Owned by the Devil

Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Arabella

The castle was too quiet. Not silent, exactly. There was always the distant tick of antique clocks, the occasional creak of ancient floorboards, the sigh of wind curling through the ivy-covered windows. But it was a haunted sort of quiet, like the halls remembered things I didn’t.

I wandered aimlessly, barefoot on the cold marble floors, with a headache and a fractured past, walking through what felt like someone else’s life.

The grand staircase creaked beneath my bare feet. My fingers brushed the banister, then the edge of a massive oil painting—a woman in red, her expression unreadable. A man with hollow eyes. A child smiling too wide. All strangers.

I stared at their painted faces, hoping one might unlock something in me. Nothing.

He said we were engaged, that I’d fallen down the stairs and that I had no one else. That is too pitiful, painful. Sad.

However, I didn’t feel like someone who belonged to Dominic Moretti. I didn’t feel like anyone’s bride. And yet… there was something about him. Something that made me uneasy—and curious.

I turned a corner and froze.

A room stretched out before me, sun-drenched and strange. One half looked like a private library, all mahogany shelves and dust-softened books. The other was a studio—easels, sketchbooks, charcoals scattered like someone had left mid-creation. The centerpiece was a half-finished painting of a woman beneath a stormy sky. She looked haunted. Alone.

Something inside me stirred.

I walked in slowly, like I was approaching a memory instead of a room. The scent of turpentine and old paper wrapped around me, oddly comforting. I moved toward a cluttered desk covered in handmade brushes, ink, a journal with a page full of strange symbols and—

"Exploring without me, cara mia?"

I turned, startled.

Dominic stood in the doorway, dark and impossibly put-together in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his watch and a faint scar on his wrist. His eyes, as always, gave nothing away.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” I said quickly.

He smiled, stepping inside. “You can’t snoop in your own home.”

“I don’t feel like it’s mine.”

He glanced around the room, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You used to live in this space. Always sketching. You hated being interrupted.”

“Sketching?” I looked down at my hands like they might know what to do.

He picked up a paintbrush and twirled it absently between his fingers. “You said the studio helped you think. You’d paint over your codes sometimes, hide them in the brushstrokes. It was your way of processing.”

“Codes?” I blinked.

“Riddles. Puzzles. You were obsessed with patterns. But it was harmless,” he added quickly, a little too quickly.

I stepped closer to the painting. My fingertips itched to touch the canvas. “Was I always like that?”

He chuckled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Intense. Brilliant. You used to drive me crazy.”

I wasn’t sure if that was meant fondly or as a warning. Then he moved toward me and reached out, brushing something from my cheek.

His thumb lingered.

“Charcoal,” he murmured. “You always made a mess in here. It was... endearing.”

The way he looked at me—it was too much. I took a small step back.

He didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he moved to a nearby cabinet and opened it casually, like we hadn’t just shared something intimate. “Once, you wandered in during a meeting, wrapped in a bedsheet. Half-asleep. Thought I was in the other room.”

My face burned. “I—what?”

“It was accidental,” he said, laughing under his breath. “Unforgettable, though.”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember any of this.”

“No,” he said, more serious now. “You don’t.”

The air between us shifted.

I surprised myself when I asked, “What was I really like? Before?”

He took a long time to answer. Then he walked over to the painting, touched the edge of the canvas. His voice was quieter now.

“You were fire. Uncontainable. Smart in ways that scared people. You questioned everything. Trusted no one—until you did. And when you gave someone your loyalty, it was absolute.”

“Did I trust you?” I asked.

His eyes met mine. “Yes. Completely.”

It sounded rehearsed. Too perfect. But something in me wanted to believe it.

“Why don’t I remember?” I whispered.

“You hit your head,” he said gently. “It was a bad fall. The doctors said your mind needed time. And I’ll give you that.”

I searched his face, looking for the lie. If it was there, it was buried deep.

“Even if I never remember?”

He moved toward me, smile soft. “Then we’ll make new memories.”

He said it like a promise. And for a moment, I wanted to believe him.

“Actually,” he added, “I planned something for us today. Thought it might spark something.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a special exhibit at the Verona Gallery,” he said. “Da Vinci. Coded drawings, mechanical sketches. I thought… maybe you’d feel something. Maybe your hands would remember, even if your mind doesn’t.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips. I didn’t know why, but the idea made my heart lift.

“I’d like that.”

He smiled back. And somehow, it brought me comfort.

Later that night, after a decadent dinner and a quiet walk through what Dominic claimed was my favorite part of the estate, I was returning to my room feeling... softer. Not happy. But not afraid, either. I was just exhausted.

I reached for the doorknob, ready to collapse into the bed and shut off my brain.

But the second I opened the door, a pair of arms yanked me inside.

I gasped, but before I could scream, a hand covered my mouth. A strong chest pressed against my back. The familiar scent of cedar and smoke filled my nose.

“Shh,” a voice whispered at my ear. “It’s me, Saint. I’ve come to take you home.”

I went still.

Saint?

Just then, he turned me around and his lips crashed into mine. A desperate, hard and hurried kiss, like he'd been starved of it.

But I didn't kiss him back. I couldn't. My heart pounded, not in recognition. It pounded with fear and alarm.

When he pulled back, waiting for something in my eyes, I stared at him in silence. A weight sank into my chest.

He looked broken. Hopeful. Like I was the only thing tethering him to this world.

“I don’t know who you are,” I said quietly. “But if you don’t let me go… I’ll scream.”

And just like that, I watched the light die in his eyes.