Chapter 76: Oh, Salvation~ Peter didn’t have to wait long. The footsteps thudded toward the door like someone sprinting in heels and regret. When it opened, Isabella Rodriguez froze mid-breath—mouth open, eyes wide, and brain clearly short-circuiting as it tried to reboot. She’d changed into dry clothes. White blouse tight enough to qualify as a confession, jeans hugging her hips like they missed being touched. But her hair still told the story—damp, unruly, clinging to her neck in dark strands that made her look less like a suburban wife and more like a woman freshly dragged out of chaos. It was giving "drenched in fantasy, accidentally horny" and her face said she knew it. Peter didn’t even blink. He knew the exact reel playing in her head right now. Every harmless daydream about the hot handyman or the mysterious plumber? Shattered. Rewritten. Torched and reborn in flames. Because standing in her doorway wasn’t some local Joe in overalls—this was the embodiment of forbidden thirst, wrapped in a work shirt and danger. Too tall. Too built. Too obscenely good-looking to exist without divine endorsement. He didn’t just stand there—he claimed space. Like the air was his. Like reality was just politely stepping aside. And Isabella? Poor thing had no clue she was looking at something not entirely human. Apart from Madison, Isabella was the only woman who’d seen his Dark Lord form, and unlike his girlfriend who’d witnessed the transformation, Isabella was experiencing the full supernatural impact without context. His presence hit her like a physical force—seductive, possessive, commanding, protective. Everything her husband wasn’t. No warnings. No slow burn. Just full-impact supernatural charisma cracking her right in the solar plexus. The effect was instant. Her pupils blew wide, and not from fear. Her eyes raked him over like she was scanning for a reason not to drop to her knees. His clothes—work casual—somehow fit like they’d been carved onto him. Chest. Arms. That impossible waist. And those eyes—bronze swirling with gold like molten judgment that seemed to see straight through to her soul—locked on her like she was being seen in ways her husband never managed. Isabella actually swayed overwhelmed by the sheer presence of masculine perfection standing on her doorstep. Her knees did that useless wobble thing, like her whole body just gave up pretending it wasn’t affected. With reflexes faster than humanly possible, Peter moved before physics could even catch up. One fluid motion—one strong arm—and she was against him, his hand gripping her waist like it had always belonged there. The movement was smooth, practiced, like something out of a romantic movie. His large hands spanned her waist easily, holding her steady while she regained her balance. No hesitation. No apology. Just instinctive possession, smooth and practiced like he’d done this a thousand times—though never with her. Their faces were close now. Too close. The kind of close where breath turns heavy and perfume becomes weaponized. Her skin smelled of vanilla, coffee, and panic. And her lips? They were parted just enough to make him wonder how she’d taste if he decided to cross that line. "You okay?" he asked—soft, professional. But his voice had that undercurrent. That velvety promise beneath the courtesy. His eyes said say yes... or say nothing at all and let me ruin you properly. She couldn’t answer right away. Couldn’t think. She was pinned between fantasy and disaster, staring up at the man her body clearly recognized as danger wrapped in pleasure. "I... yes... I’m sorry," she breathed, her voice shaking with the betrayal of her own body. Still pressed against him. Still refusing to move. "You’re just... not what I expected." Peter smiled—and it wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of smile that left marks. That said I know exactly what you expected. And I’m better. He helped her stand, slow and deliberate. His fingers left a trail on her waist that lingered like a secret. No rush. No guilt. "Emergency calls can be overwhelming," he said, voice smooth as sin. Then he stepped back, gaze lingering just long enough to remind her she’d never forget this moment. "Let’s fix your little... water problem." Professional Assessment: When Gods Play Plumber Absolutely—here’s your upgraded rewrite with that Version B energy: sharper, slicker, a little predatory, and fully soaked in sensual tension. I’ve kept your original flow, structure, and pacing intact—just layered in the dark charm and unspoken hunger you wanted. Let’s go: Isabella led him through the house, her steps a little too careful—like her brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that a walking fantasy was trailing just behind her. Peter didn’t need to guess—he felt her gaze skimming over him again and again, like her eyes couldn’t help but drift to his reflection in every surface they passed. "The bathroom’s down here," she murmured, voice breathy like it had just learned how to speak again. "It happened out of nowhere. I was just cleaning and—" "Water tends to make an entrance," Peter replied smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. His tone was all business, but his presence? Anything but. It filled the air like static—sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. Isabella nodded, though her thoughts were clearly somewhere else. Her eyes flicked to his arms, the way his sleeves strained over muscle. To his chest, where the fabric clung like it had personal feelings about his body. To his stride—calm, confident, smooth as hell—like a panther that had figured out how to wear work boots. She was trying to play it cool, but Peter could read her like a worn-out paperback. The flush in her cheeks. The way her fingers curled and uncurled as if they weren’t sure where to rest. And underneath it all? That hunger. Subtle, but pulsing beneath her skin. Not desperate. Not yet. But on the edge. "This way," she said, stopping by the bathroom door, voice a little higher than before. "It’s... yeah. It just exploded out of nowhere." Peter stepped inside, casting a glance at the mess. Water everywhere. Minor chaos. Nothing he couldn’t fix in his sleep. But that wasn’t the real damage. Was it? He crouched down, inspecting the valve, and knew damn well Isabella was watching from behind— watching the way his back muscles moved, watching the way he owned the space like it was his living room. "This line’s been stressed for a while," he said, his tone calm, fingers already working. "Not your fault. Old fittings. Happens all the time." "Can you fix it?" she asked quickly—too quickly. Peter glanced over his shoulder, catching her wide, dark eyes like he knew she was waiting for him to take the lead in more than just plumbing. "I’ve got you," he said. "I’ll have it fixed before the hour’s up." The way he said it didn’t feel like a promise—it felt like a command. And it did something to her. "I’ll pay whatever it costs," Isabella blurted, stepping back, her voice catching in her throat. Peter straightened, turning slowly to face her. His gaze swept over her—those damp waves of hair still hanging low, that too-fitted blouse clinging in all the right places—and landed right on her flushed face. "I’ll get my tools," he said, his voice dipping lower, smoother, edged with that impossible calm that made her knees want to give out. "Might be best if you wait outside. These things can get... messy. I would hate to see such perfection ruined again." She nodded, too quickly again, retreating like she’d just realized she was standing too close to a fire. Peter could feel her lingering behind the wall, pretending to be casual, but her silence screamed louder than any question. She wanted to see more. She was hoping he’d look at her again like that. And he would. But not yet. Let her squirm a little. Finally, alone in the bathroom, Peter dropped the act. This wasn’t about a broken pipe. Please. That thing could’ve been fixed with his eyes closed and one hand behind his back. No, this was about something else entirely. A beautiful, starved woman—left to wilt for four damn years by a man who couldn’t even see her, let alone touch her right. And now, she’d accidentally summoned the wrong kind of plumber to her door. The kind that fixed more than water lines. He let his eyes sweep over the damage halfheartedly. The leak was child’s play, barely worth a minute of effort. But fixing a broken pipe wasn’t why his blood was humming or why his hands flexed just a little too tightly around the wrench. No, that was her. Isabella Rodriguez. That name alone had already earned a permanent place in his head. And that soaked gray tank top from earlier? Burned into memory. The way it had clung to her like it knew what it was hiding—curves sculpted by the gods and ignored by a fool. Nipples pushing through damp cotton, begging for attention. Yeah. Peter had noticed. And now, standing in her home, her scent still lingering in the air—coffee, coconut shampoo, and that nervous, feminine heat—he felt it. The slow unraveling of her walls. The silent plea for someone to see her. To remind her what it felt like to be wanted. To be touched. She was circling him like a moth to a flame, trying to pretend it was about the plumbing. Cute. ’Four years of neglect,’ Peter thought, his lip curling into something between a smirk and a snarl. ’Four years of letting a woman like that go untouched? That’s not a husband. That’s a fucking crime.’ He tightened the valve with a swift motion, barely aware of the mechanics. His mind was already a few steps ahead. Not scheming—promising. He could feel her just outside the bathroom, hovering like she didn’t want to leave. Her breaths shallow, the quiet fidget of her fingers as she stood there in those tight jeans, probably replaying how it felt to have his hands on her waist. She wanted more. And Peter? He was done pretending he didn’t know. ’Hang in there, profesora,’ he thought, his smirk sharpening as he wiped his hands clean. ’You’ve been invisible long enough. Time to remind you what it feels like to be worshiped. To be undone. Slowly.’ He moved toward the door, the scent of want thick in the air. Game on.