The Devil You Let In
933 Words
Lena
I should have left.
That thought repeated in my head the entire drive home at two in the morning while rain hammered the roof of my ute and Damien Vale’s voice lingered under my skin like smoke.
Careful. Me.
God.
Men like him were exactly why women ended up on true crime podcasts.
By the time I pulled into the gravel driveway of my rental house on the edge of town, exhaustion sat heavy in my bones. The porch light flickered weakly over peeling paint and overgrown grass.
Not exactly billionaire territory.
I killed the engine and sat there for a moment in silence.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at it.
Decline.
It rang again instantly.
I answered with a sigh. “If this is a serial killer situation, I’d appreciate honesty upfront.”
A low chuckle rolled through the speaker.
My stomach betrayed me immediately.
Damien.
“How did you get my number?”
“You signed the repair invoice.”
Right.
I hated competent men.
“You shouldn’t call women at two in the morning,” I muttered as I unlocked my front door.
“You left before finishing the job.”
“The refrigeration system?”
“No.” His voice dropped lower. “The conversation.”
Heat climbed my neck before I could stop it.
Annoying.
I kicked off my boots and headed into the kitchen. “Pretty sure our conversation ended when I stopped you bleeding out.”
“You forgot your jacket.”
I froze.
Damn it.
“You could’ve just sent a text.”
“You answered the phone.”
I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes briefly.
Everything about him felt dangerous in ways I couldn’t explain logically. Not just the gun or the blood or the men probably trying to kill him.
It was the control in his voice.
The certainty.
Like he was used to the world bending for him.
And worse—
part of me wanted to push against it just to see what happened.
“I’ll get it tomorrow,” I said.
“You’ll get it tonight.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ll catch cold.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Are you seriously ordering me around right now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Heavy.
Like neither of us wanted to hang up first.
That realization should’ve concerned me more than it did.
“You always this controlling with strangers?” I asked quietly.
“No.”
Something about the answer made my pulse skip.
I pushed away from the counter. “Look, billionaire Batman, I’m not driving back into Sydney tonight.”
“You don’t have to.”
The calm certainty in his tone instantly put me on edge.
Then headlights swept across my windows.
I went still.
Slowly, I walked toward the front curtain and peeked outside.
A black luxury car sat in my driveway.
My jaw dropped.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“You sent a car?”
“You need your jacket.”
I stared out at the sleek vehicle parked in front of my tiny weatherboard house with absolute disbelief.
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
The driver stepped out holding my leather jacket carefully over one arm like it was designer couture instead of something I’d bought secondhand three years ago.
“What if I was asleep?” I demanded.
“You answered the phone.”
Again with that.
Infuriating man.
“You can’t just send people to my house.”
“I can.”
“I meant morally.”
A pause.
“I don’t particularly care about morals, Lena.”
The honesty of it hit harder than if he’d lied.
No pretending.
No fake charm.
Just blunt, dangerous truth.
I should’ve hung up.
Instead I opened the front door.
The driver handed me the jacket politely before returning to the car without a word.
Definitely not normal behavior.
I slipped the jacket on automatically, and warmth immediately wrapped around me.
Not warmth.
Heat.
His heat.
His cologne still clung to the leather — smoke, whiskey, cedar.
My stomach tightened.
“I got the jacket,” I said into the phone.
“Yes.”
“Can I sleep now?”
Another pause.
Then quietly—
“Did you mean it?”
I frowned. “Mean what?”
“That I looked like I was dying.”
I blinked in surprise.
Of all the things for him to focus on…
“You got shot,” I said carefully. “So yeah. Little concerning.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“There you go saying stupid things again.”
A low sound came through the phone.
Not quite a laugh.
Closer to approval.
Like he enjoyed me challenging him.
Dangerous men liked resistance because they thought they could break it.
I wasn’t breakable.
“I should go,” I said softly.
“Lena.”
The way he said my name—
Slow.
Possessive.
Like it already belonged to him.
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
“What?”
“You aren’t afraid of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
I looked out at the rain soaking the darkness beyond my porch.
“I probably should be.”
“Yes,” he agreed quietly.
Neither of us spoke for a second.
Then—
“Goodnight, Damien.”
His exhale crackled softly through the speaker.
“Goodnight, Lena.”
The line disconnected.
And somehow…
the silence afterward felt worse.
- Writer
