POV: Damen Vale
Location: London, The Vale Club
London is a city that forgives sin, as long as you wear it well.
I've learned that truth the way men learn pain — through repetition.
From my office above the main floor of The Vale, I can see everything. The men who come to forget their wives. The women who pretend to forget themselves. And then there's her — Elara Quinn — walking through my doors like she's chasing ghosts she doesn't realize I still own.
She moves differently now. Sharper. More guarded. But her eyes?
Still the same soft shade of storm — beautiful, terrified, and curious.
The kind that made me ruin men just to watch her flinch.
I should have left her buried in memory.
But the thing about devils like me — we don't bury what's ours. We wait for it to crawl back.
I watch her from above for nearly ten minutes before I go down. I want her to feel it — that invisible tension, the way the air thickens when she's being studied. Humans sense when they're prey. She's no different, no matter how brave she pretends to be.
When I approach the bar, she's already seen me. That tiny flicker of recognition in her eyes almost makes me smile. Fear and memory are twin flames in her expression. Perfect.
She sits down beside me like it's destiny — or defiance. Both taste the same to me.
"You've been looking for me, Elara Quinn," I tell her, just to watch her react.
Her lips part, but she doesn't speak right away. She's calculating. I respect that. I built my empire on silence and study.
"And you've been hiding in plain sight," she answers finally, voice steady but soft. Brave little liar.
"I never hide," I murmur, sipping my whiskey. "I wait."
Her gaze drifts to the tattoos running across my forearm — the only visible part of the chaos beneath the suit. She's trying to decode me. She won't. No one ever has.
But she does something unexpected — she leans forward, elbows on the bar, eyes steady. "You sent those messages."
Not a question. A statement.
I take a slow breath. She still jumps straight to the wound.
"You should know by now," I say quietly, "I don't leave fingerprints where I play."
Her pulse ticks visibly at her throat. She's angry — good. Anger is cleaner than fear. Easier to mold.
Later that night, after she's gone, I return to my penthouse overlooking the river. The city sprawls beneath me — a map of sins I've committed and secrets I own.
I pour another drink, though I don't need it. I've already tasted the real intoxication — seeing her again.
I shouldn't feel it. But obsession has always been my inheritance.
She thinks I rescued her.
She never realized I was the one who built the hell she needed saving from.
That warehouse — that night — was never random. I created it. Controlled it.
She wasn't supposed to survive. But she lied.
And I've always admired a good liar.
I walk to my desk and open the black folder labeled QUINN, E. Her life spread across pages: her articles, her therapist's notes, her rent records, her photos. She's predictable in her chaos — a woman who digs for truth to fill the hole left by it.
Every time she publishes a story, another woman disappears. She hasn't figured out why yet. That's the beauty of it. She keeps chasing me, thinking she's the hunter. But she's always been the story — my story.
I touch the photo of her taken two days ago. Rain in her hair. Determination on her face.
I trace the scar on her wrist with my thumb, the same one I left three years ago. My mark. My reminder.
Some men collect art. I collect moments. Hers are my masterpiece.
There's a knock at my door.
Marcus, my second-in-command, steps in — tailored, efficient, terrified of disappointing me.
"She was here longer than expected," he says, closing the door. "Do you want me to tail her?"
I glance up from the folder. "You think I'd let her leave without eyes on her?"
He hesitates. "Sir, if she connects you to—"
"She won't." I cut him off. "Elara believes in truth. But truth doesn't believe in her anymore."
Marcus nods, uneasy. I can smell his discomfort — fear of what I might do, or what I've already done. He's seen enough to know I never act without purpose.
When he leaves, I open the hidden drawer beneath my desk. Inside lies an old tape recorder — the one I used that night. Her voice still lives there, trembling, begging, breaking. I play it sometimes. Not for pleasure — for control.
Control is memory. Memory is power.
I step out onto the balcony. The city stretches endlessly below — glowing, breathing, rotting. My world. My throne.
The rain has stopped, but the air still tastes of thunder.
And somewhere out there, she's writing about me again, trying to solve a mystery she's not ready to survive.
She thinks she's chasing the devil who broke her.
What she doesn't realize is that she became the reason I built the fire in the first place.
I take a drag of my cigarette, watching the smoke twist upward like ghosts.
In the reflection of the glass, I see her face — soft, haunted, defiant.
"She's still running," I whisper to the night. "And I still love watching her crawl."
End of Chapter 2💀