My Wives are Beautiful Demons

"Hm... Amon said it was here..." Morrigan muttered, her eyes half-closed as she stared at the gothic mansion in front of her—all dark towers, arched windows, and a dead garden that looked like it came straight out of a symphonic metal music video.

She sighed heavily. The kind of sigh that could make flowers wilt. Then she reached out and pressed the doorbell with a single gloved finger.

DING... DOOONG.

Morrigan crossed her arms and tapped her feet on the ground. She was impatient.

"A goddess of death... ringing a doorbell.

Honestly. I'm becoming too human... and it's starting to annoy me."

She waited a few more seconds. Nothing.

DING. DOONG. — again, only with more venom.

Silence answered.

Her eyes narrowed. Irritation sparkled in her irises like lightning about to strike.

"Sapphire... you're messing with me, right?" she muttered, her teeth clenching into a dangerous smile.

And then... she completely lost her patience.

DIDIDI-DING-DIN-DING-DINN-DING-DING-DING!!!

She began stabbing the doorbell button with her finger, repeatedly, fiercely—so fast that the poor contraption lost any melodic dignity. The "dong" was excommunicated from existence. All that remained was the "ding," hysterical, repeated like a cursed arcade machine.

The door opened with a slow, calculated creak — as if even the wood was undecided about whether to allow her presence there.

Morrigan crossed her arms, ready to unleash another verbal barrage... until he appeared.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair, still wet, dripped in disorderly strands over his forehead. His eyes—an unnatural purple—stared at her as if they could pierce the veils between worlds. The white towel hung dangerously low on his waist, drops slowly trickling down his well-defined abdomen like trails of sin.

She froze.

Just for a second.

A treacherous tingling ran down her spine, boldly settling between her legs. She ignored it. Or tried to.

The man raised an eyebrow, completely indifferent to the fact that he was standing before a goddess with the aura of the night itself.

"Who are you?" he asked in a hoarse voice, fresh out of the shower, as if she were a delivery he didn't remember ordering... but perhaps he was curious to open it anyway.

Morrigan blinked. She regained control with the grace of a professional of chaos, slowly crossing her arms, as if returning to her own throne.

"Where's Sapphire?" she asked casually, though her eyes examined him carefully.

Vergil frowned slightly. It was subtle... but enough. He noticed.

That subtle aura that surrounded her... golden, alive, but with an ancient scent. He had felt something like this before.

"A goddess," he thought immediately, his gaze sharp as a blade.

Identical to what he had felt before Aphrodite... but different. Less temptation. More destruction.

The question that surrounded him now was another: which goddess... and why was she there, after Sapphire?

"She's not here. Thanks," Vergil said, and the door began to close unceremoniously.

But she didn't let it.

With a quick movement, she dug her heel into the doorframe, preventing it from closing.

"She lives here," she said with a humorless laugh. "So she'll be here. Now open this damn thing before I kill you."

Her tone was low. Hot. Lethal.

Vergil stopped. He slowly turned his eyes to her, and then...

He released his aura.

It was like thunderclaps in a silent field.

The air between them became dense, almost solid. A spiritual vacuum enveloped the environment. Morrigan felt it immediately.

'...!!!'

She took an involuntary step back, pure instinct, and raised invisible barriers around her soul — defenses forgotten for centuries, activated in milliseconds.

Her eyes turned pitch black, and her golden aura... became a dark, dense, absolute cloak.

"Death," she murmured, as if naming a primitive force.

The recognition came out of her mouth before she even thought.

Vergil watched her calmly — eyes empty, yet deep as abysses.

He did not back down. He just returned the word:

"Death." The vibration was identical. But the weight... the weight was different. Ancient. Stratified. Irreducible.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Death Knight," she said, not as a question, but as a confirmation.

He replied, impassively: "A goddess with the concept of Death."

Silence.

The tension hung in the air like a blade about to fall. They stared at each other like two entities that didn't know whether to fight... or bow to each other.

And then, slowly, Morrigan smiled—a corner smile, dangerous and full of hidden intentions.

"This is more interesting than I expected."

Vergil remained still, motionless like a statue carved from shadows.

"I still don't know if you're a threat or just annoying."

"It could be both," she replied with cruel sweetness. "But I'll need to see Sapphire first... before I decide whether to rip out your soul or share a drink."

The tension between the two still danced in the air, like sparks between blades about to collide. But Vergil just calmly turned the doorknob and opened the door completely.

"Good luck with that," he said, cold as ice. "Do as you please."

And then he simply turned his back and entered, with the tranquility of one who reigns in his own territory.

"Don't slam the door. It's sensitive," he added with an indifferent wave over his shoulder.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow, crossing the threshold with a slight roll of her eyes. The interior of the mansion was dark, elegant, full of echoes and ancient shadows. Every detail seemed to whisper secrets kept for centuries.

She hadn't even taken three steps when she raised her voice:

"Are you really going to leave me wandering around here without even offering me a drink or a slap?"

Vergil was already climbing the stairs, without looking back.

"Wait, aren't you even going to guide me to it?" Morrigan insisted, more irritated than she wanted to show.

"I said, do as you please," he replied with utter disdain, disappearing around the bend on the upper floor. And then, in that same cold, cutting voice, he added, "I have one of my wives naked on my bed. I have work to do."

Morrigan stopped.

For a moment, she just stood there, motionless at the bottom of the stairs, while the sound of his footsteps echoed above—calm, rhythmic, cruel.

She took a deep breath. Her eyes sparkled with something between amusement and pure frustration.

"Arrogant, handsome, powerful, and polygamous," she muttered to herself. "Was Amon talking about him?..."

"WAIT, TELL ME YOUR NAME," she shouted.

"Lucifer," he replied.