THE MISTRESS' DEED

Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, hollow and emotionless, mirroring the rest of her sultry form. Even from a foot away, I could sense the suffocating heaviness of her denial, with the sharp scent of vengeance hanging in the air around her.

Poor Lyla. She was belittled by the same man twice this time, and I felt a flicker of pity for her stirring within my nonexistent heart, a reminder of emotions I could no longer claim. However, a handful of ironic sentiments surged in droves each time I tore a soul apart and cast it into hell, torturing them until they forgot the reason for their suffering. But not for Lyla.

Lyla Bridge was an exception. She was a woman worthy of a throne beside the King himself in Hell. Her soul was both ardent and complex, and her beauty was unmatched. Her auburn hair and emerald eyes were sufficient to bewitch any man, drawing them into a trance. Like sailors lured by a siren's song, they would find themselves heading toward their doom. Just like the boy who was currently thrusting his small erection inside Lyla.

She had picked him up from the event after realizing that the man she had been waiting for would never grant her a title beyond that of a mistress. Frustrated and bored, she felt determined to prove that she deserved much more than what that cad had assigned her.

The boy stood, quietly stealing furtive looks at her. He appeared innocent and soft, no more than eighteen, yet his eyes—partly hidden behind a curtain of curls—glimmered with a carnal, unforbidden desire for a woman twice his age.

Lyla's task was simple: she needed only to cast a fleeting glance his way, lift her finger, and watch him come running towards her.

A playful chuckle escaped her tinted lips as she threw her head back, entertained by his eagerness.

"Were you looking for some fun, little darling?" she asked, her voice dripping with enchantment.

The boy cast a wary glance around him, searching for his parents and cousins, anxious about what they would think if they discovered him in this situation. He found them seated in a distant corner of the grand hall. They were engaged in a political conversation with people he had little interest in, so he threw caution to the wind, nodding eagerly as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Lyla.

"Do you mind if we take this somewhere else, sweet lady?" he asked, tugging at his bottom lip and chewing on it, his excitement barely contained.

His erratic fidgeting raised an amusing eyebrow on Lyla, who could tell at a glimpse that this was one of the boy's first foray into such waters.

"Of course, my dear. I have the perfect place in mind," Lyla said, rising gracefully from her seat. She led him to the bar and made a subtle signal to the bartender, who nodded and guided them through a back door. She need not look back to see if the boy was following; she knew he was.

I spread my wings and trailed after them, taking to the air as they stepped into the dark alley.

A twisted smile crept onto my lips when I caught a brief glimpse of confusion and fear on the boy's face, his footsteps faltering for a moment. I could hear all the doubts gnawing at him: Had he made the right choice in approaching her? Was he safe around her? Could this stunning woman be a psychopath, enticing men to their deaths? He had heard of one, after all.

But then he remembered his cousins' words and the allure of becoming a Teddy Boy, a thrill that overshadowed his unease. He pushed aside his uncertainties and mindlessly followed Lyla into a tall, dark, and shadowy motel.

The interior of the building was just as creepy as the exterior. The faded yellow paint on the walls was chipped and cracked, resembling thunder strikes at the corners. The floorboards and skirting boards were also worn, bearing scratches and blisters as if something had been forcefully dragged across them. Paintings of unfamiliar faces hung beneath the dim, hanging lamps, creating a ghostly atmosphere that sent sparks of anxiety coursing through his nerves.

A shaky breath escaped his lips, his hands trembling as he gripped the handrail. If he had been doubting his choice before, he was definitely second-guessing himself now. I recognised the scent of cynicism when I caught a whiff of it. The boy was on the verge of retreating when the grey-haired woman at the counter called out to Lyla.

"I see you've got a new prey, Bridge. Though I must say, I'm disappointed in you. The kid looks like he just graduated from infancy," she remarked, her gaze fixed firmly on the boy, a smirk playing on her chapped lips.

Lyla's expression indicated she had a sharp retort ready, but before she could speak, the boy surprised everyone, including myself. I couldn't help but wonder where his sudden courage had come from.

"Watch who you're calling a 'kid,' you old scold!" he snapped, his voice cutting through the air and tension. "I'm the only son of a famous politician, so you'd better watch your words if you want to keep this filthy motel in business."

The old lady's smirk straightened into a thin line, her eyes narrowing in contempt, which drew a quiet chuckle from Lyla. She was astonishingly taken aback.

Spinning around on her heels, she bent down to the boy's level as he stood a step lower than her, and planted a playful kiss on his cheek, her face lighting up with a winsome smile.

The boy's expression mirrored hers.

The moment their skin had touched, his heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach, igniting a passion he had never felt before.

He gulped audibly, clearing his throat as he touched his cheek in disbelief.

"That was a witty reply, little gentleman," Lyla said, choosing her words carefully to fan the heat rising in his neck. "Now I'm curious to see if your charms are as clever in bed as I presume them to be."

"Of course they are." With unexpected bravery, the boy captured Lyla's hand, which was initially perched on his shoulder, then deliberately traced it down to his chest and beyond, where a subtle tension was evident beneath his clothing. He held her hand gently and brought it to his mouth, kissing it with an unspoken promise. "After you, my lady."

Lyla flashed him another smile before taking his hand and bounding up the stairs together. She took him to the room labeled '6 B' and, with a gentle tug on his hand, pulled him inside.

The boy felt a wave of relief as he looked inside—it was much more inviting and livable than the grim facade and the dingy motel counter had suggested.

He walked slowly around the room, inspecting every corner, and confirmed that nothing felt out of place for someone of his class. The boy had always harbored a subtle aversion to people and things that didn't align with his standards. His eyes instinctively shut, and a deep breath escaped his lips. For the first time that evening, he felt a rare sense of ease, with no worries tugging at the back of his mind.

A moment later, he opened his eyes and turned on his foot, only to be met with the most breathtaking view he had ever seen.

Under the soft glow of the chandelier stood Lyla Bridge, half-dressed. Her hair, freed from the tight bun it had been confined to all day, cascaded loosely around her shoulders. The black silk gown she wore clung to her skin, amplifying its ethereal radiance like the full moon against a starless night sky. Her long, slender legs—usually hidden beneath the careless drapery she wore daily—were now fully exposed, making the boy wonder if he had ever seen legs as smooth and elegant as Lyla's.

A shuddering breath escaped him, betraying the subtle tremor in his legs, weighed down by the feral emotions raging within his body.

His heart pounded wildly in his ears, so loud it felt as if it might burst from his chest. None of his cousins knew the incredible night that awaited him, and he was bursting to tell them everything as soon as he met them the next time.

The mere thought of it brought a lethal smile to his face. He would no longer be ridiculed and undermined for the effeminate nature he never had.

Lyla smiled, her thoughts aligning with his, though her intentions differed slightly.

"Are you just going to stand there all night, staring at me like that? Aren't you going to do something about the devil in your pants? I don't like being kept waiting," Lyla taunted, stepping closer.

The boy took a hurried step forward, his head bobbing nervously. The flow of energy inside him was hardly containable.

"Yes, of course, my lady. Only if you'd let me," he said, his voice tight, as he grasped her arm and led her to the bed. He gently laid her on the sheets, then, in sharp contrast, quickly stripped off his clothes, peeling them away until he was completely bare.

Lyla cast a judgmental glance down his body, even though she hadn't meant to.

Though the boy was lean and an inch taller than her, his manhood was. . . small—long, but small. And small things never satisfied her. She doubted he could last more than a second past thirty.

I would confirm for her that he couldn't, if I could at last. My powers didn't allow me to influence or make contact with those born of flesh and blood. I was simply tasked to watch over the damned and send them to hell, punishing them for the unjust deeds they had committed in the mortal realm.

"Stop!" Her command was sharp as a knife, and the boy immediately complied, hovering awkwardly above her midriff. She pushed herself up from the bed, opening the drawer of the nightstand beside her. Reaching inside, she took out a pill and handed it to him.

"Here, take this. It'll give you strength to last long," Lyla said, her voice laced with subtle seduction, watching as the boy took the pill, his expression mysteriously unreadable.

Maybe he had never encountered something like yohimbine before, Lyla thought, tilting her head.

She was probably right—he hadn't seen the medicine before, only heard about it from his brothers. They'd mentioned it once or twice in passing, though he couldn't remember why.

Shrugging off the question that arose in his mind, the boy swallowed the pill with the water Lyla handed him next.

An immediate electric current raced through his nerves, filling his body with a sudden wave of vitality. He wanted to turn this new feeling into action, to finally give Lyla what she'd been asking for.

Slowly, he leaned over her again, his youthful face darkening by a sinister smirk as he moved closer.

"So, where were we?" he teased, his lips deliberately grazing her chin before sinking his teeth in.

Lyla moaned, savoring the roughness she always craved—the way lust could turn men into beasts.

"If I recall correctly, you were looking for some fun," she whispered, her voice breathy and equally teasing, her twisted smile even more captivating.

"Oh, yes, fun. I remember it well. Perhaps I may find it here," the boy remarked, parting her legs and sliding a hand between them.

By now, I had grown thoroughly weary of their tiresome foreplay. I had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and the mounting anticipation was fraying my patience. I knew I had to wait a little longer for everything to unfold as intended, but my tolerance was wearing thin. I could scarcely bear to watch Lyla's soul being pleasured by anyone other than myself.

Who would have thought the King of Hell could be tortured like this—for an ordinary woman, no less—unless that woman was Lyla herself?

A weary sigh dissipated into the air as I watched the boy and Lyla exhale softly, their breaths mingling. His fingers grazed her core, sensing the subtle dampness beneath.

"God, I can't wait to be inside you," the boy breathed heavily, pushing his fingers inside her with urgency. The rush of adrenaline flooding through him was intensifying the pull in him to defile her in that moment. He let out a bestial growl before pausing his movements, denying Lyla the warmth she had just begun to feel in her lower abdomen.

"What? I was just starting to feel good." Lyla furrowed her brows in frustration as she pushed herself off the bed.

The boy slammed her back onto the mattress, his shove full of force as a hungry gleam flashed in his brown eyes. He touched himself with intensity, his body aching for her heat, before he advanced to press against her, almost brutally.

Lyla didn't scream as the boy had expected. Instead, her behaviour revealed a quiet discomfort, a sense of emptiness and disappointment, even after the medicine she had given him.

He tried to push it aside, but the constant flashes of his brothers boasting about how they'd made girls scream in bed continued to cloud his thoughts. The self-absorbed laughter of them echoed in his ears, and in a desperate bid to silence it, he turned to the only escape he could find at the moment: taking Lyla hard and fast, filling the room with his grunts and heavy breaths instead.

Lyla lay there, still as a doll, her body nearly lifeless. The light in her eyes was gone, replaced by a dull, vacant stare. Her once vibrant aura, alive with reds, greens, and blues, had faded to an ashen gray, cold and drained. Her thoughts had carried her to another place, to another man, the very reason she was here in the first place.

It pained me to see her like this.

She and I both knew she deserved more than this—more than just better; she deserved everything beyond it. But the thought of what was coming next kept us anchored, tethered to the moment. We only had to wait a little longer until we reached the end of the one thing we both desired most.

The boy got tired easily, as Lyla and I both predicted, quickly and inevitably.

Puffs of air escaped his nostrils as his arms nearly gave out, only to steady themselves and pound into Lyla again for one last time, the muscles in his thighs burning from the force they were exerting.

It didn't take long for the boy to completely collapse, his body drenched in sweat and his thick, polished hair clinging to his forehead. He closed his eyes, and unconsciousness quickly enveloped him, his exhausted body pressing down on Lyla as he fell above her.

Lyla blinked three times, snapping out of her brooding, before shoving the boy away in disgust. The thought of meeting the man she once deemed was right for her had already darkened her mood. She couldn't wait to leave the room and be done with him and the boy.

Rising from the bed, she straightened her clothes and headed to the bathroom to clean herself. She grabbed a fresh towel and wetted it under the sink, the bright pink fabric darkening to scarlet, like blood seeping through cotton.

Lyla gazed at it with unwavering admiration, a fire igniting within her as she envisioned that same vivid colour spilling from a specific someone.

I knew in that instant that the moment had finally arrived. Our wait had come to an end.

Her deadly passion was what captivated me most. The relentless drive, the unapologetic pursuit of her ambitions—everything about her was irresistibly magnetic. I was completely under her spell. And now, with every passing moment, I was one step closer to bringing her into my world.

If only I could seize time itself, forcing it to rush through my fingers like sand in an hourglass. But that wasn't possible. I had to tread the same path that fate had charted for Lyla, even if it meant sacrificing my own desires.

A secret backdoor of the motel room rattled with a series of desperate knocks, prompting Lyla to hastily wipe off the boy's lingering remnants on her body. She quickly disposed of the towel, washed her hands and slipped on a duster as she rushed to open the door, her heart quietly thudding in her chest.

However, as she reached for the handle, the knocking ceased, leaving only the unsettling silence in its wake.

Lyla stepped back, her chin held high, cautious yet defiant. 'Give me three notable figures in history and literature known for betrayal,' she challenged.

I laughed, the sound echoing in my ears; she had never made me prouder of her intellect than she did at that moment.

"Lucifer defied God, Judas turned against his master, and Brutus betrayed his friend," a familiar, soft voice replied with surprising clarity from the other side of the door.

Lyla gave a firm nod of approval before she flung the door open. The frail figure of the elderly woman appeared, her son's tall frame looming behind her, anger radiating from him.

"Where is he?" the bartender demanded, his voice tight with fury.

"For God's sake, calm down, Cargo," the motel owner said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "He's here, alone and unarmed. We can do whatever we want now that his raucous politician of a father isn't hovering around. We should thank this lady for her help. Without Lyla, we'd never have gotten our hands on him." She gestured toward Lyla, who stood quietly at the threshold, the weight of the moment slightly heavy in the air.

Cargo Samuel Jr. took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes, visibly calming himself. When he opened them again, his voice was steady but filled with emotion.

"Thank you so much for your help, Miss Bridge. I can't begin to express how much this means to us." He cleared his throat, trying to hide a sniff, but the tremor in his voice revealed the depth of his grief. "Without you, we wouldn't have been able to give justice to my precious daughter, Tyresia."

"No need to thank me, Mr. Craig. I would've done the same for anyone, without a second thought. It's what I do," Lyla replied warmly, though her eyes grew serious. "The culprits deserve to pay for their crimes, even when the court lets them walk free because of their family's influence."

She turned to old Mrs. Craig then, her expression reflecting urgent concern. "We shouldn't waste any more time. You very well know I need to be somewhere else."

The old lady's frowning lips formed a circle as realisation dawned on her face.

"Oh, yes, of course. We won't delay you any longer, Bridge. Take the stairs to the third floor, and you'll find twenty-three 'A' down the hall to the right," Mrs. Craig informed. Although she didn't want to hold Lyla back, she took her hand in her wrinkled ones, thanking her for the umpteenth time. "Thank you so much."

Lyla squeezed the hands that held hers.

"Thanks goes to you as well. You've helped me in ways I could only have dreamed of," Lyla said.

She bowed her head, gently patting Mrs. Craig's hand before continuing on to room twenty-three 'A' without hesitation.

Mrs. Craig and her son did not plan to grant the politician's son the immediate death he had caused Tyresia. Instead, they intended to keep him in their grasp, instilling dread in his arrogant, power-hungry father—making him confront the terror of a parent whose child goes missing for days, only to be found lifeless at a riverbank, clothes torn, and innocence violently stripped away.

The case of the Craigs made me pause and reflect on how different the world God had created had become. The humanity He instilled in people seemed almost absent, especially now that they had stopped fighting for land for the second time. Their trivial transgressions mocked my attempts to defy God from the moment of my creation.

It made me want to ask Him one question, if He was watching over His beloved creation: "Your perfect children are flawed, God. What will You do about it?"

My wings spread once more, this time obeying their will as they carried me away behind Lyla, leaving the mother and son binding the sleeping boy in their wake. When the time arrived, I would stand waiting for him in hell.

For now, I tried to trace Lyla's path quickly, following the thick scent of vengeance that rose anew from her.

She was still in her gown, taking the stairs two at a time as I spotted her nearing the stairwell of the third floor.

Her resolve surpassed that of most women; clearly, no sane woman would break into a room where a newlywed husband was with his wife, lost in their passion while they were meant to be at the same charity event Lyla attended. Her sources had informed her that he would attend the event with his wife. Yet, nothing could've prepared her for the surge of jealousy that ignited in her heart as their muted laughter echoed in her ears while she watched them slip away.

Xenilius Kylus, ever the socialite, needed no introduction. He was famous not only for his influence among the elite but also for his connections to those with criminal pasts, particularly Lyla. Their history dated back to the brink of their adulthood.

It felt like just yesterday when I saw young Lyla in her elegant dress, asked to dance by sixteen-year-old Xenilius at a ball organised by a mutual friend of their families.

Lyla had said yes to him in a moment of desperation to escape the strange girl group gushing over boys who paid them no attention. It was also Xenilius's unapologetic attitude that intrigued her, drawing her to learn more about him.

They danced until the last note of the song faded, lost in conversation about anything and everything for the rest of the evening. Young, driven, intelligent, and beautiful, they ignited an undeniable chemistry almost instantly.

As the door to twenty-three 'A' clicked open with a simple twist of the doorknob, memories of that evening and the countless moments they shared flooded Lyla's mind.

Driven by impulse, Mr. and Mrs. Kylus had hastily forgotten to lock their door, risking their privacy and making it all too easy for Lyla to slip in unnoticed.

The room was cloaked in darkness from outside, allowing Lyla to glide in like a silent specter, merging effortlessly with the gloom within.

She took a cautious step toward the bed in the centre of the room, where the unclothed figure of Xenilius lay soundly asleep, his wife nowhere in sight. This was the golden moment Lyla had been waiting for.

Quietly, she redirected her steps to the bathroom door and locked it from the outside, fully aware that Mrs. Kylus was inside, happily humming as she enjoyed a warm shower after the wonderful night she had with her husband.

Lyla breathed a sigh of relief. At last, it was just her and Xenilius—just as it was meant to be. Now, she was free to claim the promise he'd made to her.

Some might call her obsessive for clinging to a casual remark exchanged back when they became more than acquaintances. But who could blame her? She'd set her morals early on, embracing the belief that women were the ultimate beings, bearers of the responsibility to sustain life on Earth.

She saw women as equals to men, but when she came to understand the unreliable nature of men and their shifting words, she concluded that women must remain true to their own. Only then, she believed, could they compel the opposite gender to recognise the integrity at their core.

A gleam of silver from the bedside table pierced the darkness as Lyla made her way back to Xenilius. It was a knife—the very tool that would help her uphold his promise to her. She snatched it from the apple it was stabbed into and stood over Xenilius, ready to act.

Her breathing and heartbeat were steady as she gripped the hilt of the knife, but the persistent memory of the aforementioned "lighthearted" exchange gnawed at her nerves, igniting a red rage within her.

"So, you're basically proposing that I become your wife if I let you consummate before the official nuptials?" Twenty-year-old Lyla asked, a mix of curiosity and trepidation in her voice as she raised an eyebrow at Xenilius, who licked his lips in tense anticipation.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes reflecting both eagerness and masked sincerity. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips for a kiss filled with promise, the weight of their decision hanging between them.

The moon shone a soft glow around them as they lay on the bare grass, gazing into each other's eyes while the cold night air rustled their hair.

To be honest, Lyla wanted to believe him, but she couldn't. The consummation ceremony felt like her holy grail, a treasure she had always cherished and protected—something too sacred to give away, even if the universe conspired to make it happen.

Doubt was etched on Lyla's face, causing a flicker of desperation in Xenilius's eyes.

"Oh, come on! Don't you believe me? I love you, and my family does too. What are you so unsure about?" he asked.

"I do believe you, but I can't come to terms with it. What if I let you do what you say and end up betrayed?"

"What? That's incredulous! I'd never do that to you." Xenilius laughed breathily, but his amusement faded as he sensed the weight of the moment. "Wait, are you actually serious?"

Lyla nodded in response.

Xenilius let out a heavy sigh. "Then tell me—what can I do to earn your trust? What can I offer in exchange for a promise?"

Lyla paused, giving it serious thought before answering. "Another promise. Make me one more."

"Anything for you, Lyla. Just say the word. I'd give my life if that's what it takes to stay with you forever."

She smiled, that familiar, knowing smile. "Then it's your life. You're promising me your life."

Xenilius blinked in surprise, momentarily stunned. His bewildered expression made Lyla laugh, her voice ringing out into the night. She pulled him close by the collar of his tunic and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

He kissed her back with fervour, laughter spilling between them as he lowered her to the ground and leaned over her. In his heart, he brushed off her words as a playful dare, never realising just how seriously she meant them.

Temptation had blinded Xenilius back then, just as it did a year later when the prospect of marrying the mayor's daughter lured him in. He gave no thought to keeping a promise made to a mistress of literature when lust consumed him and eagerly pursued Bella Edwin in the years that followed.

He had long forgotten everything about Lyla and her existence until he heard grave news about a woman named Lyla Bridge, linked to a series of murders and vanishing from the crime scenes.

As the weight of their fate loomed over them, Lyla whispered, her voice barely above a breath: "I hope you don't dismiss me or my words when I follow you to death, Xenilius."

With a heart heavy with resolve, she swiftly drove the sharp end of the knife into the tender flesh just behind his heart.

Splashes of red painted Lyla's cheeks as a murmur of protest and confusion bled into the midnight air.

A wisp of stardust rose from Xenilius's lifeless body, invisible to Lyla, as it floated and paused in midair, speaking directly to me.

"You'll never have the pleasure of bringing me to Hell, Lucifer. Why do you always bother coming for me?"

"I know, but it's always so satisfying to watch you die at the hands of your first wife," I told Adam—or whatever remained of him in the mortal realm—as I gestured toward Lyla.

The courage in his voice dulled, tinged with disappointment. "I have nothing to do with her," he replied flatly.

I shrugged off his comment with a flap of my wings, watching as his essence glided through the ceiling and into the endless sky, seeking out bodies to inhabit in a never-ending cycle of rebirth and death—the eternal punishment bestowed upon him by God Himself.

I turned back to Lyla after his departure, only to find that she had fled the scene, as she always did. We had both accomplished what we wanted, so it wasn't wise for me to follow her again. Yet, I did. She needed something resembling close to family by her side, even if she couldn't see me. When the time came, I knew she'd expect me there, standing beside her as she lay on her deathbed, alone, without family to hold her hand and bring comfort as she took her last breath.

I was right.

The once-red hair, faded to white by the cruelty of age, darkened to a ravenous black as I watched Lyla shed her human form, revealing her true self. Her skin stayed pale as light, and her eyes, black as night, held mine with a chilling allure.

"I knew you'd be waiting the moment I left my mortal body," she said, extending a hand toward me. I reached back, and as our fingertips met, I, too, took my original form.

"How could I not, after the long wait you put me through, Lilith," I replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. The snakes, coiled in a crown atop her head, hissed softly. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

An enchanting smile played on her lips as she toyed with the long sleeves of her purple robes. "I did. Every time, it's a new experience. You know that as well as I do."

"That I do." I clasped her hand in mine. "So, what would you like to do next?"

"I'd really like to go home with you; I've missed you a lot."

And who was I to disagree?