Devour Me Slowly : Heaven's Scar

Mention of violence read at your own risk London streets were slick with rain, neon signs flickering through the fog. A man was running for his life, heart hammering, lungs burning. He glanced over his shoulder and cursed under his breath—the men behind him weren’t ordinary thugs. They belonged to a rival faction, and he’d just stolen something they couldn’t forgive. Desperate, he ducked into a narrow alley, hiding behind a stack of crates. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to think he might survive. Maybe just for a few seconds. Then, a voice sliced through the night like a blade. “Running won’t save you.” The man froze. The voice was deep, terrifying, calm… and filled with authority. He turned slowly. And there he was. Damon Cross. Damon Cross—the name alone carried weight, fear, and legend. London’s biggest mafia king. A man whose mere presence could stop a fight before it began, whose reputation made even hardened criminals falter. And now, he was standing less than ten feet away, a predator in human form. Tall. Damn near six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, every inch of him radiating power and lethal grace. His suit—black, perfectly tailored—hugged his muscular frame, hinting at strength beneath elegance. The collar of his crisp white shirt was slightly open, showing a glimpse of smooth, tanned skin. Every movement was precise, controlled, like he measured the world—and everyone in it—carefully before acting. And those eyes… steel-gray, piercing, cold enough to cut glass, yet dark enough to hide storms of obsession and rage. One look, and the man’s soul felt exposed, judged, stripped bare. His jaw was strong, square, dusted with stubble that made him look even more dangerous. Lips—soft, cruelly curved—held the faintest smirk, enough to unsettle anyone standing before him. Hair dark as midnight fell in perfect disorder, shadows playing along his chiseled features. Damon’s presence didn’t just fill the alley—it consumed it. The air felt heavier, thicker, as if every drop of rain and fog bent toward him. Calm, ruthless, and utterly untouchable. The kind of man who could kill a hundred men without hesitation—but whose attention, once given, could make a woman tremble with desire or a man collapse with fear. And now, his gaze was locked on the trembling man hiding behind crates. The predator had found its prey. The man’s knees gave out. “I-I’m sorry… please,” he stammered, dropping to the wet ground. Damon didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, deliberate, every movement slow and predatory. “Sorry?” His voice was low, smooth, and terrifying. “Do you know what happens to those who steal from me? Sorry doesn’t erase betrayal. Sorry doesn’t save you.” The man shook violently, rain and sweat mixing on his face, trying to find escape in the shadows, but Damon’s presence swallowed the alley. One hand brushed his jacket casually, as if the gun at his side barely mattered. Damon crouched slightly, towering over him. “Now,” he murmured, voice lethal and magnetic, “you will tell me everything. Or you will find out just how far my patience can stretch.” The man’s breath caught in his throat. Fear curled in his stomach—and yet, in the oppressive darkness of Damon Cross, there was something intoxicating, something almost impossible to look away from. The man’s shoulders slumped, defeated. His knees scraped against the wet cobblestones as he raised his hands in surrender. “I… I give in,” he choked out, voice trembling. “I’m your rival team’s guard. They… they wanted me to take your information.” Damon’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. He took a step closer, the shadows of the alley swallowing him like a predator closing in on prey. “Which team?” His voice was low, controlled, but the underlying edge made it clear he tolerated no lies. “The… the Raven Syndicate,” the man stammered, barely able to get the words out. “They… they wanted your secrets, your plans. They sent me… please… I swear I didn’t mean—” Damon’s smirk grew, cruel and magnetic. “You didn’t mean to betray me? You still did. And for that,” he paused, letting the tension suffocate the man, “there’s a price.” The man swallowed hard, heart hammering against his ribs. Damon’s presence was suffocating, commanding. Every inch of him screamed danger and dominance—muscles coiled, eyes piercing, aura dark and intoxicating. “Now,” Damon said, his steel-gray eyes boring into the man’s soul, “tell me everything the Raven Syndicate wants to know. Every detail. Don’t leave a lie in your mouth… or you won’t live to regret it.” The man shivered, nodding frantically, words tumbling out in a terrified rush. And Damon listened—calm, controlled, deadly—while the night seemed to bend entirely to his will. Damon's eyes narrowed as the man spoke, his words spilling out in a desperate rush. "The Raven Syndicate wants to control the heroin trade in the city... They're willing to do whatever it takes to take over the docks and push out the competition." The man's words were punctuated by gasps of pain as Damon's grip on his arm tightened. "Go on," Damon urged, his voice low and menacing. The man hesitated, fear and desperation warring in his eyes. "They... they're planning to meet with the supplier next week... to finalize the deal." Damon's expression remained unyielding, his eyes glinting with calculation. He released the man's arm. The man said with hands jouned,"Please, Damon, don't hurt me!" Damon's smirk grew, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You're not in a position to beg," he said, his voice cold and detached. With a swift motion, he landed a punch to the man's jaw, sending him crashing to the ground. The man's body crumpled, his face twisted in agony. Damon stood over him, his chest heaving slightly with exertion. he said, his voice low and deadly. "And then... you're going to pay for your betrayal." The man's body jerked, his eyes rolling back in his head as Damon's boots connected with his ribs. The sound of cracking bone echoed through the alley, mingling with the man's screams. Damon's face remained impassive, his eyes cold and calculating as he delivered blow after blow. The man's cries grew weaker, his body limp and broken. Damon finally stopped, his chest heaving slightly with exertion. He crouched beside the man, his eyes glinting with a mixture of anger and curiosity. "You're lucky I'm not done with you yet," With that he positioned his gun and forced him to open his mouth and inserted it inside. The man's eyes widened in terror as Damon pressed the barrel into his mouth. "You're going to regret betraying me," Damon whispered, his voice cold and detached. The man's body jerked, his eyes rolling back in his head as the sound of a gunshot echoed through the alley. For a long moment, Damon just stared at him—expression unreadable, eyes colder than the steel he held. Then, with deliberate contempt, he delivered a brutal kick to the corpse’s ribs, the thud echoing in the silence. “f*****g useless,” Damon muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with venom. He turned away without hesitation, slipping his gun back into the holster beneath his tailored jacket. One of his men lingered at the alley’s mouth, watching silently, waiting for orders. Damon’s steel-gray eyes cut toward him. “Get me more information about the Raven Syndicate,” Damon ordered, his voice calm but carrying an edge that brooked no delay. “If they think they can touch me, I’ll burn them from the inside out.” The man nodded quickly, disappearing into the mist to obey. Damon exhaled, straightening the cuffs of his suit jacket as if nothing had happened, as if killing a man was no different than brushing off raindrops. He glanced once more at the lifeless body sprawled in the alley, then muttered to himself with a bitter smirk. “Today’s been a hell of a day… both in the underworld and at the office.” His jaw flexed. “The Cross Heights doesn’t run itself.” And with that, Damon Cross walked away into the rain—London’s shadows bending around him, consumed by the legend that was his name. Cross Heights wasn’t just another corporate name flashing in the skyline—it was his empire in the daylight, just as the underworld was his in the shadows. Built on steel, glass, and power, the company specialized in luxury real estate, high-end hotels, and international trade deals, with secret undercurrents of laundering and influence-buying that kept his darker world running clean on the surface. Its reputation was sharp: sleek professionalism, ruthless efficiency, and a charisma that lured in investors like moths to flame. Employees whispered about their CEO in awe and fear alike—he was the man who could seal billion-dollar deals with a handshake in the morning and crush an enemy in blood by nightfall. After a long day that blurred the lines of boardrooms and battlefields, he finally slid behind the wheel of his blacked-out Rolls-Royce. The engine purred like a beast under his command as he drove through the city lights, leaving behind the towering heart of Cross Heights and heading toward the place he called home. And then his mansion loomed into sight. From the outside, it was three storeys of intimidating grandeur, sprawling over acres of manicured land. Tall iron gates guarded the entrance, lined with armed men in black uniforms, their eyes sharp and unblinking. Security cameras dotted every corner, red lights glowing faintly in the night. The driveway stretched wide, flanked by fountains and a row of imported cars parked like trophies. The mansion’s white stone walls gleamed under soft golden lights, while the high-arched windows reflected nothing but silence and power. Inside, it was another world altogether. Marble floors stretched endlessly, veined with gold and polished to mirror-like shine. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, scattering light across hand-carved wooden walls and silk drapes. Expensive paintings lined the corridors, each a statement of wealth and taste. The mansion was staffed with around 40 workers—from chefs, butlers, and housemaids to security heads and gardeners—each trained to perfection. The first floor was an expansive lounge with multiple sitting areas, a private bar, and a grand staircase curving upward. The second floor held his personal quarters—a master suite larger than most apartments, complete with a balcony view of the city, a walk-in wardrobe the size of a boutique, and a bathroom clad in Italian marble. The third floor was exclusively for his work in secrecy—soundproof meeting rooms, a private study lined with books and files, and hidden passages leading to underground bunkers where only he and his most trusted men could enter. The house was not just a mansion. It was a fortress. The chef came forward with a polite bow. “Sir, dinner is ready. Would you like me to have it served on your table? I’ll tell the maid—” He cut him off coldly, his deep voice echoing through the hall. “No. Not in the mood. Take it and distribute it amongst the workers.” The chef nodded and retreated. Damon ascended to his private quarters—a dark kingdom behind tall mahogany doors. Floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in black curtains, a king-sized bed with dark satin sheets dominated the room, and leather couches sat under the dim glow of a golden chandelier. Against the wall, his prized whiskey collection gleamed like trophies. He poured a glass of aged single malt, the amber liquid burning as it slid down his throat, yet comforting him. Reclining in his leather chair, he let the silence of the night and the warmth of the drink envelop him. Setting the glass aside, he shrugged off his shirt, letting the cool air brush his skin. Collapsing onto the bed, he surrendered to sleep, the ruthless king yielding, if only for tonight, to the heavy pull of darkness and rest.