HIS

Seattle Abigail’s POV "That’ll be all for today’s lecture," Mrs. Marie, the biology teacher, announces. Chairs scrape against the floor as students file out. I’m about to leave when her voice stops me. "Miss Keith, may I see you for a moment?" I glance at my friend. "See you later." She nods, disappearing through the door. I approach Mrs. Marie’s desk. "Yes?" "I need your paper submitted," she says, tone firm but not unkind. Shit. I haven’t even started. "Well… um, the thing is…" My voice falters, the excuse dying before it forms. She sighs and removes her red-framed glasses. Without them, her brown eyes look even sharper. "Abigail, what’s been going on? You’ve been slacking on your schoolwork. You’re one of my best students." "I’m sorry, Mrs. Marie. I’m fine—just… a family thing." Her gaze lingers on me for a moment, weighing the truth in my voice. "I’ll give you until tomorrow. If it’s not on my desk by then, I’ll have to fail you. Understood?" "Yeah." Outside the teaching building, the air feels heavy, as if the clouds are pressing low over campus. I head straight to the library. If I start now, I might just make her deadline. I call my dad. No answer—same as always. A few hours later, the librarian approaches. "Closing soon." I pack my things and step outside. The world is darker than I expected. Two pages left. I can’t finish them at home. I pull out my phone. "Hey, Jules." "Abby, what’s up?" "Are you still at the store?" "Yeah, but I need to head home. Couldn’t find anyone to stay, so I’m going to lock up," she says. "I can cover for you." She needs someone to watch the shop. I need a quiet space. Perfect. "Okay, come over then." Minutes later, I push open the door. The bell chimes, a soft echo in the empty space. Julia looks up from behind the counter, relief washing over her face. "You’re a lifesaver, Abby." She pulls me into a quick hug. "I needed a place to finish my paper anyway." She smiles knowingly. "You know the rules?" I nod. Her father left her this bookstore before he passed away last year. I’ve been here often enough to know its rhythms—the creak of the back door, the draft near the history section, the way the bell sounds different when it’s windy outside. "See you tomorrow. Lock up by ten, and I’ll get the keys from you in the morning." "Greet Angel for me." Angel—Julia’s three-year-old daughter. I’ve never met her father, and Julia’s never spoken a word about him. --- Rafe’s POV My office is dark except for the cold blue glow of the monitors lining the walls. Dozens of live feeds flicker, each one showing a piece of my territory—empty corridors, locked gates, silent warehouses. Most are unremarkable. Until one isn’t. A small bookstore. The girl behind the counter doesn’t stand out at first glance—twenties, blue hoodie, black hair tied up carelessly. But something about her stills me. She’s reading. Lips moving silently. Every so often, she smiles, the kind of smile untouched by the world’s ugliness. It shouldn’t bother me. But it does. I lean forward, and the camera angle shifts. She looks up—straight into the lens. Her green eyes sharpen. Then she lifts her hand and flips off the camera. My brows rise. A smirk tugs at my mouth. No fear. Just defiance. "Who is she?" I ask, voice low. Tristan, my right hand, glances at the feed. "Tracing now." I watch her pack up, roll her eyes, and lock the store. Backpack over one shoulder, she disappears into the night. I replay the moment again. And again. Something about her won’t let go. --- Author’s POV Two days later. Rain drapes the city in silver. Inside the bookstore, Abigail stacks books behind the counter, soft music curling through the air. Outside, Rafael stands at the glass door, the hood of his black coat shadowing his face, hands buried deep in his pockets. He watches. Waiting. Then she looks up—and their eyes meet. --- Rafe’s POV She’s more striking up close. Her green eyes hold my gaze, unblinking, and for a moment, the quiet between us feels electric. She blinks once. Twice. Her body stiffens—the instinctive recognition of danger—but she doesn’t retreat. She walks to the door and opens it. The bell’s chime is soft. The scent of old paper and something warm—cinnamon, maybe—slips out with her voice. "We’re closing soon," she says, arms crossed like a shield. I take a slow step forward. "Do I look like I’m here to browse?" She tilts her head. "You look like you’re lost." My lips twitch. No one talks to me like that. Those who have… are gone. "Maybe I found something." "Then you should leave before it disappears," she replies. She meets my gaze without flinching, but I can see the flicker beneath—caution, not fear. I step closer. "Noted." And just like that, it’s decided. I’ll have her. Buy her. Steal her. Break her if I have to. When the devil wants, he doesn’t stop until it’s his. ---