THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 9
The heavy silence left by William’s announcement didn’t lift. It pressed down on the sunlit bedroom, turning the golden warmth cold. Jessica sat frozen, the silk sheet clutched tightly around her, watching Scar’s rigid back. The shift in him was terrifying. The powerful, possessive man who had held her moments ago was gone, replaced by a statue carved from ice and tension. He hadn’t looked at her once since William spoke that name.
Amanda.
The name echoed in Jessica’s mind, sharp and poisonous. Who was she? What hold did she have over him that could shatter his invincible composure so completely? Jessica’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage. Fear, cold and unfamiliar in this sanctuary, began to creep in.
Scar finally moved. He stood up from the bed with a fluid, predatory grace that was devoid of its usual sensuality. He didn’t look at Jessica as he strode naked to a massive walk-in closet. Jessica watched, mesmerized and terrified, as he pulled on black trousers with sharp, efficient movements, then a crisp, white shirt that he buttoned with deliberate slowness, his fingers steady despite the storm Jessica sensed raging inside him. He buckled a sleek leather shoulder holster, sliding a heavy black pistol into place with a chilling finality. Finally, he shrugged into a perfectly tailored charcoal grey jacket. The transformation was complete: the lover replaced by the ruthless kingpin.
Only then did he turn towards the bed. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were shuttered, unreadable. The warmth, the possessiveness, the *her* that usually lived in his gaze was buried deep beneath layers of cold control.
"Jessica," his voice was low, rough, but unnervingly calm. "Stay here. Do not come out of this room. No matter what you hear. Understand?"
The command was absolute. The underlying warning was clear. Jessica nodded mutely, her throat too tight to speak. The fear solidified into a cold knot in her stomach.
Scar held her gaze for a beat longer, a flicker of something unidentifiable – protectiveness? Apology? – passing through his eyes before it was ruthlessly extinguished. He turned and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The soft click of the latch sounded like the sealing of a tomb.
Jessica scrambled off the bed, pulling on the silk robe Scar had discarded earlier. It smelled like him, a small comfort that did nothing to ease the panic fluttering in her chest. She crept towards the door, pressing her ear against the cool, heavy wood. She could hear the low murmur of voices downstairs, too indistinct to make out words, but the tone was tense, charged.
Downstairs, the opulent living room felt suddenly claustrophobic. William stood rigidly near the entrance, his face a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes darted nervously towards the figure seated elegantly on the central cream sofa.
Amanda.
She was breathtaking. Dressed in a sheath dress of liquid silver that clung to her curves like a second skin, her dark hair cascaded in artful waves around a face sculpted with almost unreal perfection – high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep crimson, large, dark eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes. She looked like a fashion plate, a goddess descended into the mortal realm. She held a delicate porcelain cup of coffee, her posture relaxed, exuding an aura of supreme confidence. Yet, beneath the polished surface, an unnerving stillness radiated from her, like a viper basking in the sun.
Scar entered the room, his presence instantly dominating the space. He stopped several feet away from the sofa, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression impassive, but his eyes were chips of black ice fixed on Amanda.
"Amanda," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. "What are you doing here?"
She looked up, a slow, dazzling smile spreading across her perfect features. It didn't reach her eyes. "Darling," she purred, her voice like velvet over steel. "Is that any way to greet your fiancée after five long years?"
Scar didn't flinch. "That arrangement was terminated. Permanently."
Amanda placed her cup down with exaggerated care on the glass coffee table. The delicate clink sounded unnaturally loud. "Terminated?" She gave a soft, tinkling laugh that held no humor. "By you? Because of one... little... mistake? You sent me away, Sebastian." She used his real name, a calculated intimacy. "Exiled me to that dreary clinic in Italy. Was that fair?" Her smile remained, but her eyes hardened. "Look at me. I worked so hard. Therapy, Sebastian. Sobriety." She gestured gracefully to herself. "All for you. To be worthy of you again."
Scar’s gaze didn’t waver. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure warning. "Don’t you think you’re a little late, Amanda? Things have changed. I have changed. I’ve moved on."
The air crackled. The polished mask on Amanda’s face fractured. A flash of pure, incandescent rage contorted her beautiful features for a split second, her knuckles whitening where she gripped the edge of the sofa. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, smoothed over by a brittle smile. She rose gracefully, smoothing her dress.
"Have you now?" she murmured, stepping towards him. She stopped just out of arm's reach, her dark eyes sweeping over him with possessive appraisal, then flicking dismissively around the room. "We shall see, Sebastian. We shall see." Her voice dropped, becoming a venomous whisper. "I’ve come back to take what’s mine."
She didn’t wait for a response. With the regal bearing of a queen reclaiming her throne, she walked past him towards William. "William, darling," she said airily, as if the previous five years and her violent exile had never happened. "Be a dear and have my bags brought up. The usual suite, I assume is prepared?" She didn’t wait for an answer, brushing past him and heading towards the sweeping staircase as if she owned the place.
William looked helplessly at Scar. Scar’s jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle spasmed in his cheek. He gave a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. William hurried after Amanda.
Scar remained standing in the center of the living room, radiating a cold, dangerous fury that seemed to vibrate the very air. He didn’t move for a long time, staring at the space where Amanda had sat, the ghost of her perfume – heavy, floral, cloying – hanging in the air, a stark contrast to Jessica’s lighter, fresher scent.
Upstairs, Jessica had retreated from the door, pacing the luxurious confines of the bedroom like a trapped animal. She’d heard the murmur of voices, the chilling clarity of that feminine purr, the unmistakable sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Panic clawed at her throat. Fiancée? Exile?* The words screamed in her mind. Who was this woman? The fear for herself was momentarily eclipsed by a deeper, sharper pang – the fear of losing *him*, of this perfect, hard-won sanctuary being invaded and destroyed.
Hours crawled by. Jessica heard muffled voices elsewhere in the vast penthouse, the sound of doors opening and closing. The luxurious room felt like a prison. She jumped violently when her own bedroom door finally opened.
Scar stood there, framed in the doorway. The controlled mask he’d worn downstairs was still in place, but the strain showed around his eyes, in the tight set of his shoulders. He looked exhausted, haunted. He didn’t speak. He simply walked in, locked the door behind him, and crossed the room in three long strides.
He pulled Jessica into his arms with a force that stole her breath. It wasn't a passionate embrace; it was desperate, almost fearful. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his arms banded around her so tightly she could barely breathe, crushing her against the hard planes of his chest. He trembled, a fine, almost imperceptible vibration that terrified her more than any shout.
"Sebastian?" Jessica whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifted his head and captured her lips in a kiss that was unlike any they’d shared before. It was slow, deep, achingly tender, yet underpinned by a raw, almost frantic intensity. It was a kiss of claiming, of reassurance, of desperate need. He kissed her like a drowning man clinging to air.
He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed. This time, there was no playful chase, no fierce claiming. He laid her down with heartbreaking gentleness. His touch as he removed her robe, then his own clothes, was reverent. He worshipped her body not with demanding passion, but with slow, lingering caresses that traced every curve, every scar, every inch of her skin as if memorizing it, as if it were sacred. His lips followed the same path – soft kisses on her eyelids, her temples, the pulse point at her wrist, the valley between her breasts, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
He took her slowly, with a depth of feeling that stole her breath and brought tears to her eyes. His eyes never left hers, dark pools reflecting a vulnerability she had never seen. He moved within her with exquisite slowness, each thrust a promise, a plea. He murmured against her skin, words breathed like prayers into the quiet room.
"I love you, baby," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, rough with a fear he couldn't name. "I love you so much." He kissed her deeply again. "You are mine. Only mine." He held her gaze, the intensity almost painful. "I will protect you. With my life. Always."
He repeated the words like a mantra as their bodies moved together in a rhythm that was pure, desperate connection. "I love you... mine... protect you..." It was a confession ripped from the deepest, most guarded part of his soul, a shield erected against the ghost that now walked his halls.
Their climax, when it came, was a slow, powerful wave that washed over them together, a shared release that felt more like a merging of souls than a physical act. He held her through it, his arms like steel bands, his face buried in her hair, his body shuddering.
Afterwards, he didn’t let go. He pulled her tightly against him, her back to his chest, his arms locked around her waist, his face pressed against the nape of her neck. His breathing gradually slowed, deepened, into the rhythm of sleep, but his hold never slackened. It was as if he feared she would vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.
Jessica lay wide awake in the circle of his arms, his words echoing in the silence.
I love you.
He’d never said it before. He was a man of actions, not declarations. His protection, his care, his fierce possession – that was his language. Hearing the words aloud, raw and vulnerable, spoken with such desperate intensity… it shook her to her core.
The fear hadn’t left. It coiled cold and heavy beneath the lingering warmth of his love and their intimacy. Amanda’s chillingly beautiful face, her possessive words, her entitled invasion… they painted a picture of danger Jessica couldn’t yet fully see, but felt bone-deep.
Something serious was happening. Something dark from Scar’s past had erupted into their fragile present, threatening everything. The man who feared nothing slept clinging to her like a lifeline. The confession of love wasn't just a gift; it was a warning.
Jessica stared into the darkness beyond the window, the unfamiliar weight of Scar’s sleeping embrace both a comfort and a chain. His whispered promise, *"I will protect you,"* warred with the terrifying certainty that Amanda was a storm they might not weather.
Who is she? Jessica thought, her mind racing, her body acutely aware of the man who loved her and the ghost who threatened them. *What did she do? What does she want?*
The warmth of Scar’s body against her back couldn’t dispel the chilling dread. Amanda wasn’t just an ex-fiancée. She was chaos wrapped in silk. And Jessica knew, with a cold certainty that settled in her bones, that she needed to understand this enemy.
And I will find out, she vowed silently into the dark, her hand tightening slightly over Scar’s where it rested on her stomach. The battle lines, unseen but deeply felt, had been drawn.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 8
Sunlight, warm and honeyed, streamed through the bulletproof glass of the penthouse bedroom, painting stripes across the rumpled silk sheets. Jessica lay curled against Scar’s chest, her ear pressed to the steady, powerful beat of his heart. Months. It had been months since the night that changed everything, months since she’d knelt in gratitude and been met with a firestorm of possession that had consumed them both. Now, the air itself hummed with the intensity of their connection, a tangible force field woven from trust, fierce protectiveness, and a love that had shocked them both with its depth.
His large hand traced lazy, possessive circles on the bare skin of her back, calloused fingers whispering over the curve of her spine. "You’re thinking too loud, my little lioness," his voice rumbled, a low vibration against her temple. He hadn’t called her anything else since that first morning.
A small smile touched Jessica’s lips. "Just… happy," she murmured, nuzzling closer. The gnawing fear for her family was a dull ache now, soothed by the knowledge they were safe in the mansion he’d given them, guarded by men whose loyalty was absolute. Her own world had shrunk and expanded simultaneously – confined within the gilded fortress of his empire for safety, yet boundless within the sanctuary of his regard.
"You should be thinking about your studies," he said, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. He’d been relentless on this point. Weeks ago, he’d presented her with a state-of-the-art laptop and a meticulously researched list of accredited online degree programs. "Law," he’d stated, not asked. "You have the mind for it. Sharp. Analytical. You understand the cost of injustice." He saw the education not as an escape from *his* world, but as armor *within* it. "Knowledge is power, Jessica. Especially here. I won’t have you vulnerable."
She’d enrolled. The discipline forged in the slums and honed juggling escort work and school served her well. Her days now held structure: intense study sessions in the morning light, often with Scar nearby, silently reading intelligence reports or conducting hushed calls; afternoons learning the intricate, often terrifying, workings of his empire – not the violence, but the strategy, the networks, the delicate balance of power he maintained. He trusted her. Explicitly. Implicitly. He introduced her to key, vetted players not as his mistress, but as *Jessica*. The respect they showed her was born of his unwavering authority and their dawning recognition of her own quiet intelligence.
"You worry I’m not focusing enough?" she teased, tracing the infamous scar that ran down his jaw with a feather-light touch. It was a gesture of intimacy only she was permitted.
His eyes, usually so hard and assessing, softened as he looked down at her. They held a warmth reserved solely for her, a stark contrast to the chilling authority he wielded elsewhere. "I worry about many things concerning you," he admitted, a rare vulnerability in his tone. "But your mind? Never. I know the steel in it." He captured her wandering hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. "I just want you to have everything. Everything you were denied. Everything you deserve."
The tenderness, the absolute conviction in his words, still had the power to steal her breath. This ruthless kingpin, feared across continents, whose name was whispered with dread, held her as if she were spun glass and tempered steel combined – precious and unbreakable.
The lazy tracing on her back became less idle, more purposeful. His gaze darkened, the familiar heat igniting. Months had done nothing to dim the explosive chemistry between them. If anything, the deep well of trust and affection had only made the physical connection more potent, more layered. He knew her body now with devastating intimacy, knew exactly how to unravel her, just as she knew the secret paths to melt his formidable control.
"Enough studying for today," he declared, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that never failed to send shivers down her spine. He rolled her gently but decisively beneath him, his weight a welcome anchor. The sunlight gilded the hard planes of his chest and shoulders as he looked down at her, his eyes burning with possessive fire. "Right now, I require your undivided attention."
Jessica laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and made a playful half-hearted attempt to wriggle away. It was a game they played. He loved the chase, even within the confines of their bed. "Demanding, aren’t you?" she teased, pushing lightly against his chest.
A predatory grin slashed across his face. He easily pinned her wrists above her head with one large hand. "Always," he growled, lowering his head to nip at the sensitive skin of her neck, sending sparks skittering through her veins. "Especially where you’re concerned." His free hand slid down her side, over her hip, igniting a trail of fire. "Now, come here, my little lioness."
He kissed her, deep and claiming, silencing her playful protests. Jessica melted into him, her body arching instinctively, meeting his hunger with her own. The world outside their sanctuary – the danger, the underworld machinations – dissolved. There was only him, the heat of his skin, the intoxicating scent of him, the overwhelming sense of belonging. His mouth moved to her collarbone, then lower, his touch both reverent and demanding. She gasped his name, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
"Scar…"
He growled in response, the vibration against her skin tightening the coil of desire low in her belly. He released her wrists, his hands moving to cup her face, holding her gaze captive as he positioned himself. The intensity in his eyes was breathtaking – love, lust, and an absolute, terrifying possessiveness.
"Say it," he commanded, his voice thick.
"Yours," Jessica breathed, the truth resonating deep in her soul. "Always yours."
He surged forward, joining them in one powerful, claiming stroke. Jessica cried out, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. This was worship, this was possession, this was home. He moved with a rhythm that was both familiar and eternally new, building the pleasure with relentless precision. Her world narrowed to the feel of him, the sound of his ragged breaths, the sight of his face – fierce, focused, utterly consumed by her. She met his thrusts, her own cries mingling with his low groans, climbing higher and higher towards the inevitable, shattering peak.
Just as the tension coiled unbearably tight, poised to break, a sharp, urgent knock shattered the intimate cocoon.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Scar froze above her, his body rigid, every muscle locked. The tender lover vanished instantly, replaced by the chilling visage of the crime lord. A low, dangerous snarl ripped from his throat, pure fury radiating from him like heat from a furnace. The interruption wasn't just unwelcome; it was a cardinal sin against the sanctity he fiercely guarded around Jessica.
"WILLIAM!" Scar roared, the sound echoing off the walls, vibrating with barely leashed violence. "This better be a fucking war starting at my doorstep, or I swear to God, I will personally remove your head from your shoulders!"
Jessica flinched at the raw fury, the sudden shift from passionate lover to deadly predator always jarring, even now. She placed a calming hand on his sweat-slicked chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath her palm. "Scar," she murmured softly, trying to diffuse the atomic tension radiating off him. "Just… let him say what it is."
Scar’s jaw clenched so tight Jessica heard his teeth grind. He didn’t move off her, his body still intimately connected, his gaze fixed murderously on the door. After a tense, silent beat where Jessica half-expected the heavy wood to splinter under his glare, he finally barked, "Come in!" The command was a whip-crack.
The door opened cautiously. William, Scar’s imposing second-in-command, stood framed in the doorway. His face, usually impassive, was pale, etched with a tension Jessica had rarely seen. His eyes flickered towards the bed for a microsecond, registering the scene – his boss pinning Jessica beneath him, both flushed and clearly interrupted – before snapping back to Scar’s face with rigid discipline. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, acutely aware he was treading on lethally thin ice.
"Sir," William began, his voice strained. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I apologize… profoundly… for the intrusion. But…"
"SPIT IT OUT, WILLIAM!" Scar snarled, his patience evaporated. The hand not braced beside Jessica’s head curled into a fist.
William flinched almost imperceptibly. He took a breath, steeling himself, his gaze locking onto Scar’s. The news he delivered was delivered in a flat, urgent tone, cutting through the charged air like a shard of ice:
"It’s Amanda, sir. She’s returned."
The effect was instantaneous and terrifying.
Scar didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The fury that had consumed him a second ago vanished, replaced by a sudden, profound stillness that was infinitely more frightening. The color drained from his face beneath his tan, leaving his scar stark and livid. The possessive fire in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a chilling, hollow shock that Jessica had never witnessed before. It was the look of a man who’d seen a ghost – a ghost capable of unraveling everything.
"What?" The word was a whisper, devoid of its usual power, rough with disbelief. He pushed himself off Jessica abruptly, sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his back rigid, facing away from her. His broad shoulders were taut as steel cables. "When? When did she leave Italy?"
William shifted his weight. "Just confirmed, sir. She landed privately an hour ago. We don’t know her destination yet, but… she’s here. In Lagos."
The silence that followed was deafening, thick with unspoken history and looming catastrophe. Jessica sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around her, her own heart pounding against her ribs. She stared at Scar’s rigid back, the sudden distance yawning between them colder than any physical separation. The name hung in the air, charged with an ominous weight she couldn’t comprehend.
Amanda.
Who was she? What power did this name hold that it could fracture the invincible composure of Mr. Scar in an instant? The sanctuary of their love, so fiercely guarded just moments before, suddenly felt fragile, exposed to a storm Jessica couldn’t yet see. The trust, the safety, the future they were building – all suspended on the razor’s edge of this single, devastating name.
TO BE CONTINUED...

My First Time (Episode 1)

It was just... my first time.

You see, growing up,
I built fences around my longings.
Barbed wires of scripture.
Walls of willpower.

Yes, I built my world on rules.
Not the ones written by men,
But the kind you etch in your spirit...
When you're desperate to stay pure in a defiled world.

I made promises to God...
With trembling lips and innocent hands.
Whispers at altars.
Tears during youth vigils.
I will stay virgin.
“No touching.”
“No tasting.”
Not even a kiss...
Until I say “I do.”

Chastity wasn’t just a principle.
It was identity.
It made me feel holy.
Set apart.
Safe.

I guarded it with fear,
Polished it with pride,
Wore it like a spiritual medal on my chest.

At first, it was easy.
Temptation was a rumour from afar.
I didn’t know I was bragging,
From the comfort of distance,
Until life dragged me closer...

Closer to the edge.
Closer to my first time.
So close, I slipped...
Into a moment that almost stained
everything I ever stood for.

And guess where it started?
Church.
Yes, church.
The holy ground.
Where fire falls,
And temptation hides in skirts.

I met her in the Lord’s house.
A sister dripping grace and beauty.
Golden.
Glowing.
Spirit-filled.
Fire-filled.
The kind of girl that makes angels blush,
And brothers lose their train of prayer.

You know those sisters...
That carry the Word like perfume?
The ones whose laughter feels like revival?

That was her.
Elegant.
Confident.
Convicted.
When she walked,
Even ushers paused...
Just to feel her presence again.

The first time I saw her,
My chest skipped.
But she didn’t see me.
Of course she didn’t.
I was just one humble brother in Christ.
So I did what humble brothers do.

I behaved.
Dodged eye contact.
Buried desire in devotion.
Tried to crucify my feelings like they were demons.

Every day, I looked away,
Praying she wouldn’t notice...
The war already starting in my soul.

Then Media Unit happened.
God called me... indirectly.
A leader pointed at me.
“You, join Media.”
I didn’t argue...
Who argues with destiny?

Guess who was already in Media?
Her.
Yes. Her.

We were teammates now.
Ministers.
Co-labourers in the vineyard.
Writing scripts.
Designing flyers.
Fighting battles I didn’t know existed.

Then that day...
That tiny moment that changed everything;
They asked, “Who here can write very well?”

I raised my hand.
And that was the beginning.
They gave me bulletins.
Flyers.
Devotionals.
And I was just writing.

Then, from behind me,
Came the voice I had only heard in daydreams:
“Oh! So you can write this well?”

I smiled... small.
Very small.
Calculated.
Not too wide.
Because any wider, would expose the war...
Already going on in my chest.

From that day, we started talking.
Nothing serious.
Just… holy conversations.
Holy laughter.
Holy friendship.

But there was a way she looked at me.
Or maybe the way I looked at her.
Whatever it was,
Emotions began rising like praise and worship
...on a revival night.

But we were just two fire-filled believers,
Caught in the web of silent attraction.
Too spiritual to confess.
Too emotional to ignore.

So, we bottled it.
Suppressed it.
Every glance.
Every brush of hand.
Every awkward silence that felt too loud.

Until…
That evening.

We had a design to finish;
Flyer for Sunday’s service.
The plan?
Meet in church.
Safe ground.

But she said,
“Your house is closer to me than church.
Let me just come there.”

My heart blinked.
My spirit cleared its throat.
Something whispered,
“Oga... be guided.”

But I brushed it off.
Because I had convinced myself...
I was stronger than I actually was.
I had recited enough memory verses
to believe temptation couldn’t find me.

Besides, I had vows.
I had standards.
I had said no so many times in my mind
that I thought it would be automatic.

I even muttered “In Jesus Name”
To make my foolishness sound holy.

She came.
Fifteen minutes early.
Because real sisters don’t keep time,
They beat it.

I served her water,
Like a good host.
We opened the laptop.
Opened Photoshop.
Started designing.

Everything was set.
Except our boundaries.

But that’s where I’ll stop...
Because what happened next, ehn...

...wait for Episode 2.

𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑲𝑬𝑹 (1983)
Full movie: https://movieus.zylocrypto.com/8675/
Deathstalker (1983) is a sword-and-sorcery fantasy film that follows the journey of a rugged warrior named Deathstalker, who is tasked with finding three magical items—a sword, a chalice, and an amulet—that will grant immense power to whoever possesses them. To do this, he must confront the evil sorcerer Munkar, who rules a kingdom through fear and dark magic. Along the way, Deathstalker joins a deadly tournament held by Munkar, intended to lure and destroy potential threats.

Filled with brutal combat, magic, and sensuality, the film is a cult classic of 1980s low-budget fantasy cinema. It embraces a gritty, exploitative tone with over-the-top action and a strong emphasis on physical strength and raw survival. While not critically acclaimed, Deathstalker became known for its campy charm, swordplay, and for helping to define the “barbarian hero” genre popularized during that era.

It was refreshing news on Monday to a bewildered nation learning that President Bola Ahmed Tinubu has finally decided to visit the scene of the brutal killings in Benue State. For this I thank him even as I make further request that similar gesture should be extended to Niger state that lost more number of human lives in a natural disaster, flood recently.

Given the emergency nature of these incidents, a prompt visits would have delivered the urgency needed, instead of giving future dates that makes it look like a state visit.

The presence of the President in these devastated and grieving communities will be very reassuring and uplifting.
Both Benue and Niger States have lost over 200 lives each due to recent tragedies. In Mokwa alone, more than 200 people were confirmed dead, and over 1,000 are still missing following the floods. These are not just statistics; they are the lives of Nigerian families torn apart and their communities destroyed.

The distance from Abuja to these affected areas is not far. Abuja to Makurdi is about 282 km and Abuja to Mokwa is about 287 km

Combined, that’s roughly 1,134 km for a round trip to both locations, still significantly less than the 1,870 km round trip President Cyril Ramaphosa of South Africa recently made some days ago from Pretoria to Mthatha to personally visit flood victims in his country.
Less than 100 persons died in Mthatha, and more than 200 died in Mokwa, with over 1000 still missing.

If the South African President could do it, we trust that you, as our own President, can do the same for your people.
Let your visit to Mokwa send a strong message, that all Nigerian lives matter, and that no community, no matter how rural, is forgotten. Please also consider stepping up security across the country, especially in disaster-prone areas.

We look forward to seeing not leadership by remote control but proactive leadership that responds not just with words, but with compassion and action.

A new Nigeria is POssible. -PO

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 7
The mansion was quiet.
Jessica sat on the edge of her new bed, the silk sheets cool beneath her trembling fingers. The echoes of her family’s laughter still lingered in the air, the warmth of their embraces still imprinted on her skin.
But her mind was elsewhere.
It was fixed on him.
Mr. Scar.
The man who had given her everything.
The man who had torn apart the world and rebuilt it just to see her smile.
Her chest ached.
She couldn’t breathe.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, her bare feet padding silently across the marble floors, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the entire household could hear it.
She stopped outside his door.
Raised her hand.
And knocked.
A deep voice rumbled from within. "Come in."
Jessica pushed the door open.
Mr. Scar stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, his broad shoulders outlined by the moonlight. He was shirtless, his scarred skin a map of violence and survival, his muscles tense even at rest.
He didn’t turn.
"You should be with your family," he said quietly.
Jessica swallowed. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she sank to her knees.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "For everything. For my family. For—for me."
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then—
Strong hands gripped her arms, hauling her to her feet. Mr. Scar’s face was unreadable, his dark eyes burning.
"Don’t," he growled. "Never kneel to me."
Jessica trembled. "I don’t know how else to—"
"It was nothing," he interrupted, his voice rough. *)"I had my men dig deeper after that night in the basement. I know now that Kazeem threatened you. That you had no choice." His grip tightened. "You and your family will never be unsafe again. That’s my promise."
Something inside Jessica snapped.
Tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. A sob tore from her throat, then another, until she was shaking apart in his arms.
Mr. Scar froze.
Then, slowly—so slowly—his arms came around her, pulling her against his chest.
"Jessica," he murmured, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it.
She clung to him, her fingers digging into his bare skin, her tears wetting his chest.
And then—
She kissed him.
Mr. Scar went rigid.
For one heart-stopping second, he kissed her back—his mouth hot, desperate, hungry.
Then he wrenched away.
"Go to your room," he ordered, his voice strained.
Jessica stumbled back, her lips still tingling. "W-what?"
"This isn’t why I did any of it," he snarled, turning away. "I don’t want payment."
The words stung.
Jessica’s face burned. "That’s not—I didn’t—"
"Goodnight, Jessica."
Humiliation and hurt crashed over her. She turned to leave, her vision blurring.
She barely made it two steps before an iron grip seized her wrist.
Jessica gasped as Mr. Scar yanked her back, spinning her around so fast her head swam.
His eyes were wild.
"You don’t get to do that," he hissed. "You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk away."
Then his mouth crashed down on hers.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was ruin.
Mr. Scar kissed her like a man starved, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, his tongue claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that stole her breath. Jessica melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching against his.
Then he was lifting her, carrying her to the bed, his mouth never leaving hers.
"Tell me to stop," he growled against her lips.
Jessica shook her head, her eyes burning with tears. "Never."
That was all he needed.
He worshiped her.
With his hands. His mouth. His body.
Every touch was a brand, every kiss a vow. He tore her apart piece by piece, then put her back together again, his name a prayer on her lips as she shattered beneath him.
"Scar—!"
"Mine," he snarled in response, his fingers laced with hers, pinning her to the bed as he moved inside her. "Say it."
Jessica sobbed. "Yours."
He kissed her tears away.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets.
Jessica blinked awake, her body deliciously sore, her heart full to bursting.
Mr. Scar slept beside her, his arm draped heavily over her waist, his face younger in sleep, the harsh lines softened.
She smiled.
Then, carefully, she tried to slip away.
A strong arm yanked her back.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Mr. Scar murmured, his voice sleep-rough.
Jessica’s cheeks heated. "I—I thought—"
He rolled her beneath him, his dark eyes blazing with possession. "This is your room now, my sweet little lioness."
Her breath caught. "Really?"
Instead of answering, he kissed her.
And when he slid inside her again, slow and deep this time, Jessica knew—
She was home.
TO BE CONTINUED....

“Dialogue and Reconcile” are two of the most insensitive and irresponsible words ever used by a sitting president in the wake of a massacre by a notorious terrorist organization.

But no one is surprised: he once asked in Ondo - where are the cows?

For a man who once publicly claimed that the buck stops at the president’s table, his actions in the last 24 hrs reflects an abdication of responsibility, lack of empathy and glaring incompetence in restoring peace and stability.

This is shameful to say the least.

The death, killing and massacre in the middle belt is one too many. Perhaps the president needs reminding that the primary role of government is ensuring the safety and protection of lives and property.
These killings are unacceptable and a reflection of the failure of leadership to live up to its most basic responsibility.

Jesus Christ is speaking to somebody here, saying, "I am here to turn your story around. I am here to meet with you and do for you and with you what will shock the world.
Jehovah says, I will save your spirit. I will secure your eternity.
I will secure your seat in the heavenlies. I will give you eternal life. I will manifest my goodness, my kindness, my mercy, and my compassion in your life.

I will walk the journey of life with you. Every time you call on Me, I will be there. I will never leave you nor forsake you."
Who is receiving this word?!

*THE RESTORER'S DAILY GUIDE*

DATE: TUESDAY 17TH JUNE 2025

THEME: *THE HALLOWED BREAD*

MEMORIZE
1 Samuel 21:4
And the priest answered David, and said, There is no common bread under mine hand, but there is hallowed bread; if the young men have kept themselves at least from women.

READ
1 Samuel 21:3-6
Now therefore what is under thine hand? give me five loaves of bread in mine hand, or what there is present.
And the priest answered David, and said, There is no common bread under mine hand, but there is hallowed bread; if the young men have kept themselves at least from women.
And David answered the priest, and said unto him, Of a truth women have been kept from us about these three days, since I came out, and the vessels of the young men are holy, and the bread is in a manner common, yea, though it were sanctified this day in the vessel.
So the priest gave him hallowed bread: for there was no bread there but the shewbread, that was taken from before the LORD, to put hot bread in the day when it was taken away.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
*Hallowed breads are for hallowed persons.*

MESSAGE
Today's memory verse and text show that there are general breads and there are consecrated or hallowed breads for consecrated people who have kept themselves from every form of defilement and contamination.

The word "hallowed" simply means: "consecrated or holy."

David had come to the priest for bread to supply to his men and his household, but the priest said, "There are no common breads under mine hand, only the hallowed bread:"

Bread here stands for food or means of sustenance. Allegorically, this represents the bread of life, which is the Word of God. Technically speaking, it means the revelation or special insights into the Word of God, which is not available to everyone, only for consecrated people.

The Bible is a veiled book to unholy people. It is a closed book to unauthorized persons especially those who are polluted with the filths of this world.

Everybody may read the Bible, but access to the revelation in the book is given by God alone, and this is reserved for dedicated individuals. This is why we cannot depend on our human intelligence to understand God's word.

You need to be told that there are things that God shares with consecrated people alone. And that there are things you will never hear from God if you are living in sin because God hides Himself from defiled people. He reveals Himself only to worthy seekers.

*The hallowed bread is for hallowed persons.*

Beloved, the God we serve is a holy God who jealously guards dedicated things; and will not allow unholy people to have access to them.

Dedicated things are reserved for dedicated people.

Dedicated privileges are meant for people who have distinguished themselves by separating themselves from the filths in this world.

God doesn't treat everybody the same. He doesn't give sacred things to the unholy and the profane.

The Bible puts it this way in
Matthew 7:6 "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you."

There are realms and privileges in God that are not available for the casual and worldly professors of religion.

Beloved, if you will keep yourself pure and Holy henceforth, God will open up the chambers of divine revelation to you.

The Bible says in
Psalms 25:14 "The secret of the LORD is with them that fear him; and he will shew them his covenant."

*There are things God shows to those who fear Him alone.*

Receive grace to separate yourself to Him today in Jesus' name.

ACTION STEPS
1. Ask the Lord to purge you from every form of defilement.
2. Make your yourself available for revelation from God's word by studying the Bible in a prayerful mood.
3. Be determined to stay pure by all means.

PRAYERS
Dear heavenly Father, Thank you for today's devotional guide. Oh God, most Holy, purge me and make me fit for your Holy Word today and always in Jesus' name. Amen.

REMEMBER
*Hallowed breads are for hallowed people.*

AUTHOR: JEDIDIAH DAVID

DAILY READING: Ezekiel 43-44, Judges 16, Acts 11.

HYMN
Thy Word is a lamp to my feet, O Lord,
Thy Word is a light to my way ;
It shines in my soul like a star by night,
And comforts and cheers me by day.

O wonderful, wonderful Word,
My treasure, my hope, and my stay ;
Each promise recorded delights my soul,
And brightens each step of my way.

2
Thy Word is a lamp to my feet, O Lord,
And, trusting in Thee as my all,
Whatever of evil may cross my path,
I never, no, never can fall.

3
Thy Word is a lamp to my feet, O Lord ;
And oh, when Thy glory I see,
For all the rich blessings its truth has brought,
The praise will I give unto Thee.

PLEASE SHARE

In secondary school, I fell deeply in love with a boy. The kind of love that felt all-consuming. He made me feel seen, wanted, special. Then one day, he brought up the idea of a blood oath.

He looked me in the eyes and said,
“If we do this, nothing will ever come between us. We’ll be bound forever.”

At 16, those words sounded romantic. But deep down, something in my spirit just didn’t sit right. My aunty saw the text message and confronted me.. when I was mumbling she gave me a resetting slap that cleared my eyes and that was the last time we talk about anything blood oat.

I still didn't broke up with him and A month later, we had a massive fight and broke up. I was heartbroken but still hopeful—we were young. Maybe we’d find our way back to each other.

We never did.

Growing up without my parents, I lived with my aunt. I didn’t have much guidance, just a young girl trying to navigate life on her own.

Fast forward several years… I had grown, built a life, found my purpose. Then one day, I stumbled across his Instagram. Out of curiosity, I clicked on his profile...

And I froze.

The person staring back at me looked nothing like the boy I once loved. He looked lost, unkempt, like life had dragged him through every corner of pain.

And in that moment, I asked myself,
“Is this the same person I almost tied my entire destiny to with a blood oath?” Nancy Isime

Moral lesson- Her Aunty deserve one cold Heineken

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