The Devil's Plaything

The Boy Before The Devil

Chapter 5: The Boy Before The Devil

I didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute I was staring at the ceiling, replaying Marcus’s face in my mind, and the next I was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far from Lucian Devlin’s rules and glass-walled prisons.

Back home. Back before everything shattered.

The sun was always too bright in our little neighborhood, the dust rising in golden clouds as children laughed in the narrow alleys between faded buildings. I was sixteen. My hair was wild then, never brushed properly. And Marcus, Marcus Diego was the boy who made the world feel like it didn’t hurt.

He was my first love. My only love.

He used to wait for me after school with his shirt untucked, sneakers scuffed, and that wicked grin that made my heart skip. We’d walk together, always taking the long way home. I’d stop to buy bread or plantains for dinner, and he’d carry my books like they were filled with treasure.

At home, I'd feed my siblings while Mom tended to her garden, still wearing the Diego family uniform with soil caked into her nails. Papa, Michael Vale, would hum old songs in the background, hammering away in his workshop. Life wasn't that bad. But we were happy.

And Marcus’s house? It was a palace. His family owned half the city, but they let me in anyway. Or rather, he did.

"Don’t look at the walls," he whispered once as we snuck through the side gate. "Just look at me."

We had our secret world.

The first time he kissed me, it was in their garden, the same one my mother trimmed and shaped every morning.

The basement smelled the same.

The air was thick with dust and memory, heavy with the scent of old wood and secrets we never spoke aloud. Marcus stood in front of me, his eyes dark, jaw tense, the same boy I used to dream about, now wrapped in the body of a man who still had the power to ruin me.

“Say it,” he murmured, stepping closer.

I couldn’t. I didn’t trust my voice. I barely trusted my own body as it trembled under his gaze.

His hands found my waist. Steady. Warm. Familiar. My breath caught as he leaned in, close enough that our lips brushed.

“I’ve never been touched,” I confessed. My voice cracked.

His eyes flickered. He froze. “You’re still…”

I nodded.

A beat passed. Then another. And when he kissed me, it wasn’t rushed or wild, it was slow and reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. I melted into it, letting his lips coax mine open, letting his tongue explore with aching tenderness.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Are you sure, Serena?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “But... I’m scared.”

He touched my cheek. “Then I’ll go slow.”

My hands slid up his chest, tugging at his shirt. I needed to feel him. All of him. He helped me out of my blouse, his fingers brushing over my skin like I was made of porcelain. When he unhooked my bra and his mouth found my breast, I gasped — not from pain, but from how sensitive I felt. Every nerve alive. Every inch of me aware that this was him.

He took his time. Kissing down my stomach. Kneeling in front of me. His fingers slid under my panties, and when he saw how wet I already was, he groaned.

“You’re perfect,” he said, like it physically hurt to hold back.

I shook when he touched me. My thighs tensed, not from fear, but from need I didn’t know how to process. He circled my c**t with slow, practiced care, watching me with those eyes that used to make me stumble over my words.

And when I came, embarrassingly fast, he kissed my hip and whispered, “That’s just the beginning.”

He stood, undid his belt, and let me see him.

I’d never seen a man naked in real life before. I stared, wide-eyed, suddenly nervous all over again.

Marcus stepped close, brushing the hair from my face. “If it hurts, tell me. I’ll stop.”

I nodded, breath shaky.

He positioned himself at my entrance, and I braced myself, clinging to him. The first push made me flinch — it burned, sharp and overwhelming — and he immediately stilled.

“I’m here,” he whispered, kissing my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”

I did.

Little by little, he pushed in, holding me like I was breakable. And maybe I was. But he didn’t rush. He kissed away the sting. His hands gripped mine. And when he was finally buried fully inside me, we both stayed still, trembling, caught in something deeper than lust.

Then he moved.

Slow, careful thrusts. His eyes never left mine. And the pain faded — not all at once, but enough to let the pleasure slip in behind it. I arched into him, moaning softly as the pressure built.

“You’re mine now,” he said, voice low and raw. “You’ve always been mine.”

And I believed him.

When I came the second time, it was messier, louder, my body pulling him deeper, claiming him the way he’d claimed me.

He followed soon after, groaning my name like a promise he couldn’t take back.

Afterward, he didn’t pull away. He held me, kissed my shoulder, whispered things I didn’t know how to answer.

And I let myself believe — just for one night — that we were still those kids in love, before the world got cruel.

It felt eternal.

Until it ended.

His parents sent him abroad before we finished school. Some program, some elite scholarship, and just like that, he was gone. He didn't even get to say goodbye.

A single email. That was all he left me.

I kept rereading it, waiting for the next one to come.

It never did.

He vanished. Life kept getting harder. Papa died or should I say was assassinated because the whole explanation of his car accident didn't sit right with me, it never did, papa was too careful to die like that. Mama fell ill. I dropped out.

And the girl who used to laugh barefoot in the sun grew up angry, tired, and alone.

---

"Mrs Devlin?"

The voice was soft, familiar. My eyelids fluttered.

"Mrs Devlin, your bath is ready."

I sat up too quickly. The room spun. Mona stood by the door with her usual unreadable expression.

"You were murmuring in your sleep. Sounded like a nightmare."

"It was a memory," I whispered. Then louder, without thinking: "What the hell are you doing here, Marcus?"

Mona blinked. "Excuse me?"

I rubbed my face. "Nothing. Just… give me a minute."

She stepped closer. "Lucian sent stylists. You’re expected to be ready in an hour."

"For what?"

"He didn’t say. Only that it’s important."

I nodded, still lost in fog. The past clung to me like humidity. I didn’t want to be Serena Devlin today. I wanted to be the girl with mud on her knees and Marcus’s hands in her hair.

But that girl was gone.

Mona lingered.

"Is there something else?" I asked.

She hesitated. "Lucian... he isn't cruel, not in the way you think. He just… protects what's his."

I narrowed my eyes. "You've said that before. What does it mean?"

She gave me a soft smile, almost maternal. "If you have to ask, then you’re not ready to know."

"Try me."

She shook her head and left.

---

An hour later, I was in a velvet armchair while two stylists flitted around me like birds. They did my hair in an elegant twist, framed my face with soft waves, and painted my lips blood red.

My reflection looked expensive. Detached. Owned.

I hated how much I resembled the version of myself Lucian demanded.

---

Meanwhile…

Lucian Devlin sat alone in his study, the door locked, the world quiet.

The name had been ringing in his ears since the moment she took off the mask, the name hunted him.

Vale.

Serena Vale.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. His whiskey sat untouched on the desk.

Michael Vale had been a good man. Too good. Too honest. And that honesty had cost him.

Lucian closed his eyes.

No. It couldn't be her. It had to be a coincidence. Serena wasn’t an uncommon name. And Vale... maybe it was just a name.

But the girl’s eyes, the way she carried that storm under her skin...

Lucian whispered to the empty room, "God help me if she's his daughter."

Because if she was, everything was about to collapse.

---

Back in my room, I adjusted the hem of the dress the stylists had laid out. It was sapphire blue, clinging, and dangerous. The heels were weapons.

I wasn’t ready for Marcus. I wasn’t ready for Lucian.

I wasn’t ready for whatever the hell came next.

But I knew this: I was no longer the girl who waited for love to write back.

I would get answers.

And when I did, no one, not Marcus, not Lucian, not fate itself—would use me again.

Let the games begin.