The Rebel
1452 Words
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Rochelle followed Damien down the hallway to his office, heels clicking softly on polished marble. The air between them was tense, humming with something unspoken. When he turned to face her, his expression was carved from stone: grim and focused.
“There’s a strict dress code at Pandemonium,” he said, voice curt. “We’re talking full-on 1920s; flapper dresses, pinstripes, fedoras. The works. You’ll need to blend in.”
He didn’t wait for her response. Already, he was moving toward a tall armoire built into the wall. With a soft groan, the doors swung open, and Damien vanished inside for a moment. When he emerged, he held a cream silk flapper dress and a long pearl necklace that shimmered like starlight.
“Try this.”
Rochelle raised a brow but said nothing, taking the clothes and disappearing into the adjacent washroom. Moments later, she stepped out and Damien’s breath caught.
The room tilted.
She stood there in soft silk and pearls, elegance incarnate, and completely unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on his self-control. Damien swallowed hard, forced composure back into his limbs, and cleared his throat.
“You clean up well,” he managed. “Now, listen carefully. There’s something else, something important.”
Rochelle tilted her head, curious.
“I can give you a temporary brand,” Damien said. “It marks you as under my protection. It’s not permanent; lasts a week tops, but it’ll keep predators off you, especially the Baron. Think of it like a... supernatural deterrent.”
She hesitated. “And what exactly does that mean for me?”
“It means no vampire with a shred of sense would lay a hand on you. Not without dealing with me.”
Rochelle considered, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Damien gave her a tight smile. “Good choice.”
He moved to the fireplace, pulled out a branding iron with an intricate sigil etched into its face. Rochelle’s eyes widened as he pressed it briefly to his own palm, just enough to charge it, before striding over to her.
“This will hurt,” he warned.
Before she could brace, the metal met her forearm. White-hot pain exploded up her arm like a lightning strike. Rochelle gasped, the world tunneling into fire and stars. Her knees nearly gave out.
“Deep breaths, Rochelle. You're doing good. Almost done.”
Fifteen seconds later, he pulled the brand away. A glowing symbol, elegant and unfamiliar, marked her skin.
“It looks like yours,” she whispered, astonished.
“It’s meant to, sweetheart,” Damien said, voice low. A chuckle followed: rich, dark—and it resonated through her like thunder rolling in her bones.
“It’ll fade in a week,” he added. “But by then, this whole mess should be behind us.”
Once she’d had a moment to recover, Damien’s tone shifted, it was much sharper now, more tactical.
“Pandemonium’s not like other places. The Baron’s dangerous. Egotistical. When you find him, ANNOUNCE yourself. Then BOW. Keep it simple. In and out. No drama.”
“Announce. Bow. Deliver. Got it.”
She turned to leave, but Damien stopped her with a single word.
“Rochelle… be careful.”
“I’ll be fine,” she replied. The elevator doors closed, and she was gone.
---
Pandemonium loomed like a shadowed beast at the edge of the city: gritty, loud, unapologetically raw. Unlike the polished speakeasies uptown, it had teeth. The bouncer at the door looked like he could bench press a truck.
He blocked her path.
“Name and business?” he growled.
“My name’s Rochelle. Here to see the Baron.”
The man raised a brow and scoffed. “Good luck, little swan. Was nice knowin’ ya.”
He stepped aside.
Inside was like stepping through a time portal. Flappers danced under low-hung chandeliers, men in suspenders leaned on the bar with smoldering stares, and jazz throbbed from a live brass band on stage. Somewhere, down in the bowels of the place, the sound of cheering rose. It was wet, guttural. A fight, maybe. Or worse.
Blood streaks painted the walls down one shadowed staircase. Rochelle took one look and pivoted.
*Nope. Not tonight.*
She weaved through the crowd toward the bar. As she pushed past a dancing couple, she collided with a pale man standing stiffly in her path.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she began.
“It’s okay,” he muttered, voice low and disinterested.
She turned to walk away, but his hand snapped out, gripping her wrist like a vice.
“Uh, sir?”
He inhaled through his nose. “Fresh... warm... like a little bird.”
“Let go of me!”
He lunged closer, until his eyes flicked down. The moment he saw the brand on her arm, he recoiled like he’d been burned. Mouth twisting in fear, he backed into the crowd and vanished.
“That’s right,” Rochelle hissed. “I’m under Damien’s protection.”
The brand faded slowly, the glow waning.
At the bar, she flagged down the bartender.
“Virgin Mojito, please.”
“You got it,” he said, mixing with flair.
“Say,” Rochelle leaned in, “you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find the Baron, would you?”
Before he could answer, a voice like velvet-wrapped iron echoed across the room.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”
Every conversation died. The music halted. The crowd parted as though compelled, revealing a man who moved with calculated grace. Salt-and-pepper beard, tailored midnight suit, eyes like glass knives.
Rochelle froze.
She had expected someone grotesque, gaudy, something theatrical. But the Baron was... captivating. Terrifying in his restraint. A devil in a gentleman’s clothes.
“I hear you’re looking for me,” he said.
Rochelle’s brain snapped into action. *Announce. Bow. Deliver.*
“My name is Rochelle,” she said clearly. “Damien sent me.” She dipped into a respectful bow, heart hammering in her chest.
The Baron’s lips twitched into something resembling amusement.
“Oh, look. The kitten knows her tricks.”
He signaled to one of his bodyguards. The man stepped forward and took the letter from Rochelle’s hands. The Baron examined the seal and his expression twisted in fury.
“Grab her.”
“What?!” Rochelle shrieked as two massive hands seized her arms. “I’m under Damien’s protection! You wouldn’t dare—!”
“Oh, kitten,” the Baron cooed, his voice a venomous lullaby. “There’s nothing I love more than watching Damien squirm. And you? You’re exquisite. He’ll scream for you.”
“Damien will tear this place apart!” Rochelle snarled as she struggled.
“I’d love to see him try.”
He turned away with a dismissive wave. “Take her to the Red Room.”
They dragged her through a labyrinth of corridors. Rochelle thrashed, kicked, and bit, but they were too strong. Panic clawed at her throat.
“Let me go! Damien will—!”
“Did you hear that?” one of the guards muttered suddenly.
They stopped. Heads turned.
Rochelle blinked and a blur shot past her. A flash of steel. The head of the guard to her left fell from his shoulders, thudding wetly to the ground. He collapsed with his blood pooling under him
The second one dropped her and drew a blade, spinning.
Another blur. This time, she caught a flash of silver hair, a dark coat—then the second guard was crumpling, lifeless.
Breathing hard, Rochelle backed into the wall.
The stranger turned to her. A man, early-thirties perhaps, pale eyes glowing faintly under the flickering lights.
“Quick. This way. The Baron’s not stupid, reinforcements are coming.”
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
“An ally,” he said simply. “and unless you’ve got a death wish, we should go. Now.”
“How do I know you’re not one of his men?”
He cursed under his breath and started walking away. “Then stay here and find out.”
She hesitated, heart pounding.
He killed them. Fast. Efficiently. Not many could do that.
“Wait!” she called out, running after him. “I’m coming.”
Together, they moved fast through a back corridor. At the end, a steel door led into a rain-slick alley. They ran through the night, Rochelle’s breath coming in ragged bursts.
Eventually, they ducked into an abandoned building. The silence there was suffocating.
The man finally turned.
“I’m Cassian Draven,” he said. “And yes, Rochelle; I’ve been watching you.”
Rochelle’s blood ran cold.
---
- Writer
