sold to the devil

CHAPTER 8

Damon’s POV

The first sound reached me before the thought: a sharp, muffled scream echoing from the east wing.

My stomach twisted, not from hunger or anger, but from the subtle, unmistakable stir of my condition. It had been quiet since she arrived, held at bay by my control, but the moment Amanda was threatened, it flared. My pulse accelerated, a prickling along my skin that felt like tiny sparks crawling across my nerves. I pressed a hand to the desk, forcing myself to breathe.

The scream repeated, sharper, closer. Guards would handle it. They were trained for intrusions, threats, and violence. But something told me they weren’t fast enough.

I rose from the desk, each movement deliberate, controlled. My boots echoed across the marble floor of the library, and even the walls seemed to tense in response. My mind calculated every possibility. The scream hadn’t come from her room—she was safe, I knew that—but it had come too close. Someone had breached the east wing.

“Double the patrol,” I muttered under my breath. “Lock every door. No one leaves or enters without my knowledge.”

A guard appeared instantly, as if called by thought alone. His eyes were sharp, waiting. I outlined the perimeter: east wing, patrol rotations, check every window, every vent, every hidden entrance.

“And Amanda?” I asked, voice low but steady.

He hesitated. “She’s… in the library. Safe.”

Safe. The word did not comfort me. It never did. Safety in my house was relative. I could control it. But the moment an intruder breached my walls, all control became an illusion.

I turned sharply toward the east wing doors, pacing faster now, my mind a machine calculating risks and contingencies. My pulse flared, not just from irritation, but something else—something primal. The faint, impossible thrum that warned me she was near. Her presence—it always drew a reaction I couldn’t entirely suppress.

I cursed under my breath. Focus. Damon. Focus on the problem.

The east wing. Someone was inside. Someone who had bypassed guards, alarms, cameras, and my rules. Someone with purpose.

“Open the doors,” I ordered. “All of them. Start from the windows up.”

The guard bowed sharply. “Yes, sir.”

I strode toward the library windows, checking locks, inspecting the edges. Nothing. Everything intact. Yet my instincts screamed otherwise.

Someone had been here. Someone had watched. Someone had intended to send a message—and they had.

My thoughts returned to her. Amanda. Sitting in that library, fragile, vulnerable, unaware of how close she had been to the threat. I could feel it—the odd, intrusive awareness of her presence, a subtle chemical warning in my body. My allergy flared faintly, a sharp pinch in my sinuses. I cursed it silently. I hated weakness. And yet, she was my weakness, in more ways than one.

I exhaled, controlling the flare before it escalated. A distraction was a luxury I could not afford, especially now.

I moved down the hall toward the east wing, guards fanned out behind me. Their eyes were trained on shadows, ears tuned to the faintest creak. My own senses were sharper, faster, alive. Every detail registered: the slight shift of curtains, the faint scraping along the marble, the subtle creak of floorboards that weren’t supposed to move.

The east wing door loomed before us, heavy oak and iron, locked and reinforced. I gestured sharply, and the guards flanked it, prepared to breach.

“Stay behind the line,” I commanded.

As the first guard set to pick the lock, a metallic click rang. My jaw tightened. Not a normal lock. Not standard security. Someone inside was prepared for us.

I approached, my eyes narrowing. “Whoever this is,” I muttered, “they’re professional. No amateurs.”

The guard froze as I bent slightly, ear to the door. A whispering sound—words too faint to catch—drifted from inside.

I signaled with my hand. “Step back. Let me.”

The lock clicked again, and with a swift push, the door gave way.

Inside, the east wing was silent. The corridor stretched like a shadow, lined with closed doors. Nothing moved. Yet the air felt thick, heavy. I felt her first—the faint scent lingering on the air, light but unmistakable. Amanda.

“Where are you?” I called, voice low, calculated.

A soft sound—paper rustling—answered me. Not Amanda. Not a normal sound. I moved closer, careful, controlled, each step deliberate. The shadow of someone crouched at the far end caught my eye.

A man. Unknown. Professional. Dangerous.

I signaled the guards, but I moved first. Fast, deliberate, like a shadow myself. He turned suddenly, eyes widening. Mistake.

Before he could react fully, I struck—fast, precise. My hand grabbed his arm, twisting until a sharp hiss escaped him. Guards moved in behind me, subduing him, but I didn’t release my grip until the moment I was sure he was neutralized.

He spat at me. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed.

I didn’t reply. I only watched, cold, calculating, memorizing. His movements. His eyes. Every detail.

When the guards restrained him, I stepped back. He was clean, organized, nothing sloppy—professional, but he had underestimated me. Always a fatal mistake.

The man glared at me. “You think you’re protecting her… but you’re just another obstacle.”

I paused, a slight flinch in my chest—not from fear, but recognition. He was right. In a way. Protecting her meant keeping her alive. But keeping her alive also meant keeping control. Always control.

The guard commander stepped forward, reporting efficiently. “He’s a spy. Not part of our immediate circle. No one we recognize.”

I nodded slowly. “Prepare the interrogation room. Bring him there now.”

I turned and started toward the library, the scent of Amanda growing stronger with each step. My mind raced through contingencies, probabilities, and risks.

She had been close to him. Too close. I hated the vulnerability. And yet… there was something else.

Something like relief that she was still alive.

I shook it off. Focus. The house. The threat. Control.

I entered the library, and she looked up, startled.

“Damon?” Her voice trembled.

I studied her carefully. No visible injuries, no panic. She had stayed calm. Too calm.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, controlled, neutral.

“No,” she whispered.

“Good,” I said. “Stay here. Don’t move until I tell you.”

Her eyes narrowed. A flicker of defiance—or perhaps curiosity. Both dangerous traits, but manageable.

I walked toward her, careful not to trigger her or myself. My condition flared faintly again. She was too close, too present. I could feel it, an almost magnetic pull that demanded control.

“Listen to me,” I said softly, voice low, commanding. “You stay in this room until I say otherwise. If you move, I will not be able to protect you.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. I could see the thought in her eyes: Why do you care?

Because she was mine. Not in ownership, but in necessity. She was a variable in a game I didn’t fully understand yet—and every variable had to be accounted for, controlled, or eliminated.

I left her there, pacing the room, thinking. The spy had slipped inside my walls, past my defenses, past my rules. That was unacceptable.

I ran scenarios: infiltration routes, hidden entrances, windows, staff betrayal. Someone had knowledge—someone from the inside.

My mind went back to the sealed folder in the library. Operation: SILENCE.

Her arrival was part of something larger, something I had suspected but hadn’t yet confirmed. Someone wanted her eliminated—or perhaps used—but why?

And why did the spy say: “Bodies will fall”?

I clenched my fists. Calculating, plotting. Protect her. Control her. Extract the threat.

I could not afford mistakes. Not now. Not ever.

I returned to the east wing, overseeing the spy’s containment personally. His smugness had faded; he knew he had been outplayed.

“Talk,” I commanded.

His lips curled. “You don’t know what you’re protecting. You don’t know why she’s valuable.”

I leaned closer, eyes cold. “Try me.”

The spy’s smirk faltered. “She’s… something that could topple empires. If she falls, so do they. You think you’re the only one controlling her fate? You’re not. And you never will be.”

A flicker of amusement? Or fear? I couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

I turned, pacing again, considering every variable. Guards watching, spy restrained, Amanda alone in the library.

She was fragile, dangerous, unpredictable—and mine to control.

And yet, every instinct screamed: someone else wanted her. And they were patient, clever, and lethal.

I stopped. My gaze hardened.

This wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

And tomorrow, the game would escalate.

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Chapter Eight ends with a dark hook:

The spy’s final words lingered in my mind, a chilling promise:

“You never will control her fate.”

And somewhere deep in the house, the east wing waited, silent, but alive with secrets—and death