Chapter Eleven: A Deal with the Devil
1002 Words
The rain had started to fall by the time we reached the east wing. Good thing we have covers to prevent us getting drenched by the rain.
I wasn’t sure how long we’d been walking.
Minutes. Hours.
Time was irrelevant when you had nothing to anchor yourself to.
I can hear my own breathing sounding tired, hopeless and in need of more air. With all of this, my mind still couldn’t process every single truth I uncover in every step I do. With Killian by my side, of course.
When your entire life had become a gaping hole you couldn’t fill.
Killian hadn’t spoken since we left the gardens.
I didn’t press him.
Yet.
I was trying to process the last thing he’d said.
You didn’t just lose your memory, Lane. You gave it away.
But that didn’t make sense.
Why the hell would I do that?
And to whom?
⸻
We entered a room that was warmer than the rest.
His study.
Dark wood shelves lined every wall, filled with books that looked older than time.
A fireplace glowed softly in the corner.
Killian moved to it, lighting another match. His hands were steady.
Mine weren’t.
I hovered near the doorway like I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Like I wasn’t supposed to exist.
“You can sit,” he said without looking back.
I stayed standing.
Because it was easier to run that way.
If I needed to.
If he made me.
⸻
“I need answers,” I said quietly.
Killian struck another match. It flared, then died.
“Careful,” I added. “You’ll burn the place down.”
A ghost of a smirk.
He turned toward me, the fire lighting the edges of his face in gold.
But his eyes…
Cold as ever.
“You’re not ready,” he said.
“Screw that.”
He studied me.
Then nodded once, like he’d already decided this hours ago.
⸻
Killian walked to a locked cabinet behind his desk.
He entered a code.
Six digits.
I filed that away.
(Why did I feel like I’d known that code once?)
He pulled out a thin black folder. Tossed it onto the table.
“Open it.”
I didn’t move.
“Lane.”
His voice was lower now. A warning. A plea.
I crossed the room and flipped the folder open.
Inside were photographs.
Of me.
At least, I thought they were.
The girl in them had my face. My hair. My sharp chin and high cheekbones.
But her eyes were different.
Colder.
Hardened.
Dangerous.
⸻
“What is this?” I asked.
Killian’s jaw clenched.
“You,” he said simply.
“No,” I whispered.
“That’s who you were,” he corrected. “Before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you decided to forget.”
⸻
I flipped to the next page.
There was a contract.
In my handwriting.
I recognized it instantly.
Memories or no memories, some things were muscle memory.
Cassian Vale’s signature was sharp and deliberate.
But under the line of ink, there was a smear.
Blood.
⸻
“You signed in blood,” Killian said quietly.
My mouth went dry.
“Why?” I rasped.
He shook his head.
“You told me not to ask.”
⸻
I looked back at the photos.
They showed me shaking hands with someone.
Someone I didn’t recognize.
Dark eyes.
A cruel smile.
And a mark on his wrist.
The same man from the garden.
⸻
“What was the deal?” I asked.
Killian’s shoulders stiffened.
“You gave them something,” he said.
I waited.
He didn’t finish.
“What did I give them?”
He turned then. His gaze met mine and something snapped there.
“Yourself,” he said. “You gave them yourself, Lane.”
⸻
The room spun.
I gripped the edge of the table.
Killian didn’t move to help me.
But he was there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Protecting.
Even when I didn’t ask.
⸻
“You said I wasn’t ready,” I said slowly.
“You’re not.”
“Try me.”
He hesitated.
Then:
“You were supposed to marry me.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He exhaled a sharp breath.
“Our families arranged it. Before everything went to hell.”
I stared at him.
“I would’ve remembered that,” I snapped.
He laughed then.
But it was bitter.
“You told me the day before you lost your memory,” he said, “that you’d rather die than marry me.”
And the look in his eyes?
It wasn’t hurt.
It wasn’t anger.
It was something worse.
He believed it.
⸻
I took a step back.
And another.
Until my back hit the wall.
He didn’t follow.
But his gaze pinned me in place.
“You wanted out,” he said.
“You made a deal.”
“And you paid with your memory.”
⸻
I couldn’t breathe.
“You hated me,” I whispered.
“No,” Killian said.
He crossed to me then, slow and careful.
And when he stopped inches away, his hands curled into fists.
“I never hated you,” he said.
Then softer:
“I loved you.”
⸻
I flinched.
Because I didn’t know how to believe him.
And because some stupid part of me wanted to.
⸻
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked.
“Because I was trying to protect you,” he said.
“From what?”
He didn’t answer.
He just reached out.
His fingers brushed mine again.
And the feeling that hit me wasn’t fear.
It was… familiar.
Like a memory waiting to come back.
⸻
But before I could figure out what it was, the lights flickered.
And then the alarms blared.
Killian’s face changed instantly—cold, sharp, ruthless.
“They found us,” he said.
And then his hand was around mine, pulling me toward the door.
“Run,” he said.
And I did
- Writer
