A Deal with the Devil Who Wants Me

Chapter Eight – No One to Run To

Sleep is a stranger now. I lie in bed with my phone clutched like a lifeline, eyes darting between the glowing camera feeds. Each frame flickers in sterile silence, showing nothing but stillness.

But stillness feels like a lie.

Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every hum of the refrigerator sounds like breathing. My body trembles on edge, the tension wound so tight it’s a wonder I don’t snap in two.

By the time dawn filters through the curtains, I’m hollow-eyed, shaking, and half-delirious.

I need help.

My best friend Claire notices the second I step into the café where we usually meet. Her face falls, eyes scanning my exhausted features, the stiffness in my movements, the dark bruises of sleepless nights painted beneath my eyes.

“Seraphina… what the hell is going on with you?” she asks, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.

For a second, I almost break. Almost pour it all out—the roses, the notes, the way Damien crawls into my life through cracks I didn’t even know existed.

But how could I explain it? How could I make her believe me when I barely do?

Instead, I say, “I think… someone’s following me.” My voice cracks on the word someone. I can’t force myself to say his name.

Claire straightens, worry darkening her features. “Following you? Sera, you should call the cops. Right now. This isn’t something you ignore.”

Her certainty rattles me. I want to believe in it. I want to believe in the clean, simple lines of justice—bad man, police, handcuffs, freedom.

But Damien doesn’t fit inside lines. He erases them.

“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, lying through my teeth.

That night, the cameras glowed their watchful red. I sit curled on the couch with my laptop open, scrolling through articles about restraining orders, about surveillance, about women who went missing and were never found.

And then my phone buzzes.

A text.

From Claire.

“Stop trying to scare me. He’s not real.”

My heart freezes. I fumble the phone, reading it again and again, my brain stuttering.

I never told her about him. I never told her the details.

My stomach drops as the screen buzzes again.

“You really should be more careful about who you trust, little dove. She won’t help you.”

The message is no longer from Claire’s name. It’s from Damien’s.

My body goes cold, ice spreading through my veins as realization claws at me.

He has her number. He has her phone. He has her life in his hands, just like he has mine.

I try to call, desperation choking me. The line rings once, then cuts off.

Another message follows, sharp and taunting:

“Every time you try to run, I’ll take something from you. Starting with her.”

My vision blurs with tears. My trembling fingers dig into my scalp as I choke on a sob.

Claire. Sweet, innocent Claire, caught in the orbit of a monster because of me.

I hurl my phone across the room, the crash echoing through the apartment. But it doesn’t silence his voice.

Because I know Damien is watching me. Always watching.

The cameras blink red, steady and calm, like beating hearts.

His eyes.

That night, I dreamt of him for the first time.

Damien stands over my bed, tall and shadowed, his hand sliding slowly down my throat. His touch isn’t violent—it’s possessive. A claim, a warning, a promise.

When I wake, gasping, sweat slicks my body. My sheets smell faintly of roses.

And my bedroom door is open.

I remember closing it.

My pulse roars in my ears. I don’t move, don’t breathe. Because in that moment, one truth coils around me tighter than any lock or chain:

There’s no one left to run to.

Not Claire. Not the cops.

It’s just me.

And Damien.

Always Damien.