"Don't touch anything glowing."
That's what Professor Maelin always said.
Which, in Elias's case, basically translated to: You're going to touch something glowing in five minutes, aren't you?
And he did.
Of course he did.
But first came the headache. The test. The spell that exploded in his face. And then the sheer humiliation of being laughed at by the rich brats in his conjuration class as he limped out with smoke trailing from his robe and a throbbing cut on his cheek.
Elias Wynn, disaster mage in training, was once again the talk of the campus.
He didn't cry.
Much.
Instead, he snuck into the restricted wing of the library under the excuse of "academic desperation" and just a touch of mild insanity. His robes were still scorched at the edges. His satchel held a cracked wand, two pens, a questionable energy bar, and a copy of Demonic Theory: Summon, Bind, and Pray It Doesn't Eat You.
So naturally, when he saw the glowing crimson sigil pulsing beneath a pile of half-burned grimoires, he did what any tired, frustrated, slightly unhinged scholarship kid would do.
He touched it.
And the world.
F**king.
Exploded.
Wind howled through the library like a hurricane. Books flew. Candles burst. The floor beneath him cracked open with a thunderous BOOM, and he was pretty sure he screamed—but it was drowned out by the sudden, ground-shaking roar.
Then came the impact.
Something massive slammed into him, flattening him onto the stone floor with inhuman weight and heat. A warm, bare chest crushed into his face. Hands—strong, claw-tipped—gripped his wrists and pinned them effortlessly above his head.
And then…
A voice.
Low. Velvet-rich.
And way too close to his ear.
> "Mmm. You smell like fear and blood. I like that."
Elias blinked up, breath caught in his throat.
Towering over him, a mountain of golden muscle stared back with glowing, ice-blue eyes. Blonde hair fell messily around sculpted cheekbones. His chest—his enormous, thickly muscled chest—was inches from Elias's face, pecs rising and falling like he'd just been born out of hell itself. Every inch of him was built like a god who lifted temples for fun. Humanoid skin, a deep golden tan, shimmered with faint runes.
And—oh gods—he was completely naked.
"Holy shit," Elias whispered, eyes darting from the demon's broad shoulders to his thick thighs and—nope, don't look there.
The demon grinned, sharp and slow. "Holy? Hah. You wound me."
"I didn't summon you," Elias blurted, trying to squirm out. "I didn't even mean to—this was an accident, I swear!"
The demon pressed in closer, hips grinding just enough to make Elias's mind shut down for half a second.
"Accident or not," the demon growled, "you offered blood. Magic. A name unspoken. That's a summons, little mage."
"I didn't say a name!"
"You didn't need to," the demon whispered, leaning closer. "I already knew you. I've been watching you from the moment you bled magic for the first time."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Elias hissed, panicked.
The demon chuckled, low and dark.
"My name is Rael'Zhar, prince of the Fifth Circle, breaker of chains, and destroyer of patience. And now… yours."
Elias stared at him, wide-eyed. "No. Absolutely not. You're not staying. You're not mine. Go back. Shoo. Begone!"
Rael'Zhar tilted his head with a wolfish grin. "Cute. But you did summon me. And I have needs."
"Needs?"
"Oh yes," he purred, eyes gleaming with sin. "Protection. Sustenance. Sex. Preferably all three."
Elias's entire body went hot. "Sex—? I—I don't—!"
Rael'Zhar leaned in until their noses almost touched.
"Relax, little mage. I'm not gonna do anything… unless you beg me."
Snap.
The sigil beneath them flared again, wrapping a faint magical tether around Elias's chest.
He gasped.
"Oh," Rael'Zhar grinned. "Looks like the pact has sealed. Guess I'm not going anywhere."
Elias groaned. "Why is this my life?"