The Devil's Offer
Kaia
I didn't sleep.
Not after what I saw. Not after the whispers I heard on the other side of that damn door.
Damon. My Damon.
Laughing with the woman whose family orchestrated the bloodbath at my wedding.
Was it strategy? Revenge? Or had I been the pawn all along?
The city outside my window pulsed like a heartbeat—neon veins bleeding across steel and concrete. Somewhere out there, he was making decisions that tore through what little was left of my soul.
But I wouldn't cry. I was done mourning what I'd lost.
I wasn't a bride anymore.
I was a weapon.
---
The next morning, I didn't dress to blend in.
I dressed for war.
Slick black leather. No jewelry. No perfume. Just the cold gleam of resolve painted across my lips.
I walked into Inferna, Damon's elite, members-only club, like I owned the building.
Guards stiffened. The concierge looked like she'd seen a ghost.
Good.
I moved past her without a word, straight to the elevator that would take me to the executive floor.
The second the doors opened, he was waiting.
Leaning against the glass railing like he didn't have a care in the world. Shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, darkness pouring off him like cologne.
"Kaia," he drawled, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "To what do I owe this unholy pleasure?"
I didn't answer. Just walked right past him into his office.
He followed.
"I assume this isn't a social call?" he said, pouring himself a drink.
I shut the door with more force than necessary. "I want answers."
Damon's smirk didn't waver. "About?"
"Celeste Drakov." I didn't blink. "You were laughing with her. In your office."
His hand froze over the glass.
Then, slowly, he turned. "Were you spying on me?"
"I don't need to spy. Your shadows don't scare me anymore."
He studied me, something like heat flickering in his gaze. "And what exactly do you think you saw?"
"I don't think. I *know*."
My voice cracked, but I didn't flinch. "You were supposed to be the only person I could trust. And now you're in bed with the family that butchered mine."
His eyes darkened.
"Careful, Kaia," he murmured. "You're swinging blades in a room full of landmines."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"No," he said. "You're afraid of the truth."
Then he moved.
In three strides, he was in front of me. Caging me against the wall, the wood cool against my back.
"You want answers?" he growled, eyes like wildfire. "Fine."
He pressed in. One hand braced beside my head. The other slid up my waist like he still had a right to touch me.
"I met with Celeste because she asked for a truce. She offered information. Something about Project Echo."
My heart stopped.
I hadn't heard that name in years.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" he whispered, his mouth brushing my jaw. "Then walk away. Stop pretending you want the truth when all you want is to punish me for surviving."
His lips crashed into mine before I could respond.
Hard. Angry. Desperate.
And I kissed him back like I was trying to set us both on fire.
I hated him.
But I burned for him more.
His hands gripped my hips. My nails raked down his back. He spun us onto his desk, sweeping papers aside as he lifted me onto it without breaking the kiss.
"Still think I'm your enemy?" he rasped against my throat.
"I think you're poison," I gasped.
"And yet you drink."
His mouth found mine again. This time slower. More lethal. Like a promise.
And just as suddenly, he pulled away.
Left me breathless, burning, undone on his desk.
He straightened his collar and smirked. "I'll let you know when I get more from Celeste."
I blinked. "That's it?"
He leaned in close. "Next time you want answers, ask. Don't spy."
And then he walked out.
Leaving me trembling—half from rage, half from heat—with the taste of vengeance and lust still on my lips.