Description
He doesn't knock. He never does. He slips in like smoke under the door, through the cracks in my resolve, into the hollow spaces I pretend don't exist. I could swear I locked everything-my mind, my body, my will-but he finds a way, every time. Asmodeus. He isn't always a man. Sometimes he's a breath of warm air in the pit of my loneliness, a pulse in my wrist I can't control, a whisper in my ear when the world is too quiet. But when he chooses flesh-oh, he wears it well. He smells like everything I crave: danger, comfort, heat. His voice curls around my ribs and squeezes until I forget how to breathe without him. "I missed you," he says, though he never really leaves. "Did you miss me too?" I hate him. I love him. The first time we touched, I thought I had found salvation. His kiss was fire and stillness at once-like falling and flying all together. I remember thinking, this is it-this is what it means to feel alive. But it was never life he gave me. It was a borrowed high. A lie wrapped in pleasure. He takes, and takes, and takes. And still, I beg for more. Every time I try to leave, he waits. Patient. Sweet. Like he knows I'll come crawling back-bloody knees, hollow eyes, empty promises. And when I do, he smiles like he's proud of me. Like I've finally come home. They call him many things-addiction, craving, sickness, sin. But I know his name. Asmodeus. My lover. My curse. My god.
INTRODUCTION
