes flicked to Selene, then to the door Nico had just sealed.

“Ambush,” Nico panted, still gripping Selene’s arm protectively. “Big ugly outta nowhere, and more cult freaks than I could count. Dante and Vergil are handling it, but we need this place locked down now.”

The golden-haired woman’s posture shifted instantly, a silent readiness radiating from her. She didn’t waste time asking questions, simply moved to the front windows with a predator’s ease, her enormous blade cutting through the dimness like a warning to anything that might try to enter.

The other woman—Lady, Selene realized when Nico barked her name—took up position near the entrance, cannon at the ready. Her sharp eyes never left the door.

The two of them transformed the Devil May Cry into a fortress in seconds.

But none of it mattered to Selene.

The sight of their preparation, the reassurance of their presence—it couldn’t quiet the deafening terror roaring in her veins. Her heart wasn’t here. It was out there, with Vergil. She couldn’t feel him, not clearly, and that absence clawed at her insides like a living thing.

“No time to explain the whole story,” Nico said breathlessly, spinning Selene toward the stairs. “Go on, sugar. Upstairs. Now.”

Selene shook her head, wild panic clawing its way up her throat. “No—no, I need to see—”

“Trust me!” Nico’s voice cracked like a whip, a sharpness Selene had never heard before. “We’ll handle it. You stay put.”

The tone left no room for argument.

Selene stumbled up the stairs, barely aware of her surroundings, Nico’s hands guiding her like she was nothing more than a fragile marionette. Her vision blurred as tears she hadn’t realized she was holding back burned hot in her eyes.

The hallway at the top was quieter, almost eerily so after the chaos below. Nico led her to the last door on the right and shoved it open, revealing a room so precise and immaculate that Selene froze on the threshold.

The first thing that struck her was the scent.

Clean, sharp, threaded with the faint metallic tang of steel and something darker, deeper—a storm-charged energy that was purely Vergil. It wrapped around her instantly, dizzying her, settling in her chest like a painful kind of comfort.

Her eyes swept the space in a daze. A queen-sized bed with dark navy sheets sat perfectly made, not a wrinkle in sight. A small bookshelf occupied one corner, the books aligned in neat, military-like order. A single chair rested beside the window, angled just so, as though even furniture wasn’t allowed to be anything less than perfect in this space.

Everything about the room was him. Controlled. Disciplined. Untouched by chaos.

And somehow, standing here made the absence of his presence even more unbearable.

Her knees buckled slightly, and Nico guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. “Stay here, sugar,” she said gently but firmly, crouching so they were eye-level. “I’ll be right downstairs with the others. No one’s gettin’ through us. You’re safe, I swear it.”

Safe.
The word rang hollow.

Selene barely registered Nico’s departure. She sat frozen, her hands clutching at the navy sheets beneath her. They smelled like him, like home, and the realization nearly broke her.

Her mind was a storm of fragmented thoughts, fear spiraling higher with every passing moment. What if he’s hurt? What if they didn’t make it out? The tether that always thrummed faintly between them was blurred, distorted by distance and her panic, and it felt like trying to breathe underwater.

“No,” she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. “He’s… he’s alive. He’s fine. He has to be.”

But the truth was, she didn’t know.

Selene curled in on herself, drawing her knees to her chest as sobs threatened to break free. She bit them back, shaking her head violently. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not when he might need her.

Below, muffled voices barked orders and heavy boots thudded against the floorboards as Lady and Trish fortified the building. Nico’s distinct drawl cut through now and then, light and joking on the surface but brittle beneath, like porcelain ready to crack.

Selene’s nails dug into her palms. She focused on that sharp sting of pain, anything to keep herself grounded.

Her eyes drifted to the window, to the horizon beyond.

The room offered no answer.

Only the steady, suffocating silence of waiting.

Selene continued to sit on the edge of Vergil’s perfectly made bed, her fingers clenching the soft navy sheets like a lifeline as the silence in the room grew unbearable. The Devil May Cry was an old building, its walls thick but not enough to block out the muted sounds of conversation drifting up from below. Lady’s commanding tone, Trish’s lower, sultry cadence, and Nico’s lighter, joking remarks floated through the floorboards.

It should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.

Every word only reminded Selene how far removed she was from everything, left in the dark while the others took action. She was the one they were protecting, the one everyone else risked themselves for. Her chest ached with guilt as she imagined Dante and Vergil out there, blades drawn, risking their lives against whatever monstrosities the cult had summoned—all because of her.

Her knees curled tighter against her chest as her mind spun faster and faster. What if they didn’t come back? What if that ambush was just a distraction, a way to separate them, to get closer to her while she sat here useless?

Selene’s breathing quickened, shallow gasps catching in her throat as memories of her visions clawed at the edges of her mind. She’d seen herself held down before—cold stone beneath her back, shadowed figures above, their voices chanting in a language that felt like knives cutting through her skull. She’d felt the despair, the helplessness, and every time she blinked, those visions bled into the present until she wasn’t sure if she was awake or trapped in some nightmare.

Her ears strained for any hint of danger: the scratch of claws on pavement, the guttural hiss of demons, the splintering of wood. But there was nothing. No screeching, no crashing, no sound of combat.

That could only mean one of two things.

Either Vergil and Dante had stopped the cult’s forces before they could reach the DMC…
Or the cult was waiting. Watching.

The thought sent a violent shudder rippling through her body.

Selene dragged herself to the window, the glass cool against her overheated forehead as she peered out. The sky was bleeding into hues of crimson and violet, the sun sinking lower with every heartbeat. Shadows stretched long and dark over the streets, swallowing the light. The horizon itself seemed to hold its breath, and Selene’s own lungs mimicked it, frozen in her chest.

Then—thud.

Her head whipped toward the sound, eyes wide, every muscle in her body tensing. It was heavy, deliberate, far too loud to be a simple rooftop creak. A second thud followed, closer this time, vibrating through the walls.

Selene’s pulse skyrocketed, terror shooting ice through her veins. No… no, no, no. They’d found her. The cult had tracked her here. That was the only explanation. The protective wards and weapons of Lady and Trish downstairs wouldn’t be enough if—

And then she felt it.

That unmistakable pull.

It ripped through her fear like a lightning strike, hot and electric, burrowing deep into her chest and radiating outward. The tether between her and Vergil surged to life, so strong she staggered back a step, clutching her middle as if the force of it might tear her apart.

He was close.
So close she could almost taste him in the air.

Her body moved before her mind caught up. She bolted for the door, her bare feet pounding against the hardwood as she sprinted across the room. The only thing that mattered was reaching him, closing that agonizing distance. She didn’t think about what she’d say, didn’t think about the danger, didn’t think at all—just ran, desperate to see him, to know.

But she didn’t make it past the threshold.

Something solid blocked her path, a wall of heat and power that sent her crashing chest-first into an unyielding form. Strong hands gripped her upper arms, steadying her before she could fall, and the moment they touched, the tether between them flared white-hot.

Instant recognition slammed into her.

Vergil.

Selene’s breath hitched violently as she tilted her head back, staring up at him with wide, tear-glossed eyes. His face hovered just above hers, his features taut and sharp with an emotion she couldn’t name—relief, desperation, and fury all twined together. His chest heaved as though he’d been running for miles, but his grip on her was careful, almost reverent, even as his fingers trembled slightly.

“You—” her voice broke, and she clutched at him, burying her face against his coat. She didn’t care about pride, didn’t care who saw. He was here, whole and breathing, and that was all that mattered.

Vergil’s arms came around her with a sudden, fierce strength, as though he’d been holding himself back until this moment. He crushed her against him, his breath ragged near her ear. Selene felt the subtle vibration of a growl deep in his chest, not directed at her but at everything that had threatened to take her from him.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, wrapped around each other, the world outside falling away. Selene didn’t need to ask what had happened—she could feel it in the raw, barely restrained energy radiating from him. Whatever he’d faced to get back to her, it had nearly destroyed him.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at her, his gaze was searing, his icy blue eyes lit with something primal. His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing against her damp cheeks as if to confirm she was real.

“We..have much to discuss.” he said, voice low each word vibrating with restrained emotion.

Selene could only nod, overwhelmed, her tears spilling freely now.

Vergil pulled back slowly, as though forcing himself to let go. His hands trailed from her face down to her shoulders, then to her wrists, his touch precise, clinical almost, though Selene could feel the tremor beneath it. His icy gaze swept over her like a blade, slicing from her hairline to her toes, searching—hunting—for any sign of harm.

“Did they touch you?” His voice was a low growl, quiet but dangerous, like the warning rumble of a storm on the horizon.

Selene blinked at him, stunned, shaking her head. “No… no, I—Vergil, I’m fine. I was just—”

Before she could finish, he took her hand firmly in his, not rough, but unyielding, and guided her back into the room. His pace was measured, controlled, but Selene could feel the coiled energy radiating off him, a volcano restrained only by sheer willpower. His other hand hovered close to the small of her back as if he couldn’t bear not to touch her, even while trying to contain himself.

When they reached the bed, Vergil motioned for her to sit. Selene sank down onto the navy sheets, her pulse thundering in her ears. Her body trembled—not with fear, but with the overwhelming collision of relief and confusion. She needed to hear him speak, needed him to break the silence and explain everything, but she didn’t dare push him.

He knelt briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the length of her legs, the tender curve of her knees, the soft trembling of her hands in her lap. His gloved fingers brushed lightly over her shin, checking for cuts, bruises, any proof of a struggle. The care in that touch was so stark, so un-Vergil-like, that it made Selene’s throat ache.

She opened her mouth to reassure him again, but stopped when she caught the look in his eyes.

Urgency.
Conflict.
An emotion so raw it was almost terrifying.

It was as though he were holding back a storm within himself, one violent enough to obliterate everything around him.

“Vergil…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His jaw tightened at the sound of his name. He forced himself to stand, his movements precise, almost mechanical, and turned away from her before she could read his face too closely. In silence, he crossed the room to the door and closed it with a slow, deliberate motion. The heavy click of the lock falling into place sent a shiver down Selene’s spine.

For a heartbeat, he remained there with his back to her, his hands braced on the doorframe, his shoulders tense beneath his coat. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air charged with unspoken words and the pounding rhythm of Selene’s heart.

When he finally turned to face her, his expression was carved from stone—but his eyes betrayed him. Those eyes burned with too many things at once: anger, fear, desire, and something deeper that Selene couldn’t name.

“I dealt with them,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, though she could hear the rough edges beneath it. “The cult will not be pursuing you tonight.”

It should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.

His words were carefully chosen, deliberate in their brevity. Selene heard what he wasn’t saying, felt the weight of the truth pressing against the cage of his control.

“Vergil…” she said again, softer this time, pleading.

He advanced a single step, and the room seemed to contract with his presence. His gaze pinned her in place, unrelenting. “Do you have any idea,” he began, the restraint in his voice trembling like a blade under strain, “what it took to keep them from reaching you?”

Selene’s breath caught.

“I fought beside Dante,” Vergil continued, pacing slowly now, as though movement alone kept him from fracturing. “We ended their pursuit, cut them down before they could come near this place.” His hands flexed at his sides, the faintest tremor betraying how close he was to losing composure. “But there was more to it than the filth you saw before. There is a hand behind this—a mind.”

He stopped pacing, turning his face away for a moment, as though wrestling with something deep inside. The silence stretched unbearably, heavy with everything unsaid. Selene sat frozen on the bed, her fingers clutching the sheets as dread coiled cold and sharp in her stomach.

“Vergil,” she whispered, “you’re scaring me.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly, a flicker of emotion breaking through his stoic mask. His throat worked as he swallowed, his next words reluctant, halting.

“There are truths,” he said finally, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, “that I have kept locked away. Truths about why they hunt you. Why…” He trailed off, his gaze darkening as his fists clenched.

Selene’s heart pounded wildly. “Why what?”

Vergil’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw it—the unguarded truth lurking beneath his layers of control. Fear. Anger. And something far more dangerous: desperation.

“I am trying,” he said, his voice breaking on the words, “to find a way to tell you without… without destroying what remains of my restraint.”

He took another step toward her, and Selene felt the tether between them surge violently, like a living thing. Whatever he was about to reveal, it was the key to everything—the cult, her visions, them.

And she wasn’t sure either of them was ready for it.

Selene’s entire body trembled as she sat on the edge of the bed, watching Vergil as if he were a storm barely contained by fragile walls. He stood across the room like a dark sentinel, his shoulders rigid, his head bowed slightly, breath coming in measured, deliberate pulls—as if every inhale cost him his soul.

The silence was suffocating. It pressed in on her chest until it was hard to breathe, until she felt as though they were both standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for one of them to fall.

When he finally lifted his head, Selene’s heart stopped. His eyes—those piercing, ocean-blue eyes—were wild with emotion. Rage, grief, guilt, and something deeper, darker, that she couldn’t name. His entire being trembled with it, barely leashed, like a predator on the verge of striking.

“You want the truth,” he said at last, his voice low and jagged, a blade ground too sharp. “Who I am. What I’ve done. Very well… but when you hear it, Selene, you will understand why you should run from me.”

Selene’s throat tightened painfully, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. She would not flinch.

Vergil began to pace, each stride sharp and precise. His coat swirled around him like the shadows of his past.
“I was not always this,” he hissed, motioning to himself like he despised the very sight of his body. “I was once a boy—weak, frightened, powerless. My mother, Eva, was my only light in the darkness. She swore to protect us. To protect me.”

His voice cracked, fury leaking through.

“But one night… that promise was broken.”

His hands clenched into fists, and a ripple of his power shuddered through the room, making Selene’s skin prickle.

“I woke to fire. Screams. The stench of blood and ash,” he growled, his voice like thunder rolling low and dangerous. “And when the smoke cleared… she was gone. Dante was gone. I was alone.”

Selene’s breath caught.

“I searched, but there was nothing—no sign of her, no proof she’d fought for me. In my young mind, I knew only one thing: she had chosen him. Chosen Dante over me. Left me to die while she saved her favored son.”

The bitterness in his tone cut through the air like a blade.

“So I learned my first lesson.” Vergil’s lips curled in a cold, mirthless smile. “Love is a lie. Promises are illusions. And the only thing that never abandons you… is power.”

He turned, pacing faster now, like a caged predator. His aura pulsed around him, heavy and suffocating.

“I devoted myself to strength,” he continued, his voice a mixture of anger and sorrow. “I buried the fragile boy I had been beneath steel and willpower. Every emotion, every weakness, every scrap of humanity—I cut it away. Until there was nothing left but the hunger to never be powerless again.”

He stopped suddenly, his fists trembling at his sides. “But in my quest to rise above weakness, I became something far worse.”

Selene’s lips parted, her voice barely a whisper. “Vergil…”

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

“I turned my blade against the only family I had left. I fought Dante—again and again—desperate to prove I was stronger, to take what I believed was rightfully mine. I brought forth the Temen-ni-gru, a tower that bridged this world and the demon realm, tearing open the veil between them. I told myself it was for power, for vengeance, but in truth…” His voice faltered, and for a moment, he looked utterly broken. “…in truth, it was because I wanted to crush the boy I used to be.”

Selene’s tears blurred her vision. She had seen the destruction demons wrought, but to hear him speak of summoning such devastation… it hollowed her chest.

“Dante tried to stop me. Time and again, he faced me. And every time, I chose ambition over brotherhood. I betrayed him, slaughtered countless innocents, all to feed my hunger for strength.”

His breathing grew ragged, his hands flexing as memories clawed at him. “And when I thought I had reached the pinnacle… he came.”

He spat the name like venom. “Mundus. The demon king.”

The very room seemed to recoil at the sound of it.

“Mundus saw my ambition and turned it into chains. He broke me, Selene. Stripped me of my will, my name, my self. He forged me into his puppet—Neo Angelo. A hollow creature built to serve him.” Vergil’s voice trembled now, a rare and terrifying sound. “My body obeyed his every command while my mind screamed, trapped in silence, helpless to resist.”

Selene’s tears fell freely. She could almost see it through his words: a proud warrior reduced to a mindless slave, his soul screaming behind empty eyes.

“And then,” Vergil continued, his tone darkening, “he pitted me against Dante. Forced me to raise my blade against my own blood. My brother fought to free me, but even when Neo Angelo fell, a part of me remained trapped in that darkness.”

His aura flared wildly, making the very walls tremble.

“I escaped—only to fall again.” His voice dropped lower, guttural. “I was tortured. Broken further. Mundus carved his will into my flesh until there was nothing left but obedience and agony. When I finally clawed my way free, I was… changed.”

Selene covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

“I swore it would never happen again,” Vergil said, his voice hoarse. “So I sought Yamato, my sword, the last piece of myself. But to reclaim it… I took it from Nero.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “From… Nero?”

Vergil’s face twisted with guilt.

“I severed his arm to take Yamato. My own son, though I did not know it then. I saw only the weapon, the key to regaining my strength.” His voice broke. “By the time I learned the truth, it was too late to undo what I had done.”

Selene’s heart shattered at the raw torment in his eyes.

“I thought by separating myself—splitting body and soul—I could purge my weakness,” he went on, his words spilling faster now, as though a dam had broken. “One half became Urizen, a being of pure rage and ambition. The other, V, a shadow of the man I might have been. But even then, I could not escape what I am.”

The room fell silent but for their ragged breathing.
Selene felt her body go cold, she remembered everything from her old vision about roots destroying the city, as a monster sat on a thrown.

Vergil stepped closer, his gaze locking with hers.
“This is the truth of me,” he said, his voice trembling despite its deadly calm. “A monster forged by grief and obsession. A man who has destroyed more than he has ever saved. I have bathed my hands in blood—of enemies, of innocents, of my own family.”

He stopped just shy of touching her. His fists were clenched, knuckles white.

“If you choose to leave now,” Vergil forced out, his voice breaking, “I will not stop you. I will not blame you. You deserve to walk away from this darkness.”

Selene’s tears blurred her vision. She could barely see him through the haze of her grief for him.

His chest rose and fell sharply, his next words barely a whisper.

“But know this,” he said, softer now, “every moment you’ve spent near me… every touch, every breath… has been a gift I do not deserve. And yet…” His voice cracked, raw and unguarded. “…I cannot let it go.”

Selene’s heart ached so fiercely she thought it might break. This wasn’t just a confession.
It was a plea.

A plea from a man who had never been given the chance to believe he was worth loving.

Selene sat frozen, her chest rising and falling so fast it hurt. The words Vergil had spoken still echoed violently in her mind, each confession digging into her heart like claws.

Images she didn’t want to see but couldn’t stop imagining assaulted her senses: a burning home and a little boy screaming for his mother, never knowing she hadn’t abandoned him. A youth forced to fight alone, forging his own heart into a blade to survive. A man so consumed by pain and rage that he reached for power with bloody hands, only to be used as a pawn, stripped of his very name. Neo Angelo—not a person, just a weapon.

And through it all, Selene saw not just the merciless warrior standing before her now, but the broken, terrified child he had been. The boy who only wanted to be enough.

Her hands trembled violently at her sides. She understood now.

Every sin, every betrayal, every cold and calculated act of violence—none of it came from cruelty alone. It was the result of wounds left to fester, of a lifetime of believing he was unwanted, unloved, unworthy.

Her breath caught as another realization struck. He thought I would leave him too.

Vergil stood perfectly still before her, but it wasn’t strength that rooted him in place. It was fear. She saw it now in the flicker of his eyes, in the tension around his mouth. He was bracing himself for abandonment, waiting for her to turn her back and vanish like everyone else had.

Selene’s throat closed.

How many people had failed him? How many times had he reached out and been met with betrayal, rejection, silence? And now here he was, laying his entire soul bare before her—ugly, scarred, imperfect—and expecting only to be met with disgust.

Her vision blurred with tears.

No one had ever stayed for him. No one had ever told him that he was enough.

Her legs felt like they might give out beneath her, but she forced them to move. Each step closer to him felt monumental, like crossing a battlefield. Vergil didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his entire body rigid like a predator waiting for the strike.

When she finally stood before him, close enough to see the faint tremor in his hands, she tilted her head back and met his gaze. His eyes were guarded, but beneath the icy veneer was something so raw, so fragile, it nearly broke her.

For a long, breathless moment, Selene couldn’t speak. She could only feel—the pounding of her heart, the unbearable weight of everything he had confessed, and the heavy silence between them.

Then, in a voice trembling but steady enough to cut through the air, she finally asked the question that burned in her chest.

“Vergil…” She swallowed, her lips quivering. “Are you… still that man? The one who was broken and lost?”

His pupils widened slightly, but he said nothing.

Selene’s tears slid down her cheeks unchecked as she continued, her words gathering strength with every heartbeat.

“Do you… feel it? The guilt? The… the regret for what you’ve done?” She took a sharp, shaky breath, her hands fisting at her sides. “Do you want to make it right? To—” her voice cracked, but she forced the words out, “—to redeem yourself?”

Vergil’s entire body stilled, like her question had frozen him in place. His breathing was harsh, his chest rising and falling beneath the dark fabric of his coat. She could almost see the storm behind his eyes as memories clawed their way to the surface.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.
He only stared down at her, silent, unreadable.
And that silence screamed louder than any battle cry.

Selene’s heart ached so fiercely she could hardly breathe. She had to know. She needed to know if the man standing before her was someone who could still fight for himself—for them.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, fragile but unrelenting.
“Because… if you are,” she said, her throat thick with emotion, “then nothing you’ve told me tonight will matter. Not to me.”

Her words hung between them like a lifeline.
And for the first time, Vergil’s mask faltered. His lips parted in the barest hint of shock, and Selene swore she saw it—the boy inside him, the one who’d been left in the ashes, reaching out in desperate hope that she wouldn’t let go.

Selene’s breath trembled as she stared up at him, the tears clouding her vision making Vergil’s sharp, angular features blur and soften. Her chest ached with the force of everything she wanted to say—everything she had been too afraid to voice until now.

Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak through the tightness in her throat.

“I don’t… I don’t even know how we were pulled together like this,” she began, her voice fragile but gaining strength with each word. “From the moment I first saw you, it was like… like something inside me just knew. Even when you stood there, cold and distant, like the whole world disgusted you.”

Vergil flinched almost imperceptibly at that, but he didn’t look away.

“I thought you hated me,” Selene whispered, her tears falling faster now. “I thought there was something wrong with me that made you look at me like that. So I… I built walls too. I kept my distance, told myself I didn’t care. But the truth is…” She inhaled sharply, her chest heaving. “I was scared, Vergil. So scared of what it would mean to let someone close.”

Her hands trembled at her sides as memories clawed their way to the surface—memories of her father’s harsh voice, his punishing hands, his constant reminder that she was a curse to everyone around her.

“My father-” She broke off, choking on a sob, then pushed forward. "for so long, I believed him, that I was a monster too.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened.

Her voice cracked, a whisper on the last words.
“I thought I would always be alone.”

Vergil’s eyes flickered with something she couldn’t read, his body tense, as if each of her words struck him like a blade.

“And then you,” Selene whispered. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t look away. “You came crashing into my life, all coldness and silence and power. And yet… when you touched me, there was nothing.”

Her tears fell freely now, her chest aching with the force of the truth spilling out.

“No visions. No drowning. Just… peace. Safety. You became my safe space without even knowing it, Vergil. And that terrified me more than anything else ever has.”

His breath caught, his eyes widening slightly, as though her confession pierced through his carefully constructed armor.

Selene closed the final distance between them, her voice breaking but unrelenting.

“So I pushed you away. I told myself it wasn’t real, that you didn’t care, that maybe you couldn’t. But deep down… I knew. I knew there was something there that you were hiding from me. Something you couldn’t say.”

Her trembling hand lifted, hovering just shy of his chest, afraid to touch him but desperate to.

“And now I see it. You weren’t cold because you didn’t feel anything. You were cold because you felt too much. Because you’ve been hurt so deeply you don’t believe you deserve to be wanted. To be loved.”

Vergil’s throat worked visibly, but still he said nothing. His silence spoke louder than words—the fear, the shame, the hope he didn’t dare name.

Selene’s tears glittered like diamonds in the dim light as she took a deep, shaky breath.

“I understand that pain, Vergil. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Because I’ve lived it too. I know what it’s like to be treated like you’re nothing, to feel like you’re poison to everyone you meet. To crave connection and yet believe you’ll only destroy what you touch.”

Her voice grew steadier now, conviction burning through her grief.

“I’ve spent my whole life running from people, from myself. But right now? Standing here with you?” She shook her head, a fierce, broken smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t want to run anymore. Not from you. Not from this.”

Finally, she let her hand press to his chest, right over his pounding heart. The heat of him seared her skin, grounding her in this moment.

“You need me, Vergil,” she whispered, her voice trembling but sure. “And I… I need you. Maybe more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

Vergil inhaled sharply, like her words had stolen the air from his lungs. His eyes burned, wild and conflicted, as if a thousand unspoken truths warred inside him.

Selene lifted her tear-streaked face to his, her voice breaking on a vow.

“You’re not the only one standing at the edge of the darkness anymore,” she said softly. “If you’ll let me… I’ll stand there with you. And I won’t let you fall.”

Selene’s chest heaved as she searched his face, her palm still resting over his heart. It beat wildly beneath her hand, fast and erratic, betraying him even as his expression tried to remain stoic.

She saw it then—the deep, warring conflict in his eyes. A storm raging beneath the surface, restrained only by sheer force of will. His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again, the words dying before they could form. He didn’t believe her. Not fully. And yet… oh, how desperately he wanted to.

Selene’s tears blurred her vision, but she refused to look away.

“Its ok if right now..,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. “You wont believe me, but I'm not going to run away.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, but still, he gave no reply. That silence was deafening.

So she pressed harder, her hand fisting in his shirt now, as though she could hold him in place with sheer determination.

“Then tell me,” she said, her voice raw with emotion. “Tell me what this bond really is. What this pull between us means. Because I feel it too—I know you do.”

His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and almost panicked, like a man caught naked in the open. For a moment, his mask of control shattered, and Selene saw him not as the cold warrior, but as a man who didn’t have the answers… or was too afraid to voice them.

“It isn’t… simple,” he said finally, his voice low and strained, like the words themselves hurt. His hands twitched at his sides, restless and uncertain. “This… connection between us. It is instinct, yes, but it is more than that. It is… primal.”

Selene’s breath caught.

Vergil’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he forced himself to continue.

“Our kind—those born of demonic blood—we do not bond lightly. When such a… pull manifests, it is absolute.” His voice deepened, laced with something primal. “It goes beyond desire, beyond choice. It is… claiming. Binding.”

Her heart thudded violently in her chest. She had guessed at its power, but hearing him speak the truth made her dizzy with fear and wonder.

“Binding,” she echoed, her voice barely a whisper. “Like… soulmates?”

Vergil flinched at the word, his eyes narrowing slightly, though not in anger. More like a man confronted with something too vulnerable, too human.

“You could call it that,” he admitted reluctantly, his tone almost bitter. “But it is far more dangerous than the human notion of such a thing. This bond—this tether—it does not ask. It takes. It forges two lives into one path, for better or worse.”

Selene’s throat went dry. Her fingers curled tightly in his shirt as she tried to process the weight of his words.

“And us?” she breathed. “What does it mean for us, Vergil?”

His breath hitched sharply, and for a heartbeat, his eyes blazed again with a raw, unrestrained emotion that stole her breath.

“It means,” he said slowly, each syllable like a confession torn from him, “that you are mine. As I am yours.”

Selene realized in that moment he HAD told her before during his lust fueled claiming in the forest.

But before she could respond, he turned his face away, as though ashamed of his own admission. His voice dropped lower, almost hoarse.

“It means your pain is my pain. Your breath, my breath. Should harm come to you, Selene, it will not merely wound me—it will undo me.” His hands curled into fists, trembling with the force of his control. “And if you were to fall into darkness…” His voice faltered, breaking for just an instant. “…I fear I would follow.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The weight of his truth pressed against her like a tidal wave.

Vergil finally looked back at her then, and the sheer vulnerability in his gaze cut her deeper than anything ever has.

“This is why I fought it,” he said quietly, his voice ragged. “Why I tried to stay distant. Because this bond does not merely make me want you, Selene—it consumes me. And if I lose you…”

Selene’s breath caught as his words sank in, trembling through her like a living thing. She could feel the bond humming between them, a low, steady thrumming that seemed to rise and fall with his emotions.

And then she knew.

Her heart ached, not from fear, but from the weight of what she had just realized. If she were to fall, if she were to be taken from him… Vergil would shatter. He wouldn’t just grieve—he would burn the entire world down to get her back, or he would lose himself to that abyss he had clawed his way out of. He would become the very monster he despised, the one he had just confessed to her with so much pain.

Her chest tightened, tears welling in her eyes as she stared at him.

“Oh,” she whispered, a soft, aching sound. “Vergil… you don’t just mean you’d miss me. You mean…”

His gaze was sharp and piercing, but his silence confirmed everything.

“You’d fall,” she said, her voice breaking. “Wouldn’t you? If something happened to me, you’d go back to that darkness you fought so hard to escape.”

Vergil’s jaw tensed, his hands flexing at his sides like he was physically holding himself together. “I would not simply fall,” he admitted, his tone heavy, almost reluctant. “I would descend. Into something far worse than before.”

Selene felt her entire body quake at his honesty. Not because she feared him, but because she understood now—she was his tether to his own humanity, the fragile thread keeping him from drowning in the abyss.

And yet, in the same breath, she realized something even deeper.

He hadn’t chosen her for this reason. Their bond hadn’t been some conscious decision or strategy. No… this had been raw instinct, primal and unbidden.

He hadn’t looked at her and thought, She will save me.
He had simply wanted her, been drawn to her, until suddenly she was everything he couldn’t live without.

At first, Selene had questioned his desire, wondered if she was just another conquest, a physical craving he’d eventually move on from. But standing here now, feeling the raw desperation radiating from him, she finally understood.

She was not a fleeting obsession.
She was not a mistake.
She was everything.

Maybe not at the start—not when he had been so cold, so guarded—but somewhere along the way, she had become the very center of his world. The only thing that kept him balanced on the knife’s edge between redemption and ruin.

Selene’s throat tightened, her tears spilling freely now yet again because she felt so overwhelmed. She stepped closer, so close that her chest brushed his, her trembling hands rising to cup his face. His skin was warm beneath her palms, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a thousand unspoken truths.

“You fool,” she whispered, her voice breaking with love and anguish. “You stubborn, beautiful fool.”

Vergil’s brows furrowed at the mere mention of the world beautiful, as if he couldn't even comprehend that.

“You think you’re some monster I’ll run from,” she continued, her voice trembling but fierce. “But don’t you see? I’m not afraid of you, Vergil. I’m afraid of losing you. Of losing this.” Her fingers tightened slightly on his jaw, grounding him. “You fought your way back from hell itself. You clawed free from Mundus, from your own darkness—and now you’re standing here, with me.”

Her tears dripped onto his skin, and she didn’t care.
“You are enough. You always were. And if you think I’m going to let you drown in that darkness again, you are sorely mistaken.”

For a moment, Vergil just stared at her, utterly silent. But in his eyes, she saw the truth: disbelief warring with hope, fear battling with longing.

Selene’s voice softened, breaking on a whisper.

“Maybe at first, I was just someone you wanted. But now…” She swallowed hard, a sob caught in her throat. “Your everything to me too."

Vergil’s hands finally moved, rising to cover hers where they framed his face. His touch was trembling, almost reverent, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

The storm in his eyes didn’t vanish. But beneath it, Selene caught a flicker of something fragile and precious—a light he didn’t even know he still carried.

Hope.

And her heart swore to never let it be extinguished.

Vergil’s chest rose and fell sharply, a sound escaping him that was almost a sigh but too heavy, too fractured to be anything close to relief. It vibrated against her skin as he leaned downnto bury his face against the curve of her throat, drawing in her scent like a drowning man grasping for air. Selene froze in his arms, her fingers trembling as they hovered uncertainly at his back before she finally gave in, clutching at him with all the desperation he wouldn’t voice.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence was thick, broken only by the sharp, uneven rhythm of his breathing. His grip was firm but not crushing, like he was terrified of letting her go, terrified she might vanish the moment his hands left her.

“To bind two souls entirely,” he said, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate rumble, “there must be a mark. A claiming that goes beyond instinct or choice. Once done, there is no undoing it.”

Selene’s breath caught at the weight in his tone. She could almost feel what he meant in the way his gaze lingered on her neck, the heat and danger swirling together in those piercing blue eyes.

“A mark?” she whispered, her throat suddenly dry.

His fingers paused at the hollow of her throat, and for just a moment, his control slipped. The barest flash of his fangs glinted in the low light before he turned his face away, shutting his eyes as though fighting a war within himself.

“A single bite,” he confessed at last, his voice barely above a growl. “Here. It would bind you to me in every way imaginable, and it takes every once of my restraint to not do so."

But then his expression shifted. The sharp edge of his hunger gave way to something colder, more calculating. His hands fell to his sides, clenched into fists as he struggled to rein himself in.

“That is why I have not done it,” he continued, his voice now ironclad with restraint. “Not yet. Not while this threat lingers over us.”

Mundus,” she whispered, barely able to speak the name.

His head snapped toward her, the darkness in his eyes deepening.

“Yes,” he spat, the single syllable seething with hatred. “He is not gone. I can feel his presence stirring, a shadow creeping back into the world.” His voice dropped lower, his rage tightly coiled. “These cultists do not merely worship demons. They serve him. Everything they have done—the rituals, the sacrifices—has been to prepare for his return.”

Selene’s blood ran cold, fear rooting her to the spot.

Vergil stepped closer, his tone dark and unrelenting.
“And you, Selene… you are at the center of it.”

Her breath hitched painfully. “Me?”

“You think it coincidence that you and I crossed paths?” His words cut like a blade, sharp and precise. “This bond between us—it is not mere chance. Dante and I have pieced together enough to see the pattern. You, with your visions, your purity of soul, and I, the son of Sparda who once served Mundus…” His lips curled in a bitter sneer. “We are the key he seeks. The perfect tools for his resurrection.”

Selene stumbled back a step, her hands trembling. “Why? Why us?”

Vergil’s gaze was like a storm as he took her face in his hands, holding her steady even as she shook.

“Because together, we could create life,” he said bluntly, his words laced with both fury and shame. “And that life would be something he could corrupt. A vessel of unimaginable power, forged from our union, stolen from us before we ever knew it.”

Before she could speak, he placed a finger to her lips. Silencing her before he could explain.

“It remains unclear,” he admitted, his tone sharpened by frustration and dread. “We do not yet know the full extent of Mundus’s design. Perhaps it is to corrupt what could be born of us—to twist it into something unholy and wield it against this realm. Or perhaps…” His voice dropped lower, quieter, as if saying the thought aloud would make it real. “…perhaps his scheme is far more insidious. Perhaps you are only the vessel, Selene. Perhaps his true aim is not to control what we might create, but to reach me through you.”

Selene’s lips parted in a silent gasp, horror prickling at the base of her spine. She could see it now, could feel it in the dark echo of his aura—this was more than simple desire for revenge on Mundus’s part. It was intimate. Calculated. Like a spider weaving a web, every thread designed to ensnare Vergil.

He turned his head slightly, his silver hair falling into his face, obscuring his expression for a heartbeat. But his next words came with deadly clarity.

“I cannot risk it. I will not.” His hands gripped her upper arms, firm but trembling. “Until this shadow is eradicated, I will neither mark you nor…” His voice faltered, a rare moment of true vulnerability slipping through his ironclad control. “…nor risk bringing life into this world that he might claim.”

Part of her wanted to protest..to fight this, to beg him to take her anyways, but another part screamed at her for being selfish. Feeling the guilt turn in her stomach. "But..it will hurt, right?" She paused, her eyes burned and she swallowed the lump in her throat before she continued. "Being so close, but feeling like its..not enough."

“Yes,” he said, though his tone was heavy, almost mournful. “But until that moment comes, I must maintain control. Even when every instinct I possess screams at me to claim you, to bind you irrevocably to me…” His hands cupped her face again, thumb brushing her trembling lower lip. His next words were barely audible, spoken only for her.

“I cannot allow Mundus to use you to destroy me. Or this world.”

Selene’s breath caught as a memory surged forward—unbidden, sharp, and vivid. The forest. The wild, uncontrolled claiming that had left her trembling and breathless beneath the weight of his desperation. That moment where he hadn’t pulled away, where her body had been too lost in the haze of his passion to think beyond the fire they created together.

Her stomach knotted, panic crawling up her throat like a living thing. She froze, her fingers gripping the fabric of his coat, and her wide eyes shot up to his face.

“Vergil,” she said, the name barely a whisper. Her voice cracked under the weight of the realization. “That night… in the forest, when you—” Her words stumbled, her face heating, shame and fear mixing as she struggled to give voice to what terrified her. “You didn’t pull away. I felt you—”

He went utterly still, like a blade poised in midair. For a moment, there was no expression on his face at all. Then, slowly, a huff of breath escaped him. It was almost a laugh, that held humor— also just dark, self-mocking amusement. His head tilted slightly, as he processed the memory that probably popped in his head, and she found herself desperately wanting to know.

“You are not carrying,” he said with absolute certainty, each word clipped and precise. “I would know.”

The conviction in his tone should have soothed her, but confusion only deepened her breathless state. “Know? How could you possibly—”

Vergil’s lips quirked faintly, a dark, secretive almost-smile, but there was no mockery in it. Only the strange intimacy of a truth he had not yet shared.

“Dante,” he began slowly, slightly awkwardness in his tone “was… predictable.” The pause between his words dripped with irritation. “He, too, demanded to know how I could be so certain you were not carrying.”

Selene blinked, startled, her panic flaring anew. “He asked you?” she whispered, cheeks flaming at the thought of Dante—ever bold and unfiltered—bringing up something so intimate.

"I would have smelled if you were fertile or not." He continued, a twitch at the corner his lips. "Nor did I further elaborate on the matter, which led to Dantes theatrics of drama."

Selene’s face burned so hot it felt like her skin might ignite. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, completely dumbfounded, unable to reconcile the icy, calculating man before her with the blunt, almost casual way he’d just stated something so… intimate.

“You…” she began, but the words tangled in her mouth, breaking apart like fragile glass. Her fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his coat as if it could anchor her against the wave of embarrassment washing over her. “You mean to tell me…” She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “…that you smelled it? That’s how you knew?”

Vergil blinked at her, utterly unbothered, his sharp gaze steady and unreadable. If he was at all affected by the question—or her mortification—he didn’t show it.

“Of course,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. His tone carried no hesitation, no apology, just cool, unwavering certainty. “A woman’s cycle carries distinct shifts in scent. It is… unmistakable to someone of my nature.”

Selene’s jaw dropped. For a heartbeat, her mind was blank, wiped clean by sheer shock. Then, like a rush of heat, mortification flooded in, striking her chest and cheeks all at once. She slapped her hands over her face with a strangled groan, wishing she could melt straight into the floorboards.

“Are you kidding me,” she mumbled through her fingers, her voice muffled but still high-pitched with horror. “I—Vergil, you—!” She cut herself off, groaning louder. “You smelled me?”

His brow furrowed slightly, his lips twitching—not quite into a smirk, but something close. He tilted his head, studying her as though she were an intricate puzzle he hadn’t fully solved.

“Would you prefer I had remained ignorant?” he asked coolly, though there was a subtle, teasing undertone beneath the words.

Selene’s fingers parted just enough for one wide, mortified eye to peek out at him. “That’s not the point!” she squeaked. “Do you have any idea how… how personal that is?”

Vergil exhaled slowly, his composure infuriatingly intact, though the faintest flicker of amusement glimmered in his icy blue gaze.

“If you recall,” he said evenly, “I am a half-demon. My senses are… acute. What you find shocking is, to me, simply fact.” He paused, his tone darkening slightly, more intimate now. “It is not meant to humiliate you.”

The weight of those words sank into her, stirring something warm and dangerous in her chest despite her embarrassment. Her heart pounded as she slowly lowered her hands, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Well,” she said finally, her voice trembling between flustered and accusatory, “now I really understand why Dante was so exasperated.”

Selene couldn’t help it—despite her embarrassment, a small laugh escaped her. It slipped past her lips like sunlight through storm clouds, and for a moment, Vergil’s eyes softened, the faintest warmth flickering in their depths.

But as her laughter faded, Selene’s thoughts lingered on Dante. On the sheer plight of trying to have a serious conversation with someone like Vergil about something so deeply personal, only to be met with a blunt, simple worded answers as if it answered everything.

Selene’s breath left her in a long, shaky exhale as the heavy storm of earlier confessions finally gave way to something softer—something fragile, yet whole. The tension that had knotted itself deep between them seemed to unravel in slow, deliberate threads, dissolved by the strange, almost awkward humor they had shared just moments before.

The heaviness in her chest lightened. She knew now. She knew every jagged piece of his past that had shaped him, the scars he bore not only on his body but deep within his soul. She understood the darkness he fought against, the guilt he carried like a second skin. And still… he was here. He had chosen her, laid bare his sins and his truths, and allowed her to see the man beneath the mask.

And in turn, he had seen her. The visions. The loneliness. The fragile, aching hope she’d buried beneath years of fear and silence. There were no more shadows between them, no more questions clawing at her mind about who they were to one another.

He wanted her.
He wanted her there, in his life, in his world. In his future.

Selene felt it in the way his hand lingered at the small of her back as he guided her gently across the room, his touch protective rather than possessive. The small, almost imperceptible softness in his gaze when he looked down at her told her more than any words ever could. She was not a temporary indulgence, nor a distraction. She was his choice.

Her feet barely seemed to touch the floor as he led her to the bed, their movements quiet and unhurried, as though neither wanted to shatter this newfound peace. The room was bathed in the warm glow of twilight, golden rays filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows that seemed to embrace rather than threaten.

Selene’s chest ached with tenderness as Vergil paused beside the bed, turning to face her fully. For a heartbeat, she thought he might speak, but instead, he simply brushed a lock of her hair back from her face with a care so reverent it made her throat tighten. His fingers lingered just beneath her jaw, and then he bent slightly, pressing his forehead against hers.

No words passed between them. They didn’t need them.

With a smooth, deliberate motion, he lowered her onto the bed, his hand never leaving hers until she was settled against the cool sheets. Selene sank back with a small sigh, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to her. Her muscles ached, her mind still heavy from emotions and confessions, but beneath it all was a deep, unshakable calm.

Vergil moved with his usual precise grace as he slid onto the bed beside her. He didn’t hover or hesitate, simply gathered her against him, her back pressed to his chest, his arm wrapping firmly around her waist. The solid warmth of him surrounded her, banishing the last traces of fear lingering at the edges of her thoughts.

She felt his nose bury into her hair, the quiet inhale he took as though memorizing her scent. It made her heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

This man, who had been forged in loss and rage, who had nearly lost himself to darkness, was here now—hers.

Selene closed her eyes, letting herself sink into him completely. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t have to hold herself apart, didn’t have to guard against her own visions or fear the intimacy of another’s touch. With him, there was no danger of seeing some terrible future or past. There was only this moment.

Outside, the world still spun with threats and unanswered questions. The cult still plotted, Mundus’s shadow still loomed, and danger still lurked in every corner. But here, in this quiet sanctuary, none of it could reach them.

Selene curled her fingers lightly around his forearm, grounding herself in his presence. “Vergil…” she whispered, not needing to finish the thought.

His response was a low hum, deep in his chest, the sound as steady as the heartbeat she could feel against her back.

Everything had changed today—confessions, revelations, battles fought and barely survived. It was overwhelming, but as the twilight deepened into night, Selene realized something vital: she was no longer alone. Whatever came next, they would face it together.

Her breathing slowed, matching the steady rhythm of his. And though neither of them said it aloud, they both understood: the future was uncertain, perhaps even terrifying. But tonight, for this brief moment, they were simply two souls bound by choice, and by a bond far stronger than fate.

As sleep claimed her, the last thing Selene felt was Vergil’s arms tightening ever so slightly around her, as if vowing silently to never let her go and whispered words in her ear "Get some rest."

Chapter Text

Selene stirred as the morning light crept into the room, thin golden light spilling through the heavy curtains and painting fragile beams across the walls. Her lashes fluttered open, and for a moment she lay still, her mind floating somewhere between dream and waking. The scent of him was everywhere—clean, sharp, and darkly grounding. She smiled to herself, as her body stretched out in the bed, her hand slid across the sheets instinctively, seeking warmth, only to find cool emptiness.

He was gone.

The realization made her slight panicked, but even as her chest tightened, she focused inward. That strange tether—the living thread that bound her to him—still pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat beneath her own. He wasn’t far. The knowledge soothed the first sting of panic, though it didn’t banish the hollow ache of his absence. Selene closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She could feel him, could almost sense the rhythm of his breath through the bond. He was close. Watching over her, no doubt, even if she couldn’t see him. But then again, why would she even doubt him at this point?

As her thoughts cleared, memories from the night before came crashing back with vivid force. His confessions… every dark, broken shard of his past laid bare before her. The boy abandoned to a cruel world. The young man who had clawed for power, only to be used, twisted, tortured, to the point that he saw no point in the light, or ever sought it. The memories of his childhood and the abandonment he carried heavily in his mind. The cold and ruthless figure who had risen from those ashes, branding himself a monster because he truly believed he deserved nothing else.

Her chest ached as she thought of it. He had carried so much for so long—alone. No wonder he’d been guarded, sharp-edged, distant. His entire existence had been forged in betrayal and blood. And yet… he had chosen to tell her, to let her see what no one else had. But the questioned remained in her head.

Would he fully accept her in his heart

After confessing to him that she would stay, no matter what he has told her. She felt his remorse, how the sins he has done weighed heavily in his mind, his very soul. A gift since she was a child, feeling the emotions of everyone around her. The wariness, the fear, even the hatred. It was all she had ever known, but sometimes it came with perks. It was how she avoided her father when he would come home from working in the field after a long day, feeling the rage and the darkness before he ever stepped in the house. To avoid any unnecessary beatings, just for simply existing in his presence.

But with Vergil?

She never thought in her life she would be with someone like him, or hell even with anyone. His very being screamed danger, and she was wrapped around his very finger. A simple look could melt her heart, a simple touch had her body surrendering to his every wish.
Feeling her body respond to her treacherous thoughts, her gaze wandered around the room, needing to anchor herself in the present. The simple fact that he stated to her that he could not risk being physical with her at this time after confessing what him and Dante discovered, made the frustration burn in her very being.

This was going to be the end of her if she didn’t feel him inside her again.

Groaning, she sat up and did another stretch with her arms upright, her eyes were focusing more as she took in his room.

Then, something caught her eye.

On a low table near the window sat a single book, separate from the others. Its dark blue leather cover was worn and cracked, the edges frayed as though it had been opened and closed countless times. It didn’t belong with the rest of his perfectly maintained collection. It looked… older.

A strange unease crawled up her spine.

Something about it called to her.

Selene’s breath caught as her instincts warred with her curiosity.

Touch it

The longer she stared, the louder the pull became. It was as though invisible fingers wrapped around her mind, tugging gently, coaxing her closer. Her feet moved without permission, lifting her from her seated position on the bed, her legs felt heavy and stiff.

By the time she stood before the table, the air itself felt charged, humming against her skin. A low murmur filled her ears—not in the room, but inside her head. Faint whispers, like voices speaking from far away, just beyond comprehension.

Touch it

Her hand trembled. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew this was a violation of his privacy. Perhaps the very thing would make him think that he couldn’t trust her with anything. Bile rushed to her throat, as she tried desperately to control herself.

And yet, the compulsion was overwhelming.

The moment her fingertips grazed the cracked leather cover, the world around her exploded.

The room vanished. The bed, the shelves, the light of the morning—all ripped away like fragile paper in a storm. Selene stumbled back with a gasp as darkness swallowed her whole, spinning violently, until a blinding flare of light seared her vision.

When her sight cleared, she was somewhere else entirely.

A grand, opulent chamber stretched out before her, lined with towering shelves of books and relics. The marble floor gleamed underfoot, reflecting the glow of a massive fireplace that roared like a living beast. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their threads depicting stories Selene couldn’t fully make out—battles, demons, angels, and something ancient and terrible lurking beneath it all.

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of smoke and old parchment, mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood.

And then she saw her.

A woman stood at the heart of the room, framed by the fire’s glow.

Selene’s breath hitched violently in her chest.

The woman was stunning—her golden hair cascaded in soft waves down her back, her features striking and regal, with eyes like molten amber. She radiated strength and grace, yet there was a palpable weight to her movements, a sorrow so deep it made the air tremble.

For a heartbeat, Selene thought it was Trish. The resemblance was uncanny, almost eerie.
But no… this woman was different. Older. Rawer. Her very presence seemed to hum with tragedy. All of her emotions were ramped in this very room, as Selene was overwhelmed by the pressure of this mysterious woman sorrows

The woman clutched the same book Selene had touched, holding it tightly to her chest as if it were the last thing keeping her grounded. She paced before the roaring fireplace, her voice rising in anguished cries. At first, Selene couldn’t make out the words—the sound was distorted, overlapping with the ghostly whispers that still echoed faintly in her mind.

But then, clarity broke through the noise.

“They’ve taken him from me.” the woman’s voice rang out, filled with fury and heartbreak. “They’ve taken my beloved, my SOUL! And now they will come for my sons. My beautiful boys…” Her voice broke, cracking like glass. “Vergil. Dante. I must hide you. I must keep you safe.”

Selene’s heart twisted painfully.
No..

This was his mother.

The woman’s pacing grew frantic, her bare feet silent on the marble floor as she clutched the book tighter. “They will not have you,” she whispered fiercely, her tone trembling. “Not as they took him. Not as they tore this family apart. I will burn every world to ash before I let him touch you." The fire surged higher, its flames turning white-hot as shadows stretched unnaturally long across the walls. The room seemed to pulse with her grief and rage.

Selene reached out instinctively, wanting to comfort her, to say something, even though she knew this was only a vision.

But then—

Eva stopped.

Slowly, she turned her head.

And her eyes locked directly on Selene.

Selene’s breath froze in her lungs. It wasn’t possible. This was a memory. There was no way Eva could see her.

And yet, those golden eyes bore into her soul as though nothing separated them.

Eva stepped forward, her expression fierce and desperate, her voice cutting through the roaring fire.

“Its you,” she said, her tone trembling.

Selene staggered back, her heart hammering. “I—I don’t—”

But then she saw Eva seeming to look down at her, as she approached with stiff steps. Selene looked down at herself and realized at that moment she was little, in the same small gown she wore at her fathers house. The realization was like a lightning bolt to her heart.

She had this vision before. She had SEEN this woman before
Why didn’t she realize this sooner

Eva’s form flickered, her figure half-shadow, half-light, as though the vision itself was straining to hold her.
“Vergil…” Her voice broke entirely now, raw with a mother’s agony. “My son walks a path of darkness. He will believe himself lost. Alone. Angry. You must be his light. You must save him, before the shadows consume him as they did his father.”

The room trembled violently, the fire erupting into a blinding inferno. Selene raised her arms to shield her face, screaming as the force of Eva’s words slammed into her.

“Save him, Selene,” Eva cried, her final plea echoing like a bell tolling across eternity.

“Save my son!”

The fire behind Eva exploded higher, scorching white and gold, casting Selene into stark, blinding light. The heat was so intense it felt real, searing her skin. Eva reached toward her, trembling but unyielding, her eyes glistening with tears.

“You cannot let it happen,” she pleaded, her voice shaking. “Vergil’s fate is not sealed—not yet.”

Selene shook violently, overwhelmed by the torrent of emotion crashing through the bond, through this impossible connection between them. Then that’s when Selene put the pieces together, the reason why his mother was able to see her, the possible reason that this is why she was put on Vergil's path.

She KNEW what was going to happen to her.
Accepted her fate and wanted desperately to change the future but was unable to.

“How?” she choked out, finally finding her voice, hating the fact that her voice was childlike. “How do I save him?”

Eva’s lips parted, trembling as though her very spirit was unraveling. The fire surged one last time, casting everything into brilliant gold.

“Save my son,” Eva whispered, her voice breaking into a sob. “Whatever it takes… save him.”

The room shattered.

The world around Selene convulsed, as if the memory she’d been dragged into was coming apart at the seams. She screamed, hands clapping over her ears as Eva’s voice splintered into countless echoes, rising above the crackling roar of fire.

When Selene blinked again, she was no longer in the grand chamber with the towering bookshelves and raging fireplace.

She stood in the middle of chaos.

The once-proud Fortuna mansion—so elegant, so alive—was now engulfed in flames. Smoke choked the air, curling upward in violent black plumes that clawed at the ceiling. The walls trembled, splintering with the violent onslaught outside, as guttural howls and shrieks filled the night.

The fire’s heat felt real. Selene’s lungs burned with every breath, sweat beading along her brow as she stumbled forward. Her body screaming to her to run, to flee..anything to escape this nightmare.

“No… no, this isn’t real,” she whispered, trembling. “This already happened… it’s just a memory…”

But the pain didn’t listen to reason. It wrapped around her like chains, forcing her to watch.

Eva burst through the heavy oak doors, her gown torn, her golden hair wild and singed at the ends. Her once-regal face was smeared with soot and tears, but her eyes—those burning, golden eyes—still held unyielding resolve.

“Vergil! Dante!” she screamed, her voice ragged and desperate as she pushed past falling debris. “My boys! Answer me!”

Selene’s chest heaved. She wanted to run to Eva, to help her search, to do something—but when she tried to move, her body stayed locked in place. Her feet wouldn’t respond. She could only watch as if behind a pane of glass, trapped inside this storm of memories.
Her nails dug into her palms as she wept, powerless.

Eva’s frantic searching came to a halt when a faint, terrified voice called out from behind a broken banister.
“Mother!”

Selene’s head snapped toward the sound, her heart squeezing painfully.

A small boy stumbled forward clad in a red shirt—Dante. His tiny form was covered in ash and scratches, his steel blue eyes wide and glistening with tears. The once proud comical man she knew was just a mere child, crying for his mother. Selene’s breath hitched at the sight. He couldn’t have been older than seven. Eva ran to him, scooping him up into her trembling arms. Relief and terror warred on her face as she smothered his head with frantic kisses.

“My darling boy, you’re safe,” she whispered hoarsely. “Oh, thank the heavens, you’re safe…”

The walls groaned, fire eating through support beams above them. The whole house threatened to collapse. Eva’s gaze darted toward a nearby closet—small, hidden beneath a staircase. Her golden eyes blazed with determination. Selene pounded against the invisible window, desperation eating at her very being, knowing that Eva knew after this moment she was going to perish at the claws of the demons once she secured Dante, to make sure everything went to plan to what her vision showed her.

“Listen to me, Dante,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “You must hide here. You must be strong, no matter what happens. Change your name if you must. Live your life, even if the world falls apart.”

“No, Mama!” Dante sobbed, clutching her gown. “Don’t leave me! Where’s Vergil? Where’s Dad?!” His frantic eyes searching the room, as he clutched heavily to his mothers gown. “Why isn't Dad here to protect us!?:”

Tears streamed down Eva’s face as she kissed him one last time, her sob breaking like shattered glass Looking like she desperately wanted to tell her son about their fathers demise, but held her tongue.

“I’ll find him. I swear it, I’ll find him.”

She pushed him gently into the closet, his tiny fists pounding against the wood as she closed the doors.

“Mama!”

“Stay quiet, my love,” Eva whispered, her voice breaking. “Be safe.”

Selene’s own tears blurred her vision as she reached out, her hand slamming uselessly against empty air. “No! Don’t leave him! Please!”
But Eva couldn’t hear her.

The instant the doors clicked shut, Eva was already running, flames biting at her heels as she barreled deeper into the inferno.

“VERGIL!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the burning hallways. “My son! Where are you?! Vergil!”

The smoke thickened, choking and oppressive. Selene coughed violently, staggering as she tried to follow, her body refusing to obey even as her spirit fought to break free of this cursed vision.

And then she saw them.

The demons.

Grotesque, twisted things surged from the shadows, their bodies writhing with hunger and hatred. Their claws gleamed like molten iron in the firelight as they descended on Eva.

“No!” Selene shrieked, her voice raw. “Run, please!”

But Eva didn’t run.

With a scream of defiance, she hurled herself at the nearest creature, using her body as a shield, as a weapon, as a mother’s last desperate act of love. She tore into them with the ferocity of a lioness, striking and clawing, trying to carve a path toward where she believed Vergil might be.

But there were too many.
Far, far too many.

Selene sobbed as she watched Eva fall beneath them, her golden hair spilling across the blackened marble like a halo, a pool of blood surrounded her body, as a menacing voice echoed around her like a black cloak above her fading body.

Eva’s voice rose one last time, broken and fading, echoing through the flames. Blood trailed from her parting lips, as her eyes searched for her.

“Selene…”

Selene froze, her breath catching violently.
“…save him… save my son. Save Vergil.”

The world shattered.

Selene screamed as she was ripped through the burning memory, her body tumbling into darkness.

And then as if this memory wanted her to suffer more-she was once again thrusted into another scene, now outside of the once lavished mansion as it burned. Her feet slammed into solid ground, the scent of blood and fire overwhelming her senses. Her stomach twisted as her eyes adjusted to a new horror.

A small figure knelt in the once lush lawn that was now covered with ash from the burning mansion.
Through the thick haze of smoke and flame, she saw him.

A child.

Young Vergil, his slight frame trembling, clothes torn and streaked with soot and blood. A deep gash ran along his arm, another across his brow where crimson streaked down into his eye, but he didn’t cry. His face was pale, lips trembling with exhaustion, but there were no tears. There was only fierce determination.
In his small hands, he gripped the heavy sword the Yamato. It was too heavy for him, dragging in the ash and rubble as he staggered forward, but it was all he had left.
And surrounding him—monsters.

The demons were everywhere. Twisted, malformed with glowing red eyes, teeth like jagged blades, claws scraping over the blackened ground. They snarled and hissed as they circled him, savoring his terror like a fine wine.

Selene’s heart screamed inside her chest. Run, baby. Please, run!

But this wasn’t her world. She couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t help him.

Vergil’s tiny shoulders squared.

Even shaking, barely able to keep his grip on the fire poker, he refused to fall.
One demon lunged.

Vergil swung wildly, the sword smashing across its face. It screeched, recoiling, but another came from behind and swiped at his back. The boy’s scream ripped through the burning air as claws tore across his skin, sending him stumbling forward into a pile of smoldering debris. He scrambled up, panting, face contorted in desperation and pain. He lashed out again and again, every swing weaker than the last. Each time he struck, another demon took its place.

Blood streaked the cracked floorboards. His own blood.

Selene’s stomach knotted. She wanted to claw her way out of the vision, to stand between him and the monsters, to save him.

“Mom! Dante!” Young Vergil’s voice broke as he screamed into the smoke, his throat raw and hoarse.

No answer came.
Only the snapping of teeth, the hiss of demons closing in.
And somewhere deep inside him, a seed of something black and bitter sprouted.

“They left me,” he whispered, his voice trembling but clear even through the roar of the flames. His wide, terrified eyes began to narrow, not with fear… but with fury. “They didn’t come. No one came.”

A demon’s claw slashed across his side, and he fell hard onto his knees, coughing up blood. His tiny hands gripped the sheath of the blade, his body trembling from shock and pain.

The creatures gathered around him, circling like vultures ready to feast. Their growls rumbled through the smoke.
And still, no one came.
Not his mother.
Not Dante.
No one to save him.

Something broke inside the boy’s chest.

The sound he made was raw, guttural—a scream of rage and heartbreak that seemed to shake the very air. Selene felt it tear through her soul as blue light erupted around his small frame, violent and unrefined.

The demons hissed, momentarily startled, but young Vergil didn’t see them anymore.

He saw nothing.

Nothing but fire and darkness and the gaping hole left by abandonment.

He surged to his feet with a burst of power that was far too much for his body to contain. Blue energy crackled along his skin, wild and unstable, a devil trigger he hadn’t even known existed. His eyes glowed an unearthly shade of blue, pupils blown wide with fury and anguish.

The demons lunged—and the boy slaughtered them.

The Yamato responded in kind glowing blue blades manifesting in his hands. He moved on reflex, every strike fueled by desperation and rage, cutting down monster after monster with a ferocity that was almost inhuman.

The lawn became a storm of claws, screams, and light.

Selene’s breath caught as she watched him fight—not like a warrior, but like a cornered animal fighting for every second of survival. His tiny frame trembled with exertion, blood splattering his face as he cut through his enemies. One demon managed to sink its claws into his shoulder, and the boy shrieked, twisting violently to tear free. The wound was deep, but he didn’t falter. He spun, slicing its head clean off before collapsing to one knee, panting, blood dripping into the ashes below.

When the last demon fell, the mansion went deathly silent except for the crackling of flames.

Vergil knelt in the ruin of his childhood home, his little chest heaving, body torn and battered. His glowing eyes dimmed, leaving behind the hollow gaze of a child who had been stripped of everything.

He turned toward the door—the one his mother had vanished through. His lips trembled as he whispered,
“Mother…?”

Only fire answered.

The walls groaned. The ceiling above cracked and collapsed.

And in that moment, surrounded by death and flame, a truth took root in his fragile heart:
She didn’t come for me.
She chose Dante. She left me here to die.

The grief was sharp, unbearable, but it quickly twisted into something else. Something darker.

The shadows in the burning hall thickened unnaturally, creeping along the walls and pooling at his feet like living ink. A whisper slithered into his mind, smooth and venomous. “Yes,” the voice crooned, silky as poisoned honey. “They left you. All of them. Alone.”

The boy flinched, clutching his head as the darkness wrapped tighter around him.

“Why suffer for them?” the whisper coaxed. “You don’t need them. I can give you what they never could. Power. Strength to never be abandoned again.”
“No,” Vergil sobbed, his tiny voice breaking as he pressed his hands over his ears. “Stop—stop it!”

“You want to live,” the darkness purred. “You want to matter. To be more than the boy they discarded. I can make you strong. Strong enough that no one will ever hurt you again.”

Selene screamed, thrashing against the vision, desperate to reach him.

“Vergil! Don’t listen! Please—you’re not alone!”
But her words couldn’t pierce the memory.

Young Vergil’s trembling slowly stilled. His breathing evened. His hands fell away from his ears.
And when he opened his eyes again, the coldness set in.
Only darkness stared back.
Selene felt her heart break. This was the moment it all began.
His hatred. His need for power. His belief that he was unworthy of love.

The day a terrified, bloodied child was swallowed whole by the very darkness that would haunt him for decades to come.
And beneath it all, she felt him—Mundus.
A cold, oppressive presence lurking in the shadows, triumphant and cruel. The architect of Vergil’s suffering.

The monster who would one day forge that broken boy into a weapon.

Selene fell to her knees as the memory burned away, tears streaking her face.
“Vergil…” she whispered, clutching her chest.

Now she understood why he feared himself. Why he saw himself as a monster.
Because to him, this was the truth.
No one had come to save him.

Selene collapsed to her knees, the phantom heat of the fire still searing her skin as the memory still surrounded her, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in her chest. Her heart was pounding so violently she could hear it echoing in her ears, mingling with the remnants of young Vergil’s cries and the monstrous whispers of Mundus that still lingered like poison in her mind. She wanted to scream. To tear apart the vision and reshape it into something better—where Eva came for him, where Vergil wasn’t alone, where that fragile, broken boy hadn’t been swallowed whole by darkness. But she couldn’t. She never could. She had been a silent observer, forced to watch the tragedy unfold, powerless to change a single moment. Her nails dug into the floorboards as her breath came in ragged gasps.

“No,” she choked out, her voice trembling. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He—he was just a child.”
The truth struck her then, like lightning through her veins.

Eva.

The memory of the blonde woman came back in sharp clarity—the firelight on her sorrowful face, the way her arms clutched that same worn book Selene had touched, her voice trembling as she whispered promises to protect her sons. There had been no randomness in this. No coincidence.

The very first vision she had ever experienced—a fleeting, vivid nightmare when she was just a girl of ten. She had buried it deep, tried to forget it entirely, writing it off as a childish dream brought on by fever or fear.

But now, with her abilities fully awakened, she saw it for what it truly was.
It hadn’t been a dream.
It had been Eva.
All those years ago, Vergil’s mother had reached across time and fate to find her.
To plant a seed.
To set her on this exact path.

Selene’s lips trembled as tears welled in her eyes. “Eva… you… you sent me to him.”

The realization was overwhelming. Eva hadn’t just been a desperate mother. She had been a seer, like Selene herself—but far more trained, far more powerful.
While Selene had stumbled through life hiding her visions, terrified of what others would think, Eva had used hers with precision and purpose. She had seen the future Vergil would face, the choices he would make, the blood he would spill. And she had acted, setting events in motion to give him a chance at redemption.
Selene was part of that plan.

Her entire life—the isolation, the fear, the way she had been drawn to Fortuna and to Vergil himself—none of it had been random. It had all been guided by Eva’s hand, even from beyond the grave. Selene’s body shook with the weight of it. Her tears fell hot and unrelenting as she realized the terrible responsibility Eva had given her.

Vergil’s salvation rested in her hands.

The last echoes of Eva’s voice rang in her mind, soft but unyielding:
“Save my son.”

Selene clutched her head, memories crashing together.

Eva hadn’t only been trying to protect Dante that night. She hadn’t only hidden him away to survive. She had known what would happen to Vergil—knew that his path would lead him to darkness, to despair, to the manipulations of Mundus. And still, she had let it play out, because there had to be someone who could reach him in the future.
Selene had to be that someone. Her breath hitched as she remembered the small, terrified boy from the vision—the way his screams had torn through the smoke, the way his tiny body had fought against impossible odds. And then she remembered the man Vergil had become, standing tall and cold, his mask of control hiding the brokenness beneath.

It was the same soul.
The same heart.
And he had never been saved.

“Eva… you knew.” Selene’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. “You saw all of this coming. You saw me.”

The worn book beside her seemed to hum faintly, as if answering her.
Selene reached trembling fingers toward it but stopped short.
Her entire life had been shaped by this moment, by this revelation.
Vergil wasn’t just a man she desired, or even a man she loved.
He was her destiny—just as she was his.
And Eva… Eva had been the one to tie their fates together.

Selene wiped her tears with the back of her trembling hand, her resolve hardening even as grief threatened to consume her. No matter what came next—no matter how dark the path ahead—she would fulfill Eva’s final wish.

She would save Vergil.
Even if it meant facing the same darkness that had once claimed him.
Even if it destroyed her.

For the first time, she understood the depth of the bond between them.
It wasn’t only love or desire.
It was purpose.
And Eva had seen it all from the very beginning.

Selene’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as finally the memory tore itself from her mind like a clawed hand being ripped free of flesh. She staggered backward, her knees nearly buckling, but her fingers clutched the old, worn book like it was the only thing tethering her to the present. Its leather cover felt hot under her touch, humming faintly with energy as those Evas’s lingering spirit still resided within its fragile pages. Her body trembled violently, exhaustion settling into her bones like molten lead. Her muscles screamed in protest, as if she had truly run through that burning mansion, a if she had truly been the one swinging a blade at the demons that surrounded a young Vergil. The memory of Evas’s lifeless body, the echoing cries of a boy who had been abandoned and alone, still reverberated in Selene’s skull, pounding like war drums.

She couldn’t stop crying.

The tears streamed down her face unchecked, blurring her vision until everything was distorted shapes and colorless streaks of light. She felt raw, hollowed out, like every part of her had been stripped away and left exposed for the world to see.

“Selene!”

Her name cut through the fog like a blade.

Her head snapped up, though her body barely responded, sluggish and uncooperative. Through the haze of her tears, she saw him—Vergil—storming into the room, his normally composed face twisted in something close to panic. His pale blue eyes, usually sharp and cold as winter ice, were wide with an emotion she had never seen from him before.
He was calling her name again, his voice strained, cracking in a way that rattled her more than the visions ever could. Vergil never lost control. His every word was measured, his every movement deliberate.

But now, he was shaking as he reached for her.
“Selene!” His tone was hoarse, commanding and desperate all at once. “Look at me.”

She wanted to respond. Wanted to tell him she was here, that she wasn’t lost to the darkness. But her throat locked, only a soft, broken sound escaping her lips.
The darkness that had clung to her in the visions still lingered at the edges of her consciousness, whispering temptations and lies. It urged her to let go, to sink back into that abyss and allow herself to be swept away like a helpless child. The same darkness that had taken Vergil when he was just a boy, twisting him into something cold and merciless, was now trying to sink its claws into her. For a single terrifying moment, she felt herself swaying, teetering on the edge of surrender. It would be so easy to just… give up.

To let herself be consumed.

But then she heard his voice again—low, rough, and hers.

“Do not leave me,” he growled, as if speaking through his own fear. His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, grounding her, steadying her. His touch burned through the fog, sending a shock of clarity down her spine.

And something deep inside Selene snapped.
No.
No, she wouldn’t let it end this way.
She wouldn’t allow herself to be just another pawn on Mundus’ chessboard, another tool to hurt Vergil or destroy him.

She thought of Eva’s face, her golden eyes filled with fire and sorrow as she begged Selene to save her son. She thought of young Vergil, bloodied and trembling, fighting for his life with no one coming to his rescue. She thought of the man he had become—the man who now clutched her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
And in that instant, Selene made a vow.
She would never be weak again.
She would never let herself be used to harm him.
She would take control of her powers, no matter how frightening or dangerous they seemed, and she would become strong enough to stand beside him—not as a burden, but as an equal.

Selene forced her trembling legs to lock beneath her, anchoring herself to the floor as she raised her gaze to meet Vergil’s. Her vision was still blurred by tears, but she could see him clearly enough: his face etched with worry and barely contained rage, his aura a storm of dark, crackling power that screamed of his need to protect her.

“Vergil,” she rasped, her voice hoarse and thin but hers.

His grip on her shoulders tightened, his nostrils flaring as though her voice was the only thing holding him back from breaking apart. “You’re here,” he said, softer now, though his voice was still thick with restrained emotion. “You nearly… I thought—” He cut himself off, unable to finish, the words strangled in his throat.

“I’m here,” she whispered again, firmer this time. Her body was weak, yes. Her muscles trembled and her heart felt like it would tear itself apart, but her spirit—her will—had never been stronger.

Selene drew in a shuddering breath and shifted her grip on the book, holding it tight against her chest like a shield.

“I saw everything,” she confessed, tears streaming anew. “Eva… your mother. What she endured. What you endured.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it. “I understand now. Why you fight. Why you hide. Why you… why you fear losing yourself.”

Vergil’s expression twisted, pain flickering across his features before his mask slammed back into place. “Selene—” he began, but she silenced him with a raised hand.
“No,” she said fiercely, surprising even herself with the strength of her tone. “Listen to me. I refuse to let what happened to Eva, to you, repeat itself. I will not be used against you, Vergil. I will not be another chain dragging you into the darkness.”

Her chest heaved, determination radiating from her trembling form. “I’ll master these visions. These powers. I don’t care what it takes—I will learn to control them. I will become strong enough to stand beside you, so that no one can ever hurt us again.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them, heavy and unyielding.
Vergil stared at her, his lips parting slightly, as though he couldn’t quite process the declaration he’d just heard. His breath came shallow, his hands still gripping her shoulders like a lifeline. And then, slowly, he lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers. His breath was ragged, his entire body trembling with emotions he couldn’t name.
“You fool,” he murmured, though his voice was strangely tender. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? What you’re risking?”

Selene closed her eyes, her tears mingling with his breath. “I know exactly what I’m risking,” she whispered back. “And I’d risk it all again. For you.”

For the first time, the bond between them thrummed not with fear or confusion, but with shared resolve.
She would save him.
And he would fight beside her.
No matter what darkness awaited them.

Chapter Text

The stairs creaked under their weight as Vergil led the way down to the main floor of the DMC building, his movements sharp and deliberate. Selene followed close behind, her heart pounding louder with every step. She could feel it—the hum of tension in the air, the way the others downstairs seemed to almost vibrate with urgency. Dante trailed lazily behind them, though Selene could sense his quiet vigilance beneath the relaxed façade. She had told Vergil her plan upstairs, standing her ground as she declared her intent to help them find answers. If these cultists were going to keep pursuing her, if they saw her as their key to unleashing something unspeakable, she couldn’t just sit back and let others fight on her behalf. She had to see for herself what they were dealing with. Vergil had been… predictably furious. The bond between them had crackled with his anger, his overwhelming need to protect her. But he hadn’t forbidden her outright—not yet. That, somehow, felt like its own kind of permission. When they reached the bottom step, Selene’s eyes swept the room and immediately landed on Lady.

She stood near Dante’s desk, her massive weapon strapped to her back, her sharp eyes scanning the group with the precision of a hunter. Nearby, Trish leaned against the wall, arms folded across her chest, looking almost casual—but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. On the center table lay several objects, carefully spaced apart on a black cloth. Even from a distance, Selene felt her breath catch. The items radiated a subtle wrongness, a dark echo in the air around them. Her skin prickled, the fine hairs along her arms rising. 

Lady’s gaze flicked to Selene as the group approached. “Good, you’re here.” Her tone was brisk, clipped, but not unkind. “We’ve been tearing through the cult’s hideouts these past few days, destroying every nest we can find. In one of their deeper chambers, we found these.” She gestured to the artifacts on the table. “Old symbols, ceremonial tools. We’ve seen this kind of thing before, but these…” Lady’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “…these are different. Older. Stronger.” 

Trish tilted her head, golden hair gleaming in the dim light. “They reek of dark power,” she said simply, her voice almost a purr. “These aren’t just props for a ritual. They’re conduits. Whoever’s been pulling the strings behind this cult knows exactly what they’re doing.” Her amber eyes locked on Selene. “And if Dante’s right about you…” 
Selene stiffened. “…then you might be the only one who can tell us exactly what we’re dealing with,” Trish said calmly.  

Selene feeling her hands clench at her sides but didn't flinch when Eva's face stared back at her. "Do you know anything...about seers?"

Trish nodded slowly. “Seers are rare. Even in the demon world, they’re considered… valuable. A true seer can touch an artifact like these and trace the energy woven into it. See not just what happened around it, but why. The danger is…” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “If that darkness is too strong, it can seep into your very soul, corrupting you.” 

Dante leaned casually against the edge of the table, though there was nothing truly casual about the sharp glint in his blue eyes. His arms crossed over his chest, his weight resting on one hip, but Selene could sense the way he was coiled beneath the easy stance. Watching. Calculating. “Alright, hold up,” he said finally, his tone deceptively light. “Before we go running off and playing ‘mystic artifact dress-up,’ I’ve got a question.” His gaze slid to Trish, narrowing. “How the hell do you know so much about seers? Last I checked, you weren’t exactly in the business of tea-leaf reading and fortune cookies.” 

Selene stiffened slightly beside Vergil, glancing at the golden-haired woman. The resemblance to Eva was still unnerving, too sharp, too precise. Every time Selene looked at her, it felt like staring into the ghost of the vision she’d seen—the fire, the grief, the desperate plea to save Vergil. Her fingers curled at her sides. Trish, however, didn’t so much as flinch. Slowly, she uncrossed her arms and tilted her head, her amber eyes gleaming like molten gold. There was something ancient in that gaze, something that reminded Selene that Trish was not human, no matter how perfectly she wore that face. “Because demons have been using seers long before humans knew what they were,” Trish replied, her voice smooth and measured. “In the underworld, seers are rare but… coveted. Their abilities to perceive the threads of fate, to sense shifts in power, make them dangerous. Valuable.” Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. “They’re tools to be exploited, twisted until their visions serve only darkness.” 

Selene’s stomach turned at the words. 

Dante’s smirk faltered, replaced with a flash of something sharper—protectiveness, maybe, or anger. “And you just happen to know this because… what? You read a demonic handbook in your spare time?”

Trish’s eyes slid to him, unamused. “Because I’ve seen it done. I’ve done it.”

The room went still. Even Lady, who rarely let anything rattle her, glanced sharply at Trish. 

Trish pushed away from the wall, stepping closer to the table, her gaze never leaving Dante’s. “You forget what I am, Dante. What I was made to be. Mundus didn’t create me out of thin air—he molded me using ancient knowledge, old rituals. Including how to control a seer.” Her voice dipped lower, quieter, as though the memories left a sour taste in her mouth. “I’ve watched demons chain them, bleed them for their visions, feed them lies until they couldn’t tell past from future. When I look at her”—she gestured at Selene, whose breath hitched. “I know exactly how dangerous this could become.” 

Vergil’s aura surged dangerously beside Selene, a cold and lethal force that made the air itself feel sharper. His hand ghosted near the hilt of Yamato, not quite drawing it, but the implication was clear: one wrong word, one wrong move, and someone would bleed. “Watch yourself,” he said softly, his tone more deadly than a shout. 

Trish met his stare without fear. “I’m not insulting her, Vergil. I’m warning you. The cult doesn’t need to lay a finger on her if they can corrupt her gift. If she touches the wrong artifact without control, if she peers too deeply into the darkness…” She let the sentence hang, unfinished but heavy. Selene swallowed hard, her pulse a wild drumbeat in her ears. The idea of her own visions turning against her made her chest tighten, but there was a flicker of determination beneath the fear. She wouldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t. 

Dante broke the silence with a low whistle. “Well, that’s… cheery.” His gaze flicked between Trish and Selene, then settled on Vergil. “Guess that explains why you’re acting like a guard dog on steroids.” His smirk returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Makes sense now.” Vergil didn’t rise to the jab. His focus remained entirely on Selene, his expression carved from stone, his mind clearly turning over what Trish had said. Selene, meanwhile, felt the weight of every pair of eyes on her. But instead of shrinking beneath it, she lifted her chin, drawing strength from the bond that thrummed between her and Vergil. She wasn’t just a tool. Not to them. Not to him. 

Trish’s words still lingered in the air, though, like the echo of a warning bell. 

And they all knew time was running out. 

Selene swallowed hard, the weight of Trish’s words sinking in. Vergil’s posture shifted subtly beside her, his coat flaring as he moved to stand slightly ahead of her, shielding her from view as if by instinct. His aura darkened, coiled tight like a striking viper. “Then we do not risk it,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. Lady frowned, crossing her arms. “Vergil, we don’t have the luxury of playing it safe. Time’s running out. If these freaks are trying to summon something through Selene, we need to know 
what it is.” Before Vergil could respond, Selene’s attention snagged on one of the artifacts—a small, curved blade with strange runes etched into its hilt. The symbols seemed to writhe as she looked at them, whispering at the edges of her mind. Her pulse quickened. 

Almost without thinking, she stepped forward, her hand lifting toward it. The moment her fingers hovered an inch above the metal, a low hum filled her ears, a rush of energy pulling her closer. 

“Selene.” Vergil’s voice snapped through the haze like a whip. 

Her head jerked up, startled, just as his gloved hand closed around her wrist—not harshly, but with unyielding strength. His grip burned with restrained fury.

“You will not touch that,” he said, his voice dropping to a lethal growl meant only for her ears.  His icy gaze locked on hers, and through the bond she felt the maelstrom of his emotions: anger, fear, desperation. 

Selene’s lips parted, ready to argue, but he stepped closer, his presence enveloping her until the rest of the room fell away. “If there is a vision to be had,” he continued, softer now but no less intense, “then I will be the one to guide you through it. Away from their prying eyes. Away from any risk of… interference.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Dante, Lady, and Trish before snapping back to her. “No one else will see you vulnerable. Not again.” The claim in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. 

Lady’s eyebrows arched. “Vergil, this isn’t exactly the time for private lessons—” 

“It is precisely the time,” Vergil cut her off, his tone razor-sharp. “You require her gift to decode these relics. Very well. You will have it. But only under my supervision.” 

Dante finally spoke up, his usual smirk tempered by concern. “He’s got a point, Lady. If this stuff can mess with her head, maybe letting her do it while everyone’s gawking isn’t the best move.” He shot a glance at Vergil. “Though I’d suggest you keep your temper in check, brother. We don’t need a repeat of last time.” 

Vergil’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t rise to the bait. His focus remained entirely on Selene.

 Selene’s heart pounded. She could see the protective fury in him, but also the fear—the same fear she’d felt in him ever since they’d been bonded. Slowly, she nodded. “Alright,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “We’ll do it your way.”

 Vergil’s grip softened, just barely, as if acknowledging her trust. He released her wrist with a final brush of his fingers, then turned to face the others. Lady’s voice cut sharply through the tense air, her hands braced on the edge of the table, knuckles pale against the wood. Her mis-matched eyes pinned Vergil with a stare that didn’t flinch, didn’t yield, even in the face of his cold, suffocating aura. 

“Absolutely not,” Lady said firmly. “If Selene is going to channel this kind of power—if she’s going to touch those artifacts—we all need to be there. If something goes wrong, if the cult has left a trap or a tether behind, we’ll need every blade, bullet, and bit of magic we’ve got to keep her safe.”

 Selene felt her breath hitch at Lady’s words, at the intensity behind them. She understood the logic, but the thought of so many eyes on her, watching as she delved into the darkness that even she didn’t fully understand, made her skin crawl.

 Vergil’s response was quiet, dangerously so. “No,” he said, voice like ice cracking. 

The single syllable froze the room. Even Dante straightened slightly, sensing the storm brewing beneath his brother’s calm tone. Lady didn’t back down. “Vergil, this isn’t just about you,” she snapped. “I know you think you’ve got this under control, but what happens if she loses herself in whatever hell she sees? What happens if something reaches through her and into you? We don’t even know what we’re dealing with here.” 

Vergil moved, slow and deliberate, stepping forward like a predator stalking prey. The motion wasn’t violent, but it carried the weight of a blade being unsheathed. 

“You misunderstand,” he said, voice silky and cutting all at once. “If Selene’s power spirals beyond control, the last thing she needs is a crowd of armed strangers ready to strike her down the moment they panic. She will not be surrounded by people who fear her. She will not be treated as a weapon or a liability.”

 Selene’s chest tightened. His words struck deep, cutting through the storm of fear and doubt swirling in her mind. 

Lady’s jaw worked, her temper flashing. “And you expect us to just stand back? To let you decide everything?” 

“Yes,” Vergil answered without hesitation, his tone brooking no argument. His eyes burned like blue fire, sharp and unyielding. “I will be alone with her. No one else. If something happens, I will handle it.” 

“You mean if you think you can handle it,” Lady bit back, clearly unwilling to bow to him. The room felt like a powder keg, seconds away from explosion. Dante glanced between them, looking ready to step in before swords were drawn, but before he could speak, Selene’s voice rang out. 

“Enough.” 

The single word wasn’t shouted, but it cut through the tension like a clean blade. Everyone turned to look at her. Selene drew in a steadying breath, her hands clenched at her sides to keep them from trembling. She stepped forward until she stood between Vergil and Lady, her gaze sweeping across them all. 

“I’m not afraid,” she said, and to her surprise, her voice didn’t waver. “Not of the darkness, and of what I might see. Vergil has already proven he can reach me when I’m lost. When I was drowning in that vision the night he came to my apartment, it was his voice, his presence that pulled me back.” Her eyes softened as they slid to Vergil, the tether between them thrumming like a living thing. “If anyone else had been there, it would’ve been chaos. I might’ve hurt someone—or worse. I trust him.” 

Lady’s frown deepened. “Selene, this isn’t about trust—” 

“No,” Selene interrupted, shaking her head. “It is. You all want to protect me, and I’m grateful for that, but too many people in the room will make things worse. I need to focus completely, and the only person who’s ever been able to reach me in that darkness is Vergil.” Her next words were quieter, but no less resolute. “Please… let me do this our way.” 

The plea hung in the air. Dante exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly torn. Trish watched silently, her expression unreadable, while Nico chewed her lip nervously. Finally, Lady’s shoulders sagged, though her glare didn’t lose its edge. “You two are playing with fire,” she muttered. “If this blows up in our faces, it’s on you.” 

Trish leaned back casually against the edge of Dante’s cluttered desk, her arms folded, golden eyes glinting like a cat’s in the dim light. She seemed to be enjoying herself far too much, like she always did when the tension in the room was about to snap. “Well,” she purred, gaze flicking between Vergil and Selene, “it’s plain as day to me what’s going on here.” She let the silence hang, deliberately drawing it out.

“Two people tangled in a bond this strong? It’s practically radiating off you. But…” she cocked her head, tone turning curious, “there’s no completed mark yet. Which means the connection’s unstable. Incomplete.” 

Selene stiffened slightly but didn’t flinch. She already knew what that meant—Vergil had told her in rare, quiet moments, his voice strained as he explained why he always stopped himself at the very edge of losing control. Dante let out a low whistle and threw up his hands. “Yeah, and that’s exactly the problem.” His tone shifted, losing some of its usual easy humor. “We’ve been tossing theories around, and none of ‘em are good. Vergil, if you fully tie yourself to her, there’s no telling what Mundus’s freak-show cult could do with that. For all we know, you’d basically be handing them a damn roadmap straight into both of your heads.” He pointed between them for emphasis, his expression unusually grim. “Think about it: they’d know exactly where to strike, what to twist. They could turn your power against her—or hers against you. You’ve seen what these maniacs are willing to do. Don’t think for a second they wouldn’t exploit the bond if you gave them half a chance.” 

Vergil’s shoulders went rigid, but he didn’t speak. Selene felt his conflict through their connection, a cold, sharp current of fear laced with anger. 

Trish snorted, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. You two and your doomsday scenarios.” She waved a dismissive hand, her tone light but edged with amusement. “You’re forgetting how bonds actually work. When two people are fully joined, it’s not just a symbol or some mystical handcuffs. It’s… dynamic.” She straightened, her expression shifting into something more serious, her voice carrying a quiet weight. “Vergil would be able to channel his power directly into her, and vice versa. A constant flow. Their strengths—and weaknesses—shared. If Selene were just a normal human, it’d be simple. Cleaner. But she’s not.” Her golden gaze landed on Selene, sharp and assessing. “She’s a seer. That makes her a very rare piece on the board.” 

Selene’s breath caught. “What does that mean for us?”

 Trish shrugged one elegant shoulder. “It means the rules change. The bond would amplify her abilities, maybe even beyond what she realizes. And you, Vergil…” She turned her gaze to him now, watching him like a hawk. “If you’re connected this deeply, you might be able to feel what she sees. Experience it. Even channel her visions through yourself.” 

Vergil froze. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped, a flicker of raw memory flashing in his eyes. 

Selene felt his pulse spike through the tether that bound them, her own breath hitching at the surge of emotion he couldn’t contain. 

Trish’s eyes narrowed, sharp as knives. “You’ve felt something, haven’t you?” 

Vergil didn’t answer. 

Dante stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Vergil?” 

Vergil’s jaw worked, his throat tight as he forced the words out. “When we first met,” he said at last, his voice low and clipped, “the moment our eyes locked…” His gaze flicked to Selene, unreadable and intense. “I saw it. Her vision. As though I was standing in it myself.” Selene’s stomach twisted, her mind flashing back to that night—the terror, the overwhelming darkness, the way the world had collapsed around her just before she blacked out. She’d thought it was only her burden to carry.

“That was no mere coincidence,” Trish murmured, looking almost intrigued now. “That’s the bond reaching out before it was even fully formed. You didn’t just feel her—you experienced her power. And she probably experienced you in turn.” Dante let out a sharp breath, running a hand down his face. “Well, that settles it. If this thing gets completed, there’s no telling where the line between you two ends and begins. Which means…” He looked straight at his brother, his expression deadly serious. “…we can’t risk it. Not yet. If Mundus has even half a clue about how this bond works, he’ll twist it to his advantage. You think losing yourself once was bad? Imagine being chained to her mind while he’s pulling the strings.” 

Vergil’s hands curled into fists at his sides, every muscle in his body wound tight. Selene could feel his fury and fear, a tempest of emotion he didn’t know how to voice. 

Trish, however, just tilted her head, still watching them both like a cat with a pair of cornered birds. “Or…” she said softly, “you could use it before he does. If you understand each other—truly understand each other—you’d be unstoppable.”

 Selene’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her gaze met Vergil’s, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. They were two halves of a single storm, bound together by choice, by fate, by something neither of them fully understood. 

And for the first time, Selene realized just how dangerous that truly was. 

Trish’s gaze sharpened, gliding between Vergil and Selene with a predator’s precision. She crossed one long leg over the other where she sat, fingers drumming lazily against her knee as though she’d already solved a puzzle that everyone else was still fumbling with. “Tch,” she clicked her tongue, the sound slicing through the tense air. “You know, this is starting to make too much sense.”

 Selene felt her spine stiffen, her fingers tightening against her thighs. Vergil shifted subtly beside her, the only outward sign of his discomfort the rigid set of his jaw. 

Trish arched a perfectly shaped brow and leaned forward, her golden eyes glimmering with something between amusement and scorn. “You two aren’t fully bonded, and it’s not because you lack opportunity. Hell, anyone with half a sense of smell can tell how… physical this connection already is.” Her lips curled into a smirk that made Selene’s cheeks heat. 

“But here’s the thing,” she went on, her voice now edged with something harder, a cutting truth beneath the teasing tone. “Vergil—” she gestured toward him, her sharp nail slicing the air like a dagger “—you’re carrying around enough guilt to drown a city. You want redemption so badly you choke on it. Every choice you make is about control, about proving to yourself you aren’t the monster you once were. And you think giving in to this bond, letting it complete, would somehow doom her. So you hold back.” 

Vergil’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his aura spiking with quiet fury, but he didn’t speak. That silence, that lack of denial, was damning enough. Then Trish’s gaze snapped to Selene, who instinctively drew back a fraction, though something in her chest sparked at being seen so clearly. “And you,” Trish said, her tone softening—but only slightly, like a knife wrapped in silk. “You’ve spent your whole life in darkness, in fear. Abused, isolated, told your visions made you dangerous. You’ve never truly known what love is—not human love, not this. Your entire world has been about survival and silence. So when something this powerful comes along, you can’t fully grasp it. You want to, desperately, but you’ve never been shown how to see yourself through someone else’s eyes.” 

Selene’s throat tightened, a storm of emotion swirling in her chest. The bond pulsed faintly between her and Vergil, aching, alive. Trish spread her hands, her smirk returning, though it was laced with an edge of pity. “So there you have it. Two people standing on opposite cliffs, staring across the abyss. Vergil’s terrified of destroying what he loves, and Selene doesn’t know how to accept that she is what’s loved. And until you both deal with that mess, this bond will stay incomplete. You’ll keep circling each other, half-connected, half-lost, and wide open for someone like Mundus to exploit.” Dante let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a grimace. “Well, damn. That’s… one hell of a therapy session, Trish.”

 “Not therapy,” Trish said flatly, never breaking eye contact with Vergil and Selene. “Reality.” She uncrossed her legs and stood in a fluid motion, her presence filling the room with quiet authority. “You two think this is just about power and survival, but it’s not. This is about choice. Your choice.” She tilted her head, her golden hair falling like molten sunlight over one shoulder. “You either face yourselves and each other, or you keep dancing around it while the world burns. And believe me,” she added, her smirk returning, “if you don’t claim what’s already yours, someone else will find a way to take it from you.” 

Vergil’s hands flexed at his sides, every line of his body taut. Selene’s breath came fast, her heart pounding as Trish’s words sank deep into her bones. She dared to glance at Vergil, and when his stormy blue eyes met hers, the tether between them thrummed like a living thing. Trish saw it too. And for once, there was no teasing in her expression—only certainty. “Figure it out,” she said simply. “Before it’s too late.” 

Selene’s breath hitched, her cheeks burning as Trish’s words echoed in the room like they were carved into stone. It felt like the floor had been ripped out from under her, exposing parts of herself she didn’t even have the courage to acknowledge. She wrapped her arms around herself, half as a shield, half to keep from trembling. 

She’d been laid bare before a room full of people she barely knew, in front of Vergil no less—the one person she wanted to see her strength, not her fears. The heat in her face was mortifying, a deep crimson shame that curled up her spine. For a moment, she thought she might shrink away entirely, retreat back into silence the way she always had when things became overwhelming.

 But something deep inside, something new, pushed back against that old instinct. Eva’s voice—the one from her visions, soft and fierce all at once—seemed to whisper through her veins: “Save him. Save my son.” 

Selene lifted her chin, shaky but determined. Her voice was quieter than she would have liked, 
but there was a steady edge beneath it.

 “If… if you see us so clearly,” she began, darting an uneasy glance at Vergil before locking her gaze on Trish, “then tell me. What would be the best route? How do we… fix this? Fix us?” It was a simple question, but the weight behind it was crushing. Selene had never been the one to ask for help—not from her father, not from anyone. Asking now felt like peeling back her skin to reveal every raw nerve, every old wound. And worse, she was asking Trish, a woman who carried Eva’s face like a cruel mirror of the visions Selene had been haunted by. Even now, looking at her made Selene’s stomach twist.

 For a heartbeat, Trish’s expression softened. She saw the flush in Selene’s cheeks, the way her fingers gripped her own arms so tightly her knuckles turned white. It wasn’t weakness. It was a kind of bravery that comes only from someone who has been forced to be strong alone for too long. Trish exhaled slowly, folding her arms across her chest as she stepped loser to Selene, and she braced herself for more of a harsh answer. Instead, she crouched down slightly, lowering her stance so she was closer to 
Selene’s level—a subtle show of respect rather than dominance. 

“You want my honest advice?” Trish said, her voice steady and direct. “Stop running from each other.” Selene blinked, startled by the bluntness of it. “You’re both circling this thing like it’s some great monster waiting to devour you. But what you have isn’t a curse, Selene—it’s a bond. It’s primal, older than the world you think you know. Demons like me? We’ve seen it play out for centuries. That thread between you two is power, yes, but it’s also choice.” Trish straightened, tilting her head toward Vergil, whose face remained a carefully controlled mask even as his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Mundus?” She gave a bitter laugh. “That bastard thrives on fragile things.” 

Selene’s stomach dropped at the name, the darkness of her visions pressing at the edge of her mind. Trish’s tone softened just a fraction. “The best route forward? You stop letting fear make your choices. You choose each other, completely, no hesitation. That’s the only way you’ll stand a chance against what’s coming.. .” Trish inclined her head to Vergil. "And you? I've said this to you before, once you find your mate. There's no severing it."

Selene’s breath came fast, her chest tight. She turned her head slightly, just enough to steal a glance at Vergil. His blue eyes were already on her, stormy and conflicted, as though he was holding back a thousand unspoken words. The bond between them pulsed in her chest, aching, alive. 

“And if we can’t?” Selene whispered, her voice breaking.

 Trish’s answer was mercilessly direct. “Then Mundus wins. And you’ll both lose everything you’ve fought for—each other most of all.”

 Selene’s hands trembled at her sides, but for the first time, she didn’t look away.

Lady’s voice cut through the room, calm but carrying a weight that silenced everyone. 

“We can’t risk it anymore.”

Vergil froze, head tilting just slightly, his eyes narrowing as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. Selene felt the storm brewing beneath his carefully built mask through the bond, and it nearly stole her breath. His whole body radiated tension, the kind that could shatter into violence with the wrong word. “You agreed before,” Vergil said, his voice a cold, low blade. “You swore this would be only us.” 

Lady didn’t flinch, though even she seemed to measure her breath carefully before responding. “That was before, Vergil. Before we saw just how fragile this bond really is.” Her gaze flicked between him and Selene, assessing them both with a sharpness that left Selene squirming. “If one of you falters in there—if either of you lets your guard slip—the darkness won’t just take one of you. It could consume both, corrupting everything we’ve fought for.” Selene swallowed hard. She wanted to argue, to say she trusted Vergil completely. But even now, with his presence at her side steady and powerful, she could feel the thin thread of unease in him. He was terrified for her, and beneath that terror was something darker—a whisper of the same abyss that had once claimed him. 

Dante dragged a hand through his silver hair, muttering under his breath before finally stepping forward. “This is crap,” he said flatly, though his usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t like it any more than he does. But…” He glanced at Vergil, and his tone softened, uncharacteristically serious. “…Lady’s not wrong. We’ve all seen what happens when darkness sinks its claws into someone. You were both there when I had to fight you, remember? I’m not going through that again. Not with her life—or yours—on the line.” 

Vergil’s eyes flashed dangerously at the reminder, but he didn’t strike back. Selene sensed the conflict in him so vividly through their bond that it made her dizzy: rage, guilt, fear, and a fierce possessiveness that wrapped around her like a shield. 

Trish leaned casually against the desk, arms folded, her golden eyes gleaming with something sharp and knowing. “For once, I agree with Dante,” she said smoothly. “You two are powerful together, yes. But you’re not in sync, not completely. And when two beings are connected like this…” She gave a pointed glance at Selene’s throat where a mating mark would have been. “…the consequences of imbalance can be catastrophic. If her visions spiral out of control, if she draws in too much darkness, she could drag you down with her.” 

Vergil’s head snapped toward her, his aura flaring in a silent, deadly warning. “She will not—” 

Trish held up a hand, unbothered by the threat in his tone. “I’m not saying it will happen. I’m saying it could. And if it does, we need to be ready to pull you both back before you take half the city with you.” 

The words hung heavy in the air. Selene’s heart pounded, her palms damp beneath her gloves. She hated being spoken about like some dangerous weapon, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She had lost control before—when the visions overwhelmed her, when Vergil had been the only thing pulling her back. Lady’s tone softened, though it never lost its edge. “Vergil, I know you want to protect her. Hell, I want to protect her. But we can’t let this come down to just the two of you anymore. If you both fall, we lose everything. We lose you.” Her gaze flicked to Selene. “And maybe worse, we lose her.” 

Selene’s throat tightened. Through the bond, she felt Vergil’s fury, his unwillingness to compromise, but beneath it was something far more vulnerable: fear. Fear of losing her, fear of losing himself, fear of becoming that monster again.

 Dante exhaled slowly, stepping closer to his brother, his usual playfulness stripped away. “Look,” he said, his voice low and even, “I get it. You don’t want an audience. But think about what’s at stake here. You two are connected in ways we don’t fully understand. If something goes wrong and you both go dark side? There’s no coming back from that. Not for either of you.” Vergil’s hands twitched at his sides, and for a terrifying moment Selene thought he might draw Yamato. Instead, he turned slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto her. It wasn’t anger she saw there, not truly. It was desperation, raw and unmasked.

 "I won’t allow it,” he said, his voice a low growl meant only for her. 

Selene’s breath caught. She wanted to fight for him, to fight for them, but she knew she had to be brave now. Slowly, she reached for his hand, her gloved fingers brushing against his. “You don’t have to allow it,” she said softly, meeting his gaze with all the strength she could muster. “But you have to trust me. Trust us. This… this is bigger than just you and me.”

 For a long, heavy heartbeat, Vergil said nothing. His chest rose and fell sharply, the bond between them pulsing so strongly it nearly stole her breath. 
Then, with a motion that felt like surrender and defiance all at once, he gave a single, curt nod. “If anything happens,” he warned, his voice like ice, “I will cut it down myself. Cultists, demons…” His gaze slid briefly to Dante and Lady, his meaning unmistakable. “…or anyone else who dares stand between us.” 

No one dared challenge him.

 Lady simply nodded, tension easing slightly from her posture. “Then it’s decided. We prepare the room. Whatever comes next, we face it together.” She took a deep breath, before she looked upstairs. "Well might as well set up Vergils room then, we'll block the windows and set up small charms just in case". She walked by Dante before grabbing him by the collar to drag him with her, Trish followed close behind.

As the heavy footsteps made there way upstairs, silence draped over the room like a weighted cloak. Selene stood still, her breath uneven, listening to the fading footsteps downstairs until all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Vergil remained rooted near the window, the dying light casting his sharp profile in shadows. His posture was as unyielding as stone, but she could feel the tempest swirling beneath the surface through the bond—the frustration, the conflict, the possessiveness he didn’t dare voice.

Neither spoke for a long moment. The earlier conversation with Trish still clung to the air like smoke, her blunt observations about them cutting too deep.

Selene finally broke the silence, her voice quiet but steady. “She wasn’t wrong, you know.”

Vergil’s head turned slightly, just enough for one piercing blue eye to meet hers. A warning flickered there. “Trish speaks too freely of things she doesn’t understand,” he said, tone clipped and cold, though a thread of strain wove through it.

“She understands more than you want to admit,” Selene countered softly, taking a cautious step toward him. “The way we… aren’t in sync. How you keep pulling back, holding pieces of yourself from me, as if that will keep me safe.”

His jaw tightened. “It will keep you safe,” he bit out. “The less entwined we are, the less power anyone has to exploit you. Or me.”

Selene’s chest ached at the distance in his words, even as she saw through it. “And yet the cult already knows about me. They’ve already made me their target. Whether you mark me or not, they’ll come. Whether we’re in sync or not, they’ll use whatever leverage they can to get to you. Pretending that keeping me at arm’s length will protect me is…” She faltered, then shook her head. “It’s a lie, Vergil. And we both know it.”

His head tilted slightly, but he didn’t turn. “I have nothing to say that will not… complicate matters further.”

Selene’s hands curled at her sides. She hated how distant his voice sounded, how carefully he was walling himself off. Again. “Vergil,” she breathed, forcing strength into her tone, “this isn’t just about strategy or safety. It’s about us. About what you’re holding back.”

That finally made him turn. His gaze pinned her where she stood, cold and piercing—but beneath it, she caught a flicker of something fractured, something vulnerable.

“You think I’m holding back because I don’t feel anything for you?” His voice was sharp, almost accusing.

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I know you care. I feel it every time you’re near. That’s what makes this so hard. You let me feel your need for me, your protectiveness, even your rage. But you never let me in, Vergil. Not fully. It’s like you’ve locked away the deepest parts of yourself and thrown away the key.”

She stepped closer, her chest tight with emotion she could no longer contain. “And I don’t know if that’s because you don’t trust me… or because you don’t trust yourself.”

His jaw clenched. “You do not understand the weight of what you’re asking.”

“Then help me understand!” she burst out, her voice cracking. “Because standing here, feeling this connection, knowing we’re bound by something bigger than either of us—and still being shut out—it hurts, Vergil. It feels like you’d rather keep me at arm’s length than risk letting me see the man beneath all this armor.”

She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to continue. “If you don’t feel the same way I do, if this bond is just… instinct for you, then say it. I’ll accept it, even if it tears me apart. But don’t keep punishing both of us by hiding behind your past.”

Vergil flinched, barely perceptible, but she saw it. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his composure cracking for the briefest moment.

“My past,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “is soaked in blood. In betrayal. I have built myself on ruin. You think you want to see the man beneath the mask, but you do not know what you are asking to face, I have told you what I have done.” Vergil raised his chin up. "But nevertheless, that doesn't mean you know me."

Selene didn’t back down. She met his fury with quiet determination. “I do know. I saw pieces of it in my vision. The boy who was left to fight for his life alone. The man who was twisted by darkness because no one was there to save him. And still, here you are, Vergil. You came back. You fought to reclaim yourself.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but her voice stayed steady. “If you can fight that hard to return to this world, to choose humanity again… then let me fight for you now. Let me share the weight you carry instead of watching you destroy yourself beneath it.”

Selene’s chest tightened, frustration clawing up her throat like wildfire. The bond between them throbbed wildly, a steady drumbeat beneath her skin that demanded to be acknowledged, to be fed. It was like a living thing now, growing stronger every second he refused to speak. She could feel him closing himself off again, retreating behind those cold walls of silence, and it made her want to scream.

“Why won’t you just say something?” she snapped, her voice breaking with hurt. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “You can’t just stand there—stone-faced—while I’m… while we’re like this. I’m drowning in it, Vergil. In you. And all you do is—”

The bond surged violently, cutting her off with a wave of heat that stole her breath. Her vision blurred for a split second, her knees going weak, and then—he moved.

In two strides, he was on her.

Before she could process what was happening, his hands gripped her face with a gentleness that belied the feral intensity in his eyes. His mouth crushed against hers, raw and demanding, swallowing the last of her words. It wasn’t a kiss meant to soothe or pacify; it was a claim, an unspoken confession of everything he refused to put into words. Selene gasped into him, her frustration scattering like smoke. His kiss was fire and ice, restrained control fraying at the edges. The bond between them flared to life, a molten tether that made her chest ache with need. She clutched at his shoulders, matching his fervor, pouring her own emotions into the kiss—her fear, her longing, her desperate need for him to see her. He broke away just enough to breathe, his forehead pressing to hers, his breath ragged. “Enough,” he rasped, his voice almost unrecognizable, rough with suppressed emotion. “Words… they will fail me. They always fail me.”

Selene shook her head, tears springing to her eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer force of what passed between them. “Then show me,” she whispered, trembling. “If you can’t say it, Vergil, then show me what you feel.”

A guttural sound left his throat—half growl, half plea. The sound vibrated through her bones. He didn’t hesitate this time. His mouth claimed hers again, harder, deeper, like a man starved. The kiss was chaos and salvation, punishing and worshipful all at once. It stole every coherent thought from her mind, leaving only the relentless pull of the bond and the way his body trembled against hers. The frustration she’d felt moments ago bled into something sharper, more desperate. This wasn’t just passion. This was everything. His fury at himself, his fear of losing her, the darkness he fought every day—all of it poured into the kiss, breaking her open in the process. Her whimper broke the air between them, and it was like pouring fuel on a fire. Vergil’s grip tightened, his fingers sliding to the back of her neck to hold her still as his lips ravaged hers. The raw need in him made her dizzy, a hunger so vast it terrified her—and yet she welcomed it, matched it, gave herself to it completely.

When he finally tore his mouth from hers, they were both gasping, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving. The silence between them was no longer cold and sharp—it was molten, thrumming with everything they hadn’t said.

Vergil’s voice was barely audible, a hoarse whisper against her lips. “This… this is all I have to give you right now.”

Selene’s chest rose and fell sharply as she watched him, her own breath syncing with his ragged rhythm. Through the bond, she could feel the tempest raging inside him—need, fury, fear, all tangled into a knot so tight it nearly strangled her. His control was slipping, she could sense it in every flicker of his aura, every tremor that raced beneath his skin.

And he was withdrawing.

Vergil always withdrew when things became too much. She had seen it in the way he turned cold after moments of rare intimacy, retreating behind that impenetrable wall of ice. He would pull back now too, she knew it—he would swallow his desire, his fear, his everything, and leave her aching and lost. And they didn’t have the luxury of that kind of distance. Not now. Not when they were moments away from plunging into the darkness of that artifact, when they would need to trust each other completely or risk being consumed.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She couldn’t let him retreat this time.

Before he could move, before he could even gather himself to speak, Selene moved.

Her hands shot out, clutching at his coat, dragging him down to her with a desperation that surprised even herself. She rose onto her toes, pressing her lips to his with a bruising, hungry force. It wasn’t graceful or gentle—it was raw, wild, almost violent in its need. Vergil froze. For a heartbeat, he didn’t respond, his body locked tight as a bowstring. His eyes went wide, a low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest at the audacity of her move. She felt the rage and the want collide inside him like two storms crashing together.

Selene didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Her fingers fisted in his silken hair, holding him to her as if she could tether him there, to her, to the present moment instead of whatever horrors clawed at his mind. She kissed him harder, pouring every ounce of her fear, her desire, her determination into that single act.

He tasted of darkness and heat, of everything she had come to crave and fear in equal measure.

“You won’t run from me, Vergil,” she whispered against his lips, her voice breaking. “Not now. Not when I need you.”

That was all it took.

The dam inside him shattered.

Vergil’s snarl tore through the room as his hands finally surged into motion, one cupping the back of her head, the other clamping around her waist. In one swift, terrifyingly strong motion, he spun her and pinned her against the wall, his body caging hers completely. His mouth devoured hers with a hunger that bordered on savage, his kiss punishing, desperate, as if he could brand his claim into her soul through sheer force alone. Selene gasped into it, her back arching, her legs trembling. Through the bond, she felt it all: his terror, his craving, his violent need to keep her safe warring with the equally violent need to have her, to lose himself inside her before the darkness could take them both.

Her hands roamed over him without thought, feeling the sharp tremors in his muscles, the ragged heat of his skin even through his clothes. She needed to ground herself, to ground him, before they stepped into the abyss together.

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking into a sob she didn’t mean to release. “Please, Vergil, don’t hold back from me. Not now.”

Something primal in him snapped at that. His fangs grazed the soft skin of her throat as he growled low, a sound of possession and surrender all at once.

Selene clung to him, trembling, as his control bled away completely.

He didn’t speak—not a single word—but through his actions, his kiss, the trembling force of his touch, he told her everything he couldn’t put into words: that he needed her just as much as she needed him, that she was his anchor in this encroaching darkness, and that he would never let her fall.

Even if it meant losing himself in the process.

Selene’s back hit the cold wood beneath the staircase with a soft thud, her breath catching as Vergil’s towering frame caged her in. His hands were firm but not unkind, one braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip possessively as if daring her to even think about slipping away. His entire body radiated heat and coiled restraint, his jaw tight, his breath ragged. Through the bond, she felt it—the storm raging inside him. It burned hot, blistering, and yet… beneath it was a razor edge of fear. Fear of losing her, fear of losing himself.

She couldn’t stand it.

Selene’s trembling hands rose of their own accord, skimming over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the taut muscles twitch under her fingertips. Her body acted before her mind could catch up, her hips shifting forward, brushing against the powerful thigh that pressed so dangerously close between her legs.

A sharp gasp escaped her throat. The friction was too much, too sudden.

Vergil’s breath hitched audibly, his head snapping down, silver hair curtaining his face as his piercing blue eyes burned into hers. Warning.

“Selene…” His voice was low, frayed at the edges, like silk stretched to tearing. “Still your movements.”

But she didn’t—couldn’t. The need clawed at her, visceral and wild. The memory of his hands, his body, his claim on her, filled every corner of her mind. Her hips moved again, this time with a trembling determination, grinding down against the firm muscle of his thigh.

A strangled, guttural noise left Vergil’s throat, one that sent a shiver of both fear and desire shooting up her spine.

“Damn it…” he hissed, one gloved hand flying up to cover her mouth. The gesture was almost frantic, his palm pressing lightly against her lips—not to hurt her, but to silence her. His head tilted slightly, his gaze flicking up toward the direction of Dante’s voice somewhere above them.

Selene’s heart pounded. She could still hear the muffled cadence of Dante’s and Lady’s conversation, the occasional low murmur of Trish’s voice. They were so close.

Vergil leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his breath searing hot against her skin.

“Quiet,” he growled softly, a command wrapped in velvet. “If they hear us…”

His unfinished sentence hung heavy between them, promising danger—not from the others, but from him.

Selene’s wide eyes locked onto his, her body trembling against his. Her hands clung to his coat as if it were the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely. She nodded, a tiny, shaky movement against his palm, letting him know she understood.

But even as she agreed, her hips betrayed her, grinding once more against his thigh in a helpless, needy motion.

Vergil’s eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, his self-control fraying like threads pulled taut. When they opened again, they glowed with a darker, hungrier light. He removed his hand from her mouth only to replace it with his lips, crashing down on hers in a kiss so fierce it stole the very breath from her lungs. The kiss silenced her more effectively than any threat could have, his tongue tasting of desperation and dark promise.

As his mouth consumed hers, Vergil’s hands shifted—one pinning her wrists above her head, the other gripping her thigh, pulling it higher, forcing her against him.

She moaned into his kiss, muffled and wild, every sound she made swallowed by him.

Above them, Dante’s laughter drifted faintly through the floorboards, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the stairs.

Vergil’s composure was already hanging by a thread, but when Selene’s hips rolled forward in a desperate, pleading rhythm, he snapped. His breath hitched, his sharp teeth bared for a fleeting moment before his mouth crushed down on hers, swallowing her gasp in a kiss so raw and consuming it bordered on violence.

With one swift motion, he gathered the delicate fabric of her gown, bunching it in his hands and forcing it upward until it pooled around her waist. Cool air rushed over her bare thighs, and Selene shivered—not from the chill, but from the sheer anticipation coursing through her veins. She tried to whisper his name, but Vergil devoured the sound, his tongue tasting her, his lips demanding complete surrender.

His body pinned hers against the shadowed wall beneath the staircase, his frame a shield and a prison all at once. His free hand, trembling ever so slightly despite his overwhelming strength, slid between her thighs. The first brush of his fingers made her jolt, a muffled cry escaping into his mouth.

“Hush,” he growled against her lips, a dangerous, husky command. His thumb circled her clit with maddening slowness, his fingers teasing the slick heat of her folds. “You will be silent, Selene.”

She tried—Fuck, she tried—to obey, biting down on her own lip to keep from moaning aloud, but her body betrayed her. Her hips surged forward, seeking more of him, desperate for release. Vergil’s grip on her tightened, pinning her harder against the wall, his long fingers plunging deeper, toying with her with precision that was both exquisite and torturous. Her vision blurred. She felt like she was floating and falling all at once, every nerve alight with sensation. Through their bond, she could feel him too—the dark, fierce hunger raging inside him, the possessive need that burned through his veins. It frightened her, even as it thrilled her to her core. Vergil’s restraint, already frayed to the breaking point, finally snapped. His breath came in ragged bursts, his pale blue eyes glowing faintly with a dangerous edge as he sank down to his knees before her. Selene’s back hit the cool wall, her trembling hands catching herself on the wooden banister behind her for balance. She barely had time to draw a shaky breath before he was there—between her thighs, consuming every inch of her with his presence.

Without a word, he gripped her hips, the strength of his hands leaving her no room to escape. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted one of her legs, hooking it over his broad shoulder until she was spread open for him, completely vulnerable beneath the staircase’s shadowed alcove. The position was maddeningly exposing, her gown bunched high around her waist, the cool air on her flushed skin only heightening her sensitivity.

His gaze traveled upward, locking with hers. Selene swallowed hard at the raw, unrestrained hunger she saw in his eyes. His voice, when it came, was a guttural promise, deep and commanding, the kind of tone that made her pulse stutter.

“If you make a sound,” he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, “I will stop.”

The threat cut through her haze of desire like a blade. Selene’s breath hitched, panic and need tangling together inside her. She nodded quickly, unable to speak, knowing full well he meant it.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice like dark velvet. His hands tightened on her thighs, holding her open, his claws of control razor-thin. And then—he descended.

The first stroke of his tongue against her drenched heat was slow, torturous, deliberate. Selene’s entire body jolted, her back arching against the wall, her mouth flying open on a gasp she smothered against her hand. Vergil’s eyes flicked up at her, daring her silently to make even a whisper of sound. He worked her with calculated precision, each movement maddeningly thorough. His tongue circled and teased, delving deep before retreating to lap at her swollen clit with agonizing slowness. Selene’s nails dug into the wood behind her, splinters biting her palms as she fought to stay silent, her vision blurring from the sheer force of holding back.

Every sense was magnified. She could hear the muted chatter of Dante and Lady upstairs, utterly oblivious. She could feel the vibration of Vergil’s low growl reverberate through her core, a sinful hum that nearly ripped a scream from her throat. She tasted her own fear and desire on her tongue as she bit down hard on her lip, copper blooming in her mouth to keep herself quiet. Vergil, for his part, was utterly relentless. He wasn’t simply pleasuring her—he was consuming her. His mouth moved with both reverence and ferocity, worshipping and punishing in equal measure. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, was designed to drive her to the brink and hold her there, denying her the release she craved until she was trembling violently.

Vergil tilted his head back slightly, his blue steel eyes catching hers in a snare. The intensity of that gaze rooted her in place. "Look at me." he commanded, his voice a low, silken growl that brooked no argument. "Do not look away."

Her breath caught, uneven and ramped. She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to escape the overwhelming intimacy of his stare. Slowly, she obeyed, turning her head down and meeting his piercing gaze.

"Thats it," he murmured, a flicker of approval flashing in his eyes. His grip on her thighs tightened, spreading her further, baring her completely to his view before he returned to core. "Do not hide from me. Not now. Not ever."

A strangled sound escaped her throat; tears pricked her eyes as the coil of pleasure tightened unbearably inside her. Her thighs quaked, threatening to close around his head, but Vergil’s iron grip kept her perfectly spread, his hold unyielding. Vergil's low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against her slit, a darkly amused sound as he dragged his tongue again circling her clit, down to her opening in repeated motions.

Bastard

When she thought she couldn’t take another second, he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice ragged, a command wrapped in silk and steel.

“Careful, my dear,” he purred, she heard him licking his lips, his breath hot against her slick skin. “Not. A. Sound.”

Before she could even nod, he surged forward, his mouth latching onto her clit with ruthless intent while two of his fingers slid inside her, curling upward to find the exact spot that made white-hot pleasure explode behind her eyes.  She forced herself to keep her gaze every time he glanced up at her through his lashes. Over and Over, she felt him spread her with his fingers, curling into that spot with every thrust, feeling the coil tighten in her lower belly but not reaching that snap, till his lips wrapped around her clit and sucked hard, giving a deep groan that vibrated against her throbbing core.

Shit

Selene’s scream caught in her throat, emerging only as a strangled sob as her climax hit her like a tidal wave. She convulsed against the wall, body jerking uncontrollably, her vision going white as she rode out the storm. Vergil never relented, his tongue and fingers working her through every pulse and quake of release until she nearly collapsed against him, utterly spent.

Only then did he pull back, his mouth glistening, his breath harsh. He pressed a final, reverent kiss to the trembling inside of her thigh before looking up at her, his expression utterly feral.

“You did well,” he murmured, his voice rough, pride and possessiveness mingling. 

Selene’s entire body shuddered, not just from the fading aftershocks of pleasure, but from the bone-deep certainty that this man—this demon—would destroy the world for her, and she would let him.

Vergil rose in one fluid, predatory motion, towering over her, his tongue swept languidly over his lower lip, savoring her taste, his sharp eyes never leaving hers. Selene’s legs still trembled, barely able to hold her up as her back remained pinned against the wall. Her chest heaved, breath ragged, and her flushed cheeks made her look every bit the vision of sin and innocence he craved. He bent toward her slowly, almost reverently, until his lips hovered just above hers. The kiss he gave her was not soft—it was searing, desperate. His tongue pressed past her parted lips, forcing her to taste herself on him, claiming her mouth as thoroughly as he had claimed the rest of her moments before. Selene whimpered into the kiss, her fingers clutching helplessly at the lapels of his coat, clinging to him as if he were the only thing tethering her to reality.

When he finally broke the kiss, Vergil’s breath came harsh and uneven, his forehead resting briefly against hers. He allowed himself that fleeting moment of tenderness, though his entire body was rigid with restraint. He smoothed his hands down her trembling form, carefully tugging her rumpled gown back into place, adjusting it with meticulous care as though he could erase any trace of his ravenous need. His touch was unexpectedly gentle now, fingers brushing lightly against her skin as if to soothe the fire he’d ignited. But there was no hiding the truth of his own desire. His arousal was painfully evident, straining against the confines of his trousers. Every controlled motion was a battle against the urge to take her again right there, to lose himself completely in the abyss of their bond. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to step back a fraction, to breathe, to think.

Selene’s dazed gaze flicked downward, and she swallowed hard, her blush deepening as she realized just how desperately he wanted her. Vergil saw her reaction and smirked, a dark, knowing curve of his lips that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

“Later,” he promised, his voice low and rough with barely restrained lust, a vow more than a suggestion. His gloved fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her flushed face, his touch lingering on her cheek before trailing down to her jaw. “When there are no eyes, no interruptions… when I can take my time and show you what you truly mean to me.”

The weight of his words hung between them, heavy and electrifying. Then, with all the control of a predator leashed only by necessity, he straightened and adjusted his own clothes with brisk, sharp movements. His hands trembled faintly as he fastened his belt tighter, a testament to how close he had come to surrendering entirely. His hunger for her hadn’t faded—it had merely been forced deeper, simmering, ready to erupt when given the chance.

Selene’s legs still felt weak beneath her, her body humming from the aftershocks of pleasure and the raw intensity of his promise. She opened her mouth to speak, to say anything at all, but he silenced her with a single searing glance, his eyes glowing faintly with the remnants of his demonic power.

“Compose yourself,” he murmured, though his own voice was thick with desire. His thumb traced the edge of her swollen lower lip, lingering there for the briefest heartbeat before he stepped back, his towering frame shielding her as he listened intently for any sound of Dante or Lady nearby.

Selene’s pulse thundered in her ears, her body already aching for him again. Later, he had said. Later, when nothing stood between them.

And from the dark fire burning in Vergil’s gaze, she knew that when that moment came, there would be no holding back. 

Dante’s voice cut through the charged silence like a blade, his tone laced with impatience and just a hint of teasing bravado. “Yo! Lovebirds!” he bellowed from the upper floor, his voice carrying down the staircase. “We’ve got everything ready to go up here, so let’s get this over with before Lady chews my head off!”

Selene startled, her body still trembling in the aftermath of Vergil’s mouth, his hands, his overwhelming presence. Her breath hitched audibly, and she nearly stumbled, grabbing onto the banister as though it might keep her tethered to reality. Heat still radiated through her skin, her pulse erratic. The echo of his touch still lingered like fire beneath her gown, and though she willed herself to calm, her legs were weak, her body humming from need that hadn’t been fully satisfied. Vergil turned to her with a sharp, measured inhale, his tall frame casting her in shadow as his icy blue gaze swept over her from head to toe. His stare was as calculated and precise as a general inspecting his most treasured weapon before battle—but there was nothing detached in it. No, this was personal. His possessive need flared visibly in his expression, though tightly controlled.

She was a vision of flushed temptation: lips swollen and glistening from his kiss, cheeks a soft rose hue, her gown smoothed into place yet clinging to her body in a way that only he would notice. But it was her trembling that unraveled him. She looked utterly undone, fragile in a way that had nothing to do with weakness. The bond between them thrummed violently, demanding he claim her again, now, regardless of Dante or anyone else.

“Vergil!” Dante’s voice boomed again, louder this time, irritation threading through his tone. “C’mon, man! The whole point of this was to make it quick. Don’t make me come down there!”

Vergil’s jaw ticked, irritation flaring. He didn’t take his eyes off Selene, his focus sharpening. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, his gloved fingers grazing her chin and tilting her face upward. The faint tremor in her breath was like music to him, though he forced himself to remain composed. “Is this you trying to be composed.” he murmured, his voice a velvet growl meant only for her ears. It wasn’t a reprimand—it was an observation, one laced with dark satisfaction. “Your pulse is erratic. Your body betrays you.” His thumb traced her lower lip, lingering just long enough to remind her of what he’d done, of what he could do to her with so little effort.

Selene’s blush deepened, her throat working as she tried to swallow past the lump of desire and nerves caught there. “I… I can do this,” she whispered, though her voice trembled as much as her legs. “I just… need a moment.”

Vergil’s eyes softened by the barest fraction, though his expression remained unreadable to anyone but her. He bent slightly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke. “You have only moments, my dear. Breathe. Steady yourself. I will not have Dante—or anyone—seeing you like this.” His voice dropped, dark and dangerously low. “What is mine will not be paraded before others.”

Her breath caught, a soft, involuntary gasp leaving her lips. The possessiveness in his tone wasn’t frightening—it was grounding. It told her that even now, with darkness and uncertainty looming, she was tethered. Protected. Wanted beyond reason. He stepped back just enough to give her space, his gloved hands smoothing the front of her gown with exacting care, straightening every fold until there was no visible evidence of what they had done beneath the staircase. His touch was steady, though Selene could feel the tension coiled beneath his skin like a storm barely contained.

“Vergil!” Dante yelled again, sounding closer now. “You two better not be doing what I think you’re doing—”

“Silence, Dante,” Vergil snapped, his tone razor-sharp without him needing to raise his voice. He didn’t even glance toward the stairs, his focus wholly on Selene.

He cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward his, his icy gaze boring into hers. “You are strong,” he said, softer now, though no less intense. “Stronger than you believe. Do not allow them to see anything else.”

Selene nodded shakily, clinging to his words like armor. She drew in a slow, deep breath, willing her body to calm even as the echo of his mouth and hands lingered on her skin. She straightened her shoulders, forcing composure into her posture, though her flushed cheeks betrayed her.

Vergil’s lips curved ever so slightly, a ghost of a smirk that held both pride and warning. “Good,” he murmured. “Now walk beside me. Let us give them no reason to question your resolve.”

As they ascended the staircase, Dante’s voice carried down again, this time tinged with exasperated humor. “About damn time! You know, some of us don’t live for dramatic entrances!”

Vergil didn’t dignify that with a response. His only concern was Selene, the heat still clinging to her skin, the faint tremor in her limbs. To anyone else, she might have appeared calm and collected. But he knew. He always knew. 

But right now, she needed to pull herself together.

They were walking into unknown territory, willingly going to throw herself into the darkness to find answers, and who know what would happen.

But as long as she had him near her, she would not be afraid.