I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

That night, Nathan found himself alone in his chambers—a strange and unfamiliar solitude. The silken sheets felt colder than usual, the silence more suffocating. For weeks now, his nights had been filled with the warmth and laughter of Fulvia, the woman who had become both his lover and his favorite indulgence in the last days. Her presence had been intoxicating—her breath on his neck, her mischievous smile beneath candlelight, her voice a lullaby to his sin.

And yet, she hadn’t come.

Perhaps she understood. Fulvia was perceptive, more than she let on. She could read the tension in his eyes, when he said they should be more careful. She guessed Nathan was planning something/

Yes… she understood. That’s why she stayed away.

A shame, truly. She was a wonderful woman.

But tonight mattered more.

Tonight was the night Marcus Antoinus was to die.

Nathan lay still beneath the heavy velvet covers, staring up at the painted ceiling of his chamber. A lazy swirl of gold and ivory framed the moonlight seeping through the high window. Would he kill Marcus himself?

No. Of course not.

Wasting even a drop of effort on Marcus would’ve been beneath him. The Roman general might’ve had strength and charisma in the eyes of common men, but Nathan had seen the face of war. He had survived the blood-drenched madness of Troy, had stood against legends, gods, and beasts far more terrifying than any mortal soldier.

Marcus was loud, proud—and utterly insignificant.

Even so, Nathan wouldn’t leave loose ends. His hands would remain clean.

That was why he gave the task to her.

Medea.

A shiver of amusement ran through him as he thought of it. Poor Marcus Antoinus… if only he knew. If only he had sensed the trap closing around him before the dagger ever touched his skin.

Scylla might’ve killed him quickly—savagely. But Medea? Medea was art.

She killed like a painter with her brush, drawing agony in elegant strokes. She didn’t rush. She didn’t simply execute. She unmade people.

And that was why Nathan trusted her with this.

He had arranged everything. Julia had passed along the cursed dagger—an elegant blade, beautiful and deadly, soaked in venom and ruin. A gift. A symbol. Something to make sure Medea would recognize her target. There would be no second chance.

Satisfied, Nathan exhaled softly and closed his eyes, letting himself drift.

When morning came, the first golden rays of sunlight filtered into the chamber, brushing against his skin like fingers from the heavens. Nathan stirred, then paused. There was weight on his chest—a warmth he hadn’t expected.

He opened his eyes slowly.

She was there.

Medea.

Her body lay pressed against his, entirely bare, her black hair cascading over his chest like a dark waterfall. Her skin was smooth and cold to the touch, like marble warmed only slightly by dawn. Her heterochromia eyes stared up at him, half-lidded and unreadable, yet undeniably awake.

She had been watching him sleep.

“Nathan,” she murmured, voice soft as silk yet carrying that chilling undercurrent he had come to know well.

Then she smiled.

That smile could start wars. A hauntingly beautiful expression that didn’t belong to a woman—it belonged to a queen of ruin, a goddess of vengeance. And it was a smile she showed only to him.

Nathan reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, fingers threading gently through her long black locks.

“How did it go?” he asked, voice still groggy from sleep.

Medea’s expression didn’t falter.

“He started begging me to kill him after two hours,” she said flatly. “I was disappointed.”

Nathan chuckled under his breath. Of course she was. He had expected as much.

The mighty Marcus Antoinus—general, orator, hero of Rome—reduced to a pleading husk in the dark. Likely screaming until his throat tore, mind fraying at the edges, all pride stripped away by the hands of a woman who killed more effectively with silence than any blade.

“Good job,” he said quietly, a genuine smile curling on his lips.

There wasn’t a scratch on her. Not a bruise, not a blemish. She looked untouched, pristine—as if she had merely taken a stroll through the gardens instead of enacting a night-long execution.

Of course. For Medea, it was child’s play.

She was the first of his Devil Knights—his personal champions, the core of the power he was quietly gathering. Not tools. Not soldiers. Monsters of his own choosing. Beings shaped by tragedy, bound by loyalty, and sharpened like weapons.

And among them all, she stood at the pinnacle.

It surprised some. Scylla and Charybdis were divine entities, their names whispered in myths and nightmares. Medea, in contrast, possessed only a half-divine heritage. Her blood bore only a thread of the gods.

But it wasn’t about blood.

It was about will.

Among all the women in Nathan’s life—those who had pledged loyalty, love, or both—none rivaled the depth of devotion that burned within Medea.

Scylla and Charybdis, ancient as they were and proud by nature, admired him, even desired him in their own way. But Medea? Medea’s obsession was absolute.

It had begun the day she first laid eyes on him—a fleeting moment that twisted fate. And when Nathan came to her, riding upon the back of a dragon and offering not salvation, but purpose, her world tilted. Everything else—her past, her pain, her ambitions—was reduced to ash in the blaze that was him.

From that moment on, Nathan became her center. Her axis. Her madness and meaning.

She would do anything for him.

So when he had shared his ambition—the cold desire for vengeance against the Divine Knights and his vision of forging his own order of warriors to shatter the gods—Medea hadn’t hesitated. She had listened intently, absorbing every word, her crimson eyes burning with understanding.

He wanted her to be the first. His weapon. His shadow. His sword.

And she accepted.

Since then, she had grown into something terrible and beautiful. A creature carved from magic and will. She mastered arts forbidden and sacred alike—black magic that corrupted the soul, white magic that healed or purged, and everything in between. Her progress had been terrifying. She had surpassed archmages, eclipsed the legendary witches of old. In all the known realms, there was no magician stronger—save perhaps for the goddesses themselves.

And even then, there were feats she could perform that would make the gods themselves falter.

But Medea was not satisfied.

She hungered for more.

As the first—and by his will, the leader—of the Devil Knights, she saw it as her duty not only to serve but to embody his vision. Scylla and Charybdis, divine creatures with long, proud histories, had accepted this without protest. They called her “Elder Sister” and bowed not out of fear, but respect.

It was ironic. They were older—by centuries, perhaps millennia—but even they understood:

Medea was something else.

Their bond had grown deeper over time. The three women now treated one another as true sisters, a unity not born of blood, but forged in battle, trust, and shared devotion to the same man.

Nathan had once feared friction between them. Power often bred rivalry. But he had underestimated Medea’s charisma. Her presence could dominate a room. Her gaze could silence a quarrel. She led without raising her voice. And they followed—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Medea was a scholar of witchcraft, a master of rituals and runes, a savant of magic that bled through every known school and technique. Her strength was unquestionable, her discipline remarkable. And her beauty…

Her beauty was the kind that turned silence into reverence.

Nathan sometimes wondered how he had earned such a woman’s loyalty. But then again, perhaps he hadn’t earned it. Perhaps it was simply fate.

He wouldn’t question it.

He would make use of it.

Still reclined on his bed, with Medea curled against him, Nathan’s gaze drifted toward the faint light peeking through the curtains. He brushed his fingers over her exposed back—soft, smooth, unscarred.

She had returned from killing Marcus Antoinus without even a scratch.

“Has Logan spoken?” Nathan asked, his voice low.

The mention of the captured Hero broke their peaceful stillness.

Medea shifted slightly, her eyes sharpening with a flicker of sadistic intent. She was the one he had entrusted with Logan’s interrogation. Another step toward unraveling the enemy’s plans.

“He’s tougher than the Roman,” she replied calmly. “Likely due to the blessing he carries. Heroes always have that divine resistance… it hardens their minds.”

Nathan nodded. Of course. Logan was no ordinary man. A Hero—marked by the gods, protected by layers of divine will. He had survived too long, too many battles. There was steel in his mind.

“But I’ll crack him open soon enough,” Medea added, her voice like honey dripped over broken glass. “Would you like me to continue now?”

Her confidence was absolute. If she said she had a method, then she did. That was Medea.

Nathan considered for a moment. He did want answers. But urgency wasn’t always wise. Pressure applied too soon often broke the wrong way.

Instead, he reached for her, his hand sliding around her waist. Her body yielded to his touch, her naked form pressing against his, the shape of her bare breasts rising gently beneath his fingers. She moved closer without resistance, craving his warmth as much as his approval.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured.

Medea smiled—genuinely. A softness touched her normally sharp features. Then she kissed him.

It started slow, reverent, almost delicate. But it deepened quickly, fiercer with each passing second. Her lips grew demanding. Her body followed.

Nathan responded without hesitation.

His hands explored her curves, finding her hips, her thighs, the perfect firmness of her rear. Her breathing hitched, a soft moan escaping between their kisses.

They lost themselves in each other.

Before long, garments were discarded. The air grew thick with heat and hunger. The walls of the chamber echoed with their passion—louder, wilder than anything he had shared with Fulvia. Medea wasn’t merely making love to him.

She was claiming him.

And Nathan let her.