A Deal with the Devil Who Wants Me

Chapter Two – His Shadow Follows

I don’t sleep.

The clock ticks past midnight, and still I’m staring at the ceiling, listening for him. Every small noise outside my window—the rustle of leaves, the crunch of gravel, the whisper of the wind—feels like him. Like Damien Kade is standing just beyond the glass, smiling to himself, knowing I’m lying awake because of him.

When morning finally comes, my eyes are heavy, my body sluggish, but I still catch sight of the black car idling across the street. Same one as last night. Tinted windows. Silent.

He’s there. Watching. Waiting.

I try to ignore it. I pull on my black dress, swipe dark lipstick across my mouth, and tell myself I’m not playing into his game. But the truth? Every time I move, I wonder if he can see me. If he’s memorizing the shape of my body through the glass, if he’s hard while watching me slip my stockings up my thighs.

The thought makes my stomach tighten in ways I don’t want to admit.

By the time I reach the café, Lyra is already seated. She’s vibrant in a red dress, blonde curls bouncing, her legs crossed carelessly while men stare at her like she’s dessert.

“You look like death,” she says, arching a brow as I drop into the seat across from her. “Don’t tell me you pulled another all-nighter writing.”

If only.

I force a smile, reaching for my coffee when the waitress sets it down. “Something like that.”

But then it happens.

That shift. That prickle against my skin. That heavy awareness that coils through me like smoke.

He’s here.

I don’t look around. I don’t need to. My body already knows when Damien steps into a room.

The café is bright, full of chatter and clinking cups, but I feel him even through the noise. He’s in the corner somewhere, cloaked in shadow, those black eyes locked on me.

My throat tightens as I bring the cup to my lips. Heat licks low in my stomach at the thought of him watching me sip, watching me swallow, watching my tongue dart out to catch a drop of coffee at the corner of my mouth.

He wants me to know. He wants me to feel it—this invisible chain binding me to him.

Lyra keeps talking, oblivious, but I can’t focus. My pulse is racing, my body is betraying me.

And the worst part?

Some part of me wants to spread my legs under the table, just to see what he’d do.

I glance at the mirror behind the counter. My heart stumbles.

There he is.

Damien sits in the farthest booth, dressed in black, his posture lazy but his eyes fixed on me. Not once does he blink. Not once does he look away. A predator studying the precise moment his prey will break.

When our gazes finally lock, my lungs burn. He tips his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, and slides his tongue slowly over his lower lip.

Heat floods me so suddenly I almost drop my cup.

I force myself to look away, to act normal, but my body is thrumming, restless, needy.

And then my phone buzzes on the table.

Unknown Number: You look beautiful in black, little ghost.

My blood turns to fire. My eyes dart back up, but Damien hasn’t moved, hasn’t pulled out a phone. He just sits there, smirking, like he knows every thought running through my mind.

Like he owns me already.