The gunshot cracked through the air like a whip.
For a split second, everything slowed—the way Damien's arm jerked from the recoil, the smell of cordite filling the stale air, the dust motes hanging in the thin beam of light from the flickering ceiling bulb.
Rose's breath caught. Not from pain—no impact, no warm rush of blood—but from the sight of Vincent standing exactly where he had been, chains clinking softly… untouched.
The bullet lay flattened on the floor between them, as if it had struck a wall of stone.
Damien's brow furrowed. "What the hell—"
Vincent smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made the room colder. "Exactly that."
The chains binding him shimmered—and dissolved into smoke.
---
Before Rose could blink, he was in front of her. One moment chained, the next a blur of movement, his hand gripping the gun's barrel. The metal warped under his touch, as if melting.
Lucien cursed and lunged toward the exit, but the door slammed shut with a deafening thud.
"You think you're hunting her," Vincent said, voice low and steady, "but you've wandered into my territory."
The lights overhead flickered. Shadows thickened in the corners, coiling like living things.
---
Damien tried to back away, but Vincent didn't move toward him—he simply looked at him. And Damien froze. Literally. Ice crystals bloomed across the floor beneath his shoes, creeping up his legs until they locked him in place.
Lucien made a desperate grab for a metal pipe leaning in the corner. Vincent lifted one finger. The pipe crumpled like paper.
Celeste was pressed against the far wall, trembling. "He's not human…" she whispered.
Rose was still seated on the cold floor, but her eyes never left Vincent. This wasn't the charming, teasing figure who'd lingered in her penthouse and stolen her heart piece by piece. This was something ancient—something powerful—and yet the way he glanced at her in the chaos told her she was safe.
---
When it was over, the siblings were left bound, gagged, and shivering from a cold that seemed to seep into their bones.
Vincent crouched beside Rose, his hand cupping her cheek. The warmth of his touch chased away the damp chill of the room.
"You're not hurt," he said—not a question, a certainty.
"No," she breathed. Her pulse was still erratic, but her voice was steady. "What did you do to them?"
"They'll remember just enough to fear trying again." He studied her face for a long moment. "But they'll keep coming."
Her brows knit. "Why tell me that?"
"Because…" His voice softened. "You still have a choice."
---
Back at her penthouse, after hours of quiet, Rose finally asked the question that had been clawing at her since the first time he mentioned the rule.
"What happens," she said slowly, "when you take the precious thing from someone?"
Vincent's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened. "They lose it. Completely. Sometimes it's an object. Sometimes… a person. Always something that defines them."
"And if that thing is you?"
"Then I vanish. And they forget me." His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a faint tremor in the last word.
Rose's throat tightened. "So no matter what we do—"
"Rules aren't meant to be broken," he cut in. "And devils aren't meant to love."
---
But that night, as she lay in bed, she couldn't shake the memory of the way he'd looked at her in that freezing, shadow-soaked room. It wasn't just protection. It wasn't just duty. It was something deeper.
And she hated that every step closer to him meant walking toward the moment he would be taken away.
---
The following week, the siblings disappeared from public view—officially "on extended travel." In truth, Vincent had made sure they had… other priorities. Dangerous debts to repay, deals to uphold. They wouldn't touch Rose again soon.
But safety brought no peace.
Because now she was left with Vincent's warning.
And the growing weight of what she was feeling.
---
One rainy night, a week later, she found him standing on her balcony, staring out at the storm.
"Do you miss it?" she asked quietly.
"Miss what?"
"Being an angel."
Vincent didn't turn. "I miss the light. Not the rules. Not the distance."
"You chose this," she said softly.
"I chose to fall." He finally looked at her, rain dripping from his hair. "And I've never regretted it until now."
"Why now?"
"Because for the first time, I wish I could stay."
---
Rose took a step toward him. "You're acting like it's already over."
"It is," he said simply. "You just don't feel it yet."
The storm rumbled overhead. The air between them was heavy, charged—like the moments before lightning strikes.
She wanted to tell him she didn't care about rules, or hell, or what he was supposed to take from her. She wanted to say she'd fight it, just as she'd fought every other battle in her life.
But before she could, he vanished. Not gone—she could still feel him in the room—but invisible, untouchable.
From somewhere near, his voice came: "They're testing the chains."
---
The lights went out.
Rose's penthouse plunged into darkness, the storm outside a curtain of white noise. And then—footsteps.
Not Vincent's.
Her heart pounded. She moved toward the kitchen, feeling along the wall for the drawer with the emergency flashlight, when a shadow separated from the rest.
Damien.
Except… something was wrong. His eyes glowed faintly red, his movements jerky, unnatural.
Behind him, Lucien and Celeste emerged, their faces pale, their expressions blank.
Vincent reappeared beside her in an instant, his hand outstretched, a shimmering barrier forming between them and the intruders.
"They've made a deal," he said grimly. "Not with me."
Rose's blood ran cold. "Then with who?"
Vincent's gaze locked on hers. "Someone who wants both of us gone."
And before she could speak, the glass wall of her balcony shattered inward—