Chapter 1
Lucian Blackwood did not believe in bad nights.
There were inconvenient ones. Costly ones. Bloody ones. But never bad in the sense that things slipped beyond his grip. Control was not a habit for him; it was instinct. He woke with it. Slept with it. Built his empire on it. People mistook his silence for calm and his restraint for mercy. They never stayed close enough to learn the difference.
Tonight should have been routine.
The city slid past the windows of his armored car, lights smeared by rain, buildings hunched like obedient giants. His phone lay untouched beside him. No calls were needed. No decisions waiting. Everything important had already been decided earlier in the day: a merger finalized, a rival cornered, and a board member quietly ruined.
Lucian adjusted his cuff, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
Something felt wrong.
Not fear. He hadn't felt fear in years. This was sharper. The faint itch beneath the skin that told him a calculation was off somewhere. A detail was missed. A knife hidden too close.
"Route check," he said.
"Clear," his head of security replied. "No anomalies."
Lucian didn't answer. He watched the rain instead. Watched how it distorted the city, bending straight lines into lies.
The explosion came without warning.
The world folded inward. Sound vanished, then returned all at once, metal screaming, glass bursting, and pressure crushing his chest. The car lurched violently, spun, and slammed sideways into something solid. Lucian's head snapped forward. White light exploded behind his eyes.
Pain followed. Hot. Immediate.
Gunfire cracked through the night.
Lucian reached for the emergency pistol on instinct, fingers slick with blood, before he realized he'd been hit. A sharp, tearing pain bloomed along his side. He forced himself upright, ignoring the taste of iron flooding his mouth.
The door was ripped open.
Masked men. Efficient. Too calm.
Not amateurs.
Lucian fired twice. One body dropped. Another stumbled. A third bullet tore through Lucian's ribs and drove the breath from his lungs. He hit the pavement hard, rain splashing cold against his face.
A boot pressed into his chest.
"So this is him," someone said. "Doesn't look like much."
Lucian smiled through blood.
"You're already dead."
The man raised his gun.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
The attackers scattered with disciplined speed, melting back into the city. No trophies. No hesitation. They hadn't come to finish the job.
They'd come to remind him he could bleed.
Lucian lay alone on the road, rain soaking through his ruined suit, blood pooling beneath him. His vision blurred. The city lights smeared into useless color. He tried to move. His body refused.
This was wrong.
He was not supposed to be here. Not like this. Not helpless. Not waiting for the dark to close in.
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Uneven.
Lucian forced his eyes open.
A girl stood a few steps away, frozen beneath a flickering streetlight. She was small. Too thin. A cheap jacket hugged her frame like it didn't belong to her. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide, calculating, and frightened.
She looked at the wrecked car. The blood. The empty street.
Then she looked at him.
Lucian saw the moment she decided to leave.
Saw it in the shift of her weight. The tightening of her fingers around her bag strap.
Good, he thought distantly. Run.
She didn't.
She swore under her breath, dropped her bag, and rushed toward him.
"Hey, hey, don't move," she said, voice shaking. "Oh God, there's so much blood."
Lucian tried to speak. His lungs burned. Nothing came out but a wet sound.
She tore at her sleeve, pressing the fabric against his wound with clumsy urgency. Her hands trembled. She was scared. Not of him, of failing.
"You're going to be okay," she said, too fast, like she was convincing herself. "You hear me? Stay awake."
Lucian's fingers twitched, catching her wrist weakly.
"Run," he managed.
She shook her head hard. "No. Don't do that. Don't talk."
No one ever disobeyed him.
Darkness lapped at the edges of his vision. The rain grew louder. Her face hovered above him, blurred, unreal.
For the first time since childhood, Lucian Blackwood lost consciousness without choosing to.
He woke to pain.
Dull at first. Then sharp. Then everywhere.
A ceiling swam into focus. Cheap tiles. Flickering light. Machines beeping, old, not calibrated for men like him.
This wasn't one of his hospitals.
Lucian turned his head and hissed.
The girl was there.
Sitting in a plastic chair pulled too close to his bed. Her head had tipped forward, chin resting against her chest. She looked smaller asleep. Younger. Exhaustion had erased the tension from her face, leaving something unguarded behind.
Lucian studied her the way he studied balance sheets and enemy profiles.
Details mattered.
Cracked nail polish. A faint scar near her eyebrow. Dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of nights without rest. No jewelry. No signs of opportunism.
She stirred.
Her eyes snapped open the second she realized he was awake.
"You," She stood too quickly. "You're awake. Thank God."
"Where?" His voice came out rough.
"A clinic," she said. "Not a good one. But it's quiet."
"Why?"
She frowned. "Because you were dying."
Lucian stared at her.
That was it.
No rehearsed speech. No expectation of reward.
"You paid," he said.
Her mouth tightened. "I'll manage."
He knew that tone. Deflection. Shame.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated. Just long enough for him to notice.
"Elara."
"Last name."
"Wynn."
He filed it away.
"You should leave," she said after a moment. "Your people will be looking for you. Whoever did this might come back."
Lucian watched her pick up her bag. Watched her force herself not to look relieved at the thought of leaving.
"Wait."
She paused at the door.
"Why didn't you walk away?" he asked.
Elara swallowed. "I almost did."
"Why didn't you?"
Her shoulders sagged. "Because I didn't want that on me."
She left before he could say anything else.
Lucian lay there, staring at the closed door, the beeping machines marking time he hadn't planned to lose.
Something twisted low in his chest.
Not gratitude.
Not affection.
Something closer to hunger.
He reached for his phone with unsteady fingers.
"Find her," he said when the line connected. "Elara Wynn. Everything. Quietly."
The Devil had bled.
And now he wanted to know who had seen him do it.