Bound by the Devil's Cure

Chapter 13 Blood and Secrets

By the time they reached Damon’s mansion, the adrenaline had begun to fade and the reality of what had happened crashed in its place.

Chloe barely remembered how they got inside.

Servants were dismissed with a single sharp command from Damon. The moment the doors to his private wing closed, the powerful, composed man she knew seemed to loosen slightly, not in weakness, but in controlled restraint.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing toward a chair.

One of his brows lifted faintly. “You’re giving me instructions now?”

“You’ve been shot,” she snapped. “Sit.”

He obeyed.

The moment Chloe peeled back his blood-soaked shirt, her stomach tightened. The wound was ugly and deep, torn, still oozing.

This should have been unbearable. But Damon’s expression barely changed.

Her hands moved automatically, almost instinctively. She cleaned the wound, removed the embedded fragment, got medicinal herbs ready in no time and applied them, then began bandaging his shoulder with careful precision.

Damon watched her the entire time. The strange part wasn’t her competence. It was the sensation. Instead of the blinding agony he expected, what he felt was… mild. Like a shallow cut. A sting, but nothing more.

“You should be in extreme pain,” Chloe murmured, frowning slightly as she secured the bandage.

“I’ve had worse injuries,” he replied.

She shook her head. “No. Not like this. A bullet wound isn’t something you just tolerate.”

His gaze dropped to the pendant resting against her collarbone.

“The necklace,” he said quietly. “Is it because of that?”

Chloe hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yes.”

Silence filled the room for a moment.

“What is it?” he asked.

Her fingers instinctively closed around it. “I… don’t know. Not exactly.”

“You healed me with it.”

“I didn’t heal you completely,” she corrected softly. “It just reduces damage. Pain. Sometimes bleeding. I don’t even understand how I know that.”

Damon’s eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”

She searched for words, frustration flickering across her face.

“It’s like… knowing how to breathe. Or walk. No one taught me. I’ve just always known what it can do.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Like I was born for it.”

That was when Damon understood. She had power, but no training. No knowledge. No guidance. Which meant she was vulnerable. Dangerously so.

“Come with me,” he said, standing.

He led her through the mansion corridors into his private study — a large, dimly lit room lined with shelves, maps, and secured cabinets. From a drawer, he pulled out a thick file and placed it on the desk between them.

On the cover were photographs. An ornate ancient artifact — a crystalline reliquary set in silver and gold.

“A museum acquisition,” Chloe said quietly.

Damon nodded. “The Reliquary of Aethelis.”

He opened the file, revealing documents, historical notes, and security briefings.

“I believe your necklace and this relic are connected,” he said. “Same symbolic markings. Same estimated origin period. And if I’m right… whatever happened tonight — Miriam, the attack — it’s tied to this.”

Chloe stared at the images. Her breathing grew uneven. Miriam’s face flashed in her mind. Her last words the blood, the fear.

“I couldn’t save her,” Chloe whispered, her voice breaking. “I tried… I tried, Mr Heights."

"Damon," Damon corrected, "You can call me Damon."

Emotion finally overwhelmed her. Tears spilled down her cheeks as grief cracked through her chest. Without hesitation, Damon stepped closer. His uninjured arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her gently against him.

“You did everything you could,” he said quietly. “Her killers are responsible. Not you.”

She shook her head against his chest, trembling.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Everything is changing so fast. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

His hand moved to her hair, steady and grounding.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured.

When she looked up, their faces were inches apart. The air shifted. Heavy, charged, inevitable.

Damon’s thumb brushed away a tear from her cheek. Then he kissed her. Soft at first. Tentative.

Chloe froze for only a second before her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, emotion pouring into it — fear, relief, desire, grief, need — everything neither of them had been able to say.

His body was warm, solid, reassuring beneath her hands. She felt safe and wanted. Alive and desired.

The world outside the room disappeared as they clung to each other, the intensity building until thought itself became impossible.

And when Damon lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the adjoining bedroom, Chloe didn’t resist. She wanted him too. The rest of the night belonged only to them.

Warmth.

That was the first thing Chloe registered when consciousness returned. Warm sheets. A steady heartbeat beneath her cheek. Strong arms wrapped securely around her waist.

Her eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then memory crashed back, the mansion, the wound, the tears and kiss.

The night her body went still. She slowly lifted her head and looked down. Skin against skin. They were both completely naked beneath the covers.

“Oh my God…” she whispered internally, panic exploding through her chest. I slept with my boss.

Heat rushed to her face. Carefully — very carefully — she tried to slide out of his arms without waking him. If she could just leave quietly, maybe she could process everything later. Maybe she could pretend she hadn’t completely lost control of her life in less than twenty-four hours.

She had just reached the edge of the bed when a firm hand caught her wrist.

“You will not run away from me this time.”

Her breath hitched. Damon was awake. His voice was low, rough with sleep, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

She turned slowly. His eyes were on her — dark, focused, completely aware.

“I wasn’t running,” she lied weakly.

One brow lifted. “No?”

Before she could respond, he pulled her gently back toward him. She landed against his chest with a soft gasp, and his hand slid up to cradle her face.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

She did. And whatever protest she intended to make dissolved instantly. Emotion passed between them unspoken but undeniable.

Then he kissed her again. This time there was no hesitation. No restraint.

"I want you..." Damon moaned, desire clearly visible. His eyes were covered with lust.

The kiss deepened quickly, charged with the memory of the night before and the certainty that neither of them wanted distance anymore. Chloe’s hands moved over his shoulders instinctively, and Damon’s arm tightened around her as if anchoring her to him.

The world narrowed to breath, touch, and heat.

When they disappeared beneath the covers again, time seemed to blur — Damon spreads her legs wide enough for his hardness, slowly but consuming, he went in. Filled every part of her. The morning stretching into something slow, intimate, and consuming.

Only much later did they finally separate, both slightly breathless. After a long shower and a reluctant separation to dress, reality returned.

Chloe’s expression grew serious as she retrieved her bag from the living area. The folded note was still inside, creased from where she had gripped it the night before.

Damon joined her, now fully dressed, his shoulder bandaged but movements steady.

She unfolded the paper carefully. Two words stared back at them. Find Martha.

“Miriam died to get this to you,” Damon said quietly. “Which means Martha is important.”

Chloe nodded slowly, determination replacing the lingering vulnerability from earlier.

“I will find her,” she said. “Today.”

Damon’s eyes met hers. “Together. Prince town is about 120 miles away from Central city. That means we have about two hours’ drive. We need to leave now."

"What about work?"

"Work will wait," Damon replied.

For the first time since the chaos began, Chloe didn’t feel alone.