The Devil's Contract

Chapter - 3 The Blood on his Hand.

THE BLOOD ON HIS HANDS

​The heavy grandfather clock at the end of the hallway chimed four times, its hollow echoes bouncing off the dark wainscoting. The corridor was cold, filled with the sharp smell of iron, heavy rain, and the rich, masculine fragrance of Lucian’s cedarwood cologne.

​Sienna stood trapped between the solid hardwood wall and Lucian’s towering, muscular frame. Her back was pressed flat against the wall, her breath coming in quick, shallow hitches. Even with a bullet lodged in his left shoulder, Lucian radiated an overwhelming aura of physical power. His right hand was planted firmly beside her head, his long fingers splayed against the wood, locking her in place.

​His face was inches from hers. Shadow and pale moonlight cut across his sharp, angular features—his high cheekbones, the rigid line of his jaw, and those obsidian eyes that seemed to absorb every scrap of light in the room.

​"Caring for a monster only makes him want to keep you longer," Lucian had said.

​Sienna kept her hand pressed firmly against the b****y towel on his shoulder. Her fingers were already warm and sticky with his blood, but she refused to pull back. She refused to let him see her flinch.

​"I don't care about you, Lucian," Sienna whispered, her voice tight but unwavering. "I care about my survival. If you die in this hallway, your men will bludgeon my brother to death before sunrise, and I’ll be left in this house with a dozens of armed guards who owe me nothing."

​A low, dark chuckle rumbled deep in Lucian’s chest. The sound was rough, laced with the strain of physical pain, yet devoid of any weakness.

​"Always calculating," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips before dragging back up to lock with her eyes. "A true survivor. But you're bleeding your sympathy on a man who has none to spare, little bird."

​"Let me help you," she demanded, shifting her weight to push back against his spatial dominance. "Or are you too proud to let a contract hostage patch up your bullet wound?"

​Lucian stared at her in silence for several long, agonizing seconds. The lethal instinct in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by a cold, calculating intrigue. He pushed himself off the wall, stepping back just enough to give her room to breathe, though his towering presence still dwarfed her.

​"My study," Lucian growled, turning on his heel. He didn't wait to see if she was following. He moved with a slight stagger, his right arm clamped tightly over his wounded shoulder as blood continued to seep through his ruined white silk shirt.

​Sienna grabbed a fresh stack of towels from her bathroom and followed him down the long, dim corridor into the east wing.

​The private study was a cavernous room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a heavy mahogany desk, leather armchairs, and a large fireplace that sat dark and cold. High above the desk hung an antique portrait of a ruthless-looking man with the same sharp eyes as Lucian—his predecessor, no doubt.

​Lucian dropped heavily into the large leather chair behind the desk. He reached into the top drawer, pulled out a bottle of dark amber scotch, and unscrewed the cap with his teeth, spitting it onto the desk. He took a long, heavy swig straight from the bottle.

​"First aid kit. Bottom cabinet behind you," Lucian instructed, his voice lower now, raspier.

​Sienna found the metal medical box and brought it over to the desk. She set it down with a loud metallic clatter, snapped open the latches, and pulled out medical shears, disinfectant, needle, thread, and fresh bandages.

​"You do this often?" Sienna asked, stepping close to him.

​"Often enough to know when a bullet went clean through and when it stayed inside," Lucian replied coolly. He grabbed the collar of his ruined shirt with his good right hand and ripped the fabric down the front, exposing his chest and shoulders.

​Sienna stopped dead in her tracks.

​Underneath the pristine, tailored clothes lay a canvas of violence and power. His chest and broad shoulders were carved from lean, dense muscle, but almost every inch of his skin was covered in intricate, dark tattoos—symbols of eagles, broken chains, and Latin phrases. Interspersed between the black ink were faded pale scars: blade marks across his ribs, old bullet wounds near his hip.

​And right now, at the front of his left shoulder, was a ragged, bleeding hole.

​"It missed the artery," Lucian said, taking another drink of scotch. "Clean entry, clean exit out the back. Wash it, stitch it, bandage it."

​Sienna swallowed the lump in her throat. She soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic. "This is going to burn."

​"Just do it."

​She pressed the pad directly to the open wound. Lucian’s body went instantly rigid. The muscles in his neck and broad chest strained, his jaw clenching so hard she heard his teeth grind, but not a single sound escaped his throat. Only his dark eyes flared, fixing on her face with terrifying intensity.

​Sienna worked quickly, her hands surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She cleaned the blood away, wiped the torn skin, and threaded the curved surgical needle.

​"Who did this to you?" she asked softly, keeping her focus on the wound as she pierced the edge of the torn skin to begin the first stitch.

​Lucian let out a harsh, tight breath through his nose. "Someone who thought they could ambush my convoy near the docks. Someone who forgets that I don't die easily."

​"The cartel my brother owed money to?"

​"No," Lucian answered, his tone dropping an octave. "The cartel is small fish. Scavengers. The man who ordered this hit wears five-thousand-dollar suits and sits at family dinners with me."

​Sienna paused, the needle hovering above his skin. She looked up into his eyes. "Your family tried to kill you tonight?"

​"Family is a vulnerability, Sienna," Lucian said cold, merciless truth ringing in every word. "In my world, blood doesn't make you safe. It just gives people a reason to get close enough to put a knife in your spine."

​He leaned in slightly, ignoring the pull of the needle in his skin.

​"That is why you are here," he continued softly, his deep voice wrapping around her like a physical weight. "My board of directors and my enemies need to see that I am stable. That I am building a legacy. A fiancé humanizes a king. It makes them think I have something to lose."

​"And do you?" Sienna asked, tying off the last knot and cutting the thread. "Have something to lose?"

​Lucian reached out with his uninjured right hand. His fingers caught her wrist, holding her still right over his heart. She could feel the steady, heavy thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm—calm, slow, unaffected by the violence he lived in.

​"I lose nothing, Sienna," he whispered, his eyes dark as midnight. "Because I attach myself to nothing. Remember that when you're playing your role tomorrow."

​He let go of her wrist, leaving her skin tingling where his fingers had rested. Sienna stepped back, gathering the b****y towels, her mind spinning. She was trapped in a golden cage, locked in a game played by monsters—and worst of all, she was starting to realize that the monster holding her chain was the most dangerous one of all.