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Chapter 34

Three years had passed since Claire escaped. They were years she bought with secrecy and hard work. 

Years that smelled like lavender and quiet hope.

In a rural village far from the city, there stood a modest house with a wide yard. 

The house itself was simple—white walls, a sloping roof, wooden shutters—but the yard was alive. 

Grass grew soft and bright under the morning sun, cool beneath small feet. 

A garden stretched along the fence, filled with roses, daisies, and rows of wildflowers. 

Claire had planted each one herself, giving every tiny seed the care she once reserved only for survival.

She felt grateful every single day.

Her writing income was steady. She published everything under the pseudonym Rayana. It was enough to support her and Ellie comfortably. 

It paid for rent, food, school supplies, and even small luxuries she never allowed herself before—a new set of garden tools, better coffee beans, a warm quilt for winter. 

More importantly, it allowed her to erase Daniel's shadow from her life. Little by little, the emotional weight he left behind faded. 

It was replaced by the weight of meeting deadlines and creating stories.

Ellie was six years old now. She ran barefoot across the yard, her movements easy and free. 

Her laughter, high and clear, carried on the wind as she chased a yellow butterfly near the fence.

"Mom! Look! It landed on my hand!" Ellie shouted. She held her arm out stiffly, afraid to move.

Claire lifted her head from her laptop. She sat on an old wooden chair on the porch, legs folded beneath her. 

Morning sunlight warmed her face and shoulders. Her hair was tied in a loose knot, practical for work. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She smiled. It was genuine and easy. "Be gentle, sweetheart. Don't scare it."

"I'm not!" Ellie whispered loudly. She moved slowly, as if she held the world's greatest secret.

The butterfly fluttered its wings once. Then it flew away toward the lilac bush.

Ellie gasped. "Hey! Come back!"

Claire laughed quietly. "Butterflies don't take orders, sweetie. They go where they want."

Ellie puffed her cheeks. It was a six-year-old's picture of indignation. "It should listen to me. I'm nice."

"I know you are," Claire replied warmly.

She watched her daughter for a long moment. The simple, peaceful scene soaked into her heart. 

Peace still felt precious to her. Fragile and new, like the wing of a butterfly. 

Then, with a small sigh, she turned back to her laptop. The cursor blinked at the end of the page, waiting.

"Mom, are you writing again?" Ellie asked. She ran back to the porch with pink cheeks and grass-stained knees.

"Yes." Claire reached out. She brushed a piece of grass off Ellie's elbow. "Deadline for the editor."

Ellie nodded with serious importance, as if she understood everything about publishing contracts. "Are you writing as Claire or as… Rayana?"

Claire chuckled. The sound was light and free. "As Rayana today."

Rayana. The name that was both her career and her strongest shield. The name that kept her safe.

Her novels had become bestsellers. Not because they were fantasy, but because they felt real. The one that pushed her into the spotlight was a story about a strong woman surviving a marriage to a husband with NPD—Narcissistic Personality Disorder. 

Readers loved its honesty. They praised the raw emotion. They said it felt exactly like their own lives.

It was real. But they didn't know that.

"Do people still not know you're Rayana?" Ellie asked. She hopped up to sit beside her mother's chair.

"No," Claire said. "And I want to keep it that way. We have a good thing here."

Ellie nodded again. "Because we don't want the bad people to find us?"

Claire froze for a second. Her hands stopped over the keys. The wind brushed through the garden, shaking the lavender. 

The sound felt too loud.

She took a slow, steadying breath. "Yes. Exactly. We just want a quiet life. Nothing complicated."

Ellie climbed onto her lap. Her small arms wrapped tightly around Claire's waist. 

"It's quiet here. And we're happy."

Claire kissed the top of her daughter's head. She inhaled the smell of sunshine and grass. 

"We are," she said softly. "We really are."

Ellie leaned back. She squinted at the laptop screen. "What's your story about now? The one you're typing?"

Claire smiled down at the page. "It's about a brave woman. A little bit scared, but very brave. And her little girl."

"Like us?"

"Yes," Claire whispered. She pulled her closer. "Like us."

Ellie grinned, satisfied. Then she hopped down and ran back toward the flowers. Her mind was already on new games.

Claire watched her with a full heart. The sun grew warmer. The wind stayed gentle. 

The world was quiet, but Claire felt truly safe.

 

Chapter 35

Claire worked for a few more minutes. The feeling of safety was a warm weight in her chest. 

She focused on the blinking cursor, trying to capture the feeling of quiet bravery for her fictional character.

That morning, the sun had just climbed above the distant hills when the sound of an engine broke the peaceful stillness. 

A car stopped in front of the house. It kicked up a small cloud of dust on the village road.

Ellie, who was playing with her wooden blocks on the porch rug, jumped up. 

"Uncle Ardian! He's here!" She dropped her blocks and sprinted off.

Before Claire could stand and collect her thoughts, Ellie had already burst through the gate.

Ardian stepped out of a practical, dusty sedan. He was tall, dressed in worn jeans and a plain shirt. 

He carried two large, brightly colored canvas bags. They were filled with toys, books, and snacks.

"Look who brought presents for his favorite niece!" Ardian said. He lifted the bags higher.

Ellie squealed with pure delight. "So many! Uncle, you're the best!"

Claire walked over. Her face was warm with a genuine smile. "You're spoiling her again, Ardian. You just saw her last month."

Ardian shrugged. It was a gesture of warm defeat. "I can't help it. She's the only niece I have. And besides, I needed an excuse to drive out here."

Ellie tugged on one of the bags with determination. "Can I open it now? Can I, can I?"

"Of course," Ardian said. He laughed heartily as Ellie dragged the heavy bag onto the porch.

Claire stepped aside. She motioned him inside. "Come in. You must be tired from the long drive. I just made coffee."

Inside the living room, the space was tidy and warm. Ellie's brightly colored drawings—abstract suns and strange-looking flowers—were taped on the walls. 

Ardian looked around. His expression was thoughtful.

"You've really settled in, Claire. It looks good."

"It's the quiet that matters," Claire said. She poured him a steaming mug of coffee. "This is home."

Ardian sat on the edge of the sofa. He took the coffee gratefully. He took a long sip, but his eyes were serious when he lowered the cup. "So… when are you coming back? To the city? Everyone misses you."

Claire's smile dimmed. A shadow passed over her face. She looked out the window. 

Ellie sat cross-legged outside, completely absorbed in tearing paper off a new doll.

"I'm not ready," she said softly. "Not yet."

"Three years is a long time, Claire," Ardian said gently. "Daniel is—"

"I know," Claire cut him off. Her voice was low. "But I'm peaceful here. And I don't want anything, or anyone, to disturb that." She met his gaze. Her voice was steady. "I don't think I can face everyone again. Not now. This life is just ours."

Ardian took a long breath. He conceded the point. "I understand."

Then his expression changed. It became tight and focused. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Claire… I came here not only to see you and spoil Ellie."

She stiffened instantly. Ardian's sudden seriousness was a warning. "What happened? Tell me."

"There's news." He paused. The silence was heavy. "It's about Daniel."

The air seemed to freeze around them. Claire's breath caught in her throat. 

She felt a familiar, cold weight drop into her stomach. Her fingers curled into tight fists around the edge of the wooden coffee table.

"What about him?" she asked. The words were barely a whisper.

Ardian spoke quietly. His voice was heavy. "He's out, Claire. He was released last week."

Claire stared at him. She didn't move. The world tilted slightly. "He—what?"

"He was released," Ardian repeated, more firmly. "He got out on parole. Good behavior, apparently."

Claire felt a cold shock travel through her body. She had calculated the years. She had thought she had more time.

"He didn't go back to his mother's house," Ardian continued. "She thought he would stay there. He never showed up."

Ardian looked around the small, sunny room. His worry was clear. "No one knows where he went. Not even me. He just disappeared."

Claire gripped the edge of the table harder. Her knuckles were white. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Do you think he's looking for me?"

The question was sharp with dread.

"I don't know," Ardian admitted. He shook his head slowly. "I truly don't know his plan. But I wanted you to hear it from me. Not from a phone call or a newspaper article."

There was a long, terrible silence. Outside, Ellie was giggling, completely unaware. The sound was a painful contrast to the fear inside the house.

Claire swallowed hard. Her voice was thin. "I thought… I thought that part of my life was over. Finished. Forever."

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Chapter 31

He was strapped tight to the chair. His head yanked back rigid. Ruby tied the final knot at his throat.

She dragged the bucket closer. Heavy plastic, sitting there two days. The liquid inside had thickened. Warm. Reeked of ammonia and rot.

She tilted it.

The wave hit his face with a sick splash. Filled his nose instantly. His mouth. The ammonia burned through his sinuses. Seared his eyes open.

He inhaled on reflex. The foul fluid scorched his throat. His lungs.

His body bucked hard against the ropes. He sputtered. Choked on the thick, putrid liquid. The straps held him rigid. His muffled cries turned to desperate gargles.

Ruby didn't stop. She tilted the bucket again.

The stream was steady. Relentless. His lungs burned for air. Got filth instead.

His eyes rolled back. His body went slack. He fainted.

Ruby was precise. She put the bucket down. Reached for the vial of smelling salts. Cracked it under his nose.

His eyes snapped open. Wide with fresh terror. The ammonia stench. The cold swamp of his own filth. The panic started over.

Ruby poured the rest on the floor. The concrete became a cold, foul swamp. She watched the foam settle.

Lucifer watched the memory in silent clarity. Profound disgust washed over him. Acidic. A phantom bile rose in his immortal throat though he had nothing to purge.

Ruby stood over the man. Her face was blank. Her breathing steady. Her hands precise as she set the bucket aside.

She felt nothing. No pity. No rage. Just cold completion.

She worked mechanically. Clamped a ring light onto a stand. The harsh white light sliced through shadows. Created a bright, artificial stage. A high-definition camera focused.

Her account, @justice_for_jane_doe, went live.

Forty thousand viewers instantly. The title: Performance Art.

The comments scrolled too fast to read. Damn, the acting is insane. This is viral-level horror. They believed the terror was makeup. Good acting.

Ruby didn't acknowledge the screen. Her expression was flat. Detached.

She rotated the camera to face the victim. He was shaking. Bruised. Tied tight. His eyes were wide pools of raw terror.

"Confess," Ruby ordered. Her voice was low. Flat.

He tried to refuse. A weak shake of his head.

Ruby didn't shout. She didn't rage. She just moved. Methodically. A brief, sharp action cut off his breath. The terror returned. Immediate. Overwhelming. It broke him.

His voice came out raw. Broken. He began to speak.

He confessed every crime. Every girl. Every hidden, vile act. The truth poured out, ugly and undeniable. Fueled by absolute fear.

The viewer count hit one hundred thousand.

Clips were ripped instantly. Uploaded. Shared across every platform. They called it "viral horror." The audience was unaware they were watching a final courtroom.

Miles away, in a brightly lit precinct, a report came in. An officer yawned. Squinted at the screen. He noted the high production value.

He filed a report: Open Investigation: Potential Unauthorized Film Project.

They weren't coming to save him. The system viewed his screaming terror as entertainment. They didn't know the difference between acting and reality.

They didn't realize he was already in his grave.

Ruby stood over the man. She held a large syringe. The thick, colorless drain cleaner inside smelled metallic. Caustic. Corrosive. Final.

The man looked up. He didn't beg forgiveness for his confessed crimes. He only begged for life.

"Please. Don't."

Ruby's hand was steady. She found the pulsing carotid artery. Pushed the needle in deep. Precise. Emptied the syringe with one hard push.

The poison was instant. Catastrophic.

His throat seized with a violent spasm. His limbs lashed out. Convulsing against the ropes. A terrible chemical smell erupted from his mouth.

His skin instantly mottled. Sickly gray. Angry red. His eyes rolled back. Fixed on the ceiling. He died in less than a minute.

The convulsing stopped. His head slumped. The basement went silent.

Ruby watched it all. Her face was flat. She felt nothing.

She cleaned nothing. Wiped no prints.

She picked up her cheap phone. Dialed 911. Her voice was steady. Emotionless. "There's a twelve-year-old girl at this address. She's safe now. He's dead. He can't hurt her anymore."

She hung up.

She walked out with a horrendous big plastic bag. Locked the door quietly. Got in her beat-up car. Drove away. Left the state.

By the time police arrived, they found the basement. The twelve-year-old girl was found unharmed. Crying. The abuser was dead. But the body was missing.

Ruby was already hundreds of miles away.

Chapter 32

Lucifer lifted his hand from the grimy, water-stained page. The movement was stiff. Almost arthritic. His claws—black and razor-sharp—dug into the bony ridges of the armrest. A throne forged from Judas's ribcage.

He found himself performing the absurd ritual of humanity. Reminding himself to breathe. A low, unsteady exhale left his chest. A sound he hadn't made in millennia. The sound of a man in shock. Not a devil.

The notebook had been recovered during the investigation. The pages were swollen from rain. Warped from humidity. The ink was smudged. Testament to hurried, desperate writing. Yet stubbornly legible.

Lucifer read the single entry detailing the First Kill. The details flowed through the Archive's echo. A deep, resonant hum that played back not just words but the writer's original emotional state.

"I saved her. Made sure she wasn't in the house. Made sure he couldn't hurt her ever again. Does that make me GOOD? Or just LESS EVIL? I don't know anymore. I don't know if I ever knew."

The handwriting had begun with a visible tremor. A nervous scrawl. But it steadied at the end. Sharpened. As if Ruby had reached a profound, irreversible decision mid-sentence.

Lucifer read the entry again. And again. Five times he consumed the same short lines. The words did not change. His reaction was a seismic shift.

A long exhale scraped out of him. His jaw locked. Muscle straining against bone. High above the bridge of his nose, his third eye—usually cool, analytical crimson—began to pulse with slow, heavy, angry gold light.

"She saved the girl."

His voice sounded foreign. Stripped bare. Almost human in unexpected vulnerability. The simple sentence hung in the vast silence of the Archive. The great shelves of damned knowledge listened. Files shifted in their slots. The sound like settling bones.

That detail. That single line Ruby had probably scribbled without thought cut straight into the Devil's core. Ruby hadn't just sought vengeance to settle a score.

The file's echo deepened. Filled in the blanks. She had monitored the girl's school schedule. Tracked the new wife's travel dates. 

Executed the act only when the child was guaranteed out of the house. She ensured the girl would never experience the quiet, soul-annihilating horror Ruby herself had endured.

And the final piece: Ruby had dialed 911. Not from a burner phone miles away. A calculated call to guarantee the girl would be found immediately. Protected. Documented as a survivor.

Lucifer rubbed the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers. His rage manifested as a fine tremor. "That's not evil," he muttered. Barely audible against the oppressive silence. He hated the quietness of his own voice. "That's not even vengeance. Vengeance is messy. Selfish. Incomplete."

A surge of energy erupted from him. His vast sable wings unfurled slowly. Feathers lifting. Snapping with crackling static.

"That's justice delivered," he declared. The full weight of his authority settling on the word. "Delivered by someone who had nothing left to lose."

He closed the worn journal page. His touch careful. Unnaturally delicate. He handled the paper as if it were a fresh, bleeding wound. His claws began a slow tap-tap-tap rhythm against the bone armrest.

Lucifer lifted his head. The third eye fully opened. Flooded the cavernous Archive with blinding, incandescent gold. His voice, though not a shout, carried absolute, cold conviction.

"Where the fuck was Heaven?"

The words echoed. A shocking sacrilege that made the shelves tremble. Files rattled loose. Fluttered to the floor like frightened white birds.

He didn't need to shout. The quiet fury was exponentially worse. He spoke again, louder. Each syllable a focused blade. "Where were the angels when she was fourteen and bleeding?"

His wings flared completely. Stirred the ancient dust into violent golden spirals. "Where was divine intervention when her own mother closed that door and walked away?"

Silence followed. Not peaceful quiet. A heavy, choking vacuum that pressed on the walls. Made the air taste metallic. Like blood and ozone. No voice answered. Neither Heaven's nor Hell's. This place was only witness.

Lucifer exhaled through his teeth. A long, frustrated hiss older than continents. He looked down at Ruby's file. Now resting on his lap. Eight hundred forty-seven pages thick. Beneath his touch it felt warm. Pulsing faintly like a damaged, wounded heart.

"You shouldn't be in Hell, Ruby," he muttered. His voice a promise.

Another silence. Sharper. Anticipating action. Lucifer's grip tightened on the file. He turned the page. The Archive braced itself for fallout.

“Kissed By a New God” book 5 Free Read Sample here!

Chapter 56

"So what now, Detective? What happens when two immovable objects meet?"

"Now we save our daughter," Strauss said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were still shaking from adrenaline. "After that… we figure out how to survive each other."

The hallway reeked of smoke and iron. Bodies lay where they had fallen, some still twitching, some already cold. 

Strauss wiped her blood-slicked blade on her sleeve and stepped over a man groaning on the floor. Vlad didn't bother stepping over anyone—he walked through them, boots crunching bone.

The sound made her stomach turn. Not from disgust. From familiarity.

She remembered when that sound used to bother her.

They watched the compound where Damien was held from a rooftop vantage point. The building squatted in the industrial district like a concrete tumor, ugly and forgettable. 

Perfect for hiding a kidnapped half-vampire.

Strauss checked her weapons. Gun loaded. Blade sharp. Stakes secured. Everything a responsible monster hunter needed.

Vlad stretched beside her, his neck cracking with wet pops as vertebrae realigned.

"You take left flank," Strauss said. "I'll—"

"No." His hand caught her wrist. Cold fingers. Strong grip. "We go together. Like old times."

She jerked free, skin tingling where he'd touched. "There were no 'old times.' Just lies and corpses."

"Semantics." He smiled, fangs catching moonlight.

Strauss wanted to argue. Wanted to remind him that their 'partnership' would end sooner or later.

But Damien was down there.

Their daughter.

The one thing they'd somehow created that wasn't completely fucked.

"Fine," she bit out. "But if you go for unnecessary kills, I'll stake you myself. For the second time."

"Promises, promises."

They dropped from the rooftop in perfect sync—Strauss using a grappling line, Vlad just falling and landing like gravity was a suggestion he chose to follow.

The assault should've been harder.

The Anti-vampire cultists poured out of the compound like roaches from a kicked nest, all wearing the same stupid ceremonial robes and wielding the same cheap swords bought in bulk from some dark web supplier.

Strauss and Vlad moved through them like synchronized death.

She ducked. He struck. He feinted. She finished.

Twenty years apart and their bodies still remembered the rhythm. Like a deadly waltz they'd practiced until muscle memory carved it into their bones.

Except Vlad kept going for kill shots.

A cultist swung at Strauss. She dodged. Vlad grabbed the man's head and started twisting—

Strauss hissed, “Incapacitate,” dragging Vlad back so hard he slammed into the wall with a bone-deep crunch that spider-webbed the concrete. 

Vlad’s neck bent at an angle that should’ve required a funeral. “Don’t obliterate,” he added, voice edged like a blade dipped in menace.

The cultist staggered backward, choking on his own breath. Strauss shot him in the kneecap. He collapsed, shrieking.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Vlad sighed, casually twisting his head until the jutting vertebra slid back into place with a wet click.

“We’re here for Damien,” Strauss growled. “Not to host your sadistic game show.”

But here's the thing about Vlad—the thing Strauss had tried to forget for twenty years—he didn't just feed on blood. 

Blood was an appetizer. Suffering was the main course.

Pain made him stronger. Fear sharpened his senses. Every scream was a shot of adrenaline straight to his ancient, fucked-up heart.

Vlad lived on agony like normal people lived on oxygen.

And Strauss's mercy was an all-you-can-eat buffet.

She killed clean when she had to. Quick. Efficient. A bullet to the head, lights out, no encores. End the threat, minimize suffering, move on.

Vlad was the opposite. He savored pain like vintage wine. Drew it out. Made it last.

And every enemy Strauss disabled instead of killing became his personal feast.

Every broken limb. Every shattered knee. Every cultist she left screaming on the ground because she refused to execute wounded prisoners.

Vlad absorbed it all.

His eyes brightened from red to crimson. His movements grew smoother, faster, more fluid. The air around him thickened with something dark and satisfied—like reality itself was bending to accommodate his growing power.

A cultist Strauss had shot was sobbing behind them, crawling toward an exit with one functioning leg.

Vlad inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was breathing in the finest incense.

"You choose to cripple them rather than end their life," he murmured, voice dropping an octave. "How thoughtful of you. Very romantic. I’m touched."

His pupils dilated. His skin seemed to glow from within.

"This suffering is exquisite." He turned to her with a smile that was pure fucking nightmare fuel. "Thank you for exquisite dinner, my love."

Strauss felt fury spike through her chest.

The kiss wasn't just a savage consumption; it was a vortex. A brief, hellish space where years of control dissolved. When her teeth chewed his lip, Vlad didn't just seize her; he became a vice.

His fingers dug past flesh and muscle, hooking under her hip bone. The pain was a white-hot needle—a momentary, necessary substitute for sanity. Strauss threw herself into the agony. 

Her arms, locked around his neck, became a death-grip, pulling his large body down, molding their weight together.

Vlad's control imploded.

A sound—part animalistic cry, part despairing prayer—was ripped from his throat, shaking her to the core. 

Chapter 57

His free hand slammed against her spine, crushing her waist into his. Every nerve ending screamed with the contact.

Strauss's hands ripped his shirt open. The buttons became tiny, irrelevant shrapnel. The expensive cloth tore like paper. 

Her palms burned as they connected with his bare, furnace-hot chest. She raked her fingers over the ridges of muscle and scar tissue. 

She needed to feel the truth of him beneath the facade.

Her fingers clawed into his thick neck, twisting their mouths together for a final, drowning kiss. 

The blood was now a salty, thick mask over their faces, a shared ceremonial mark.

When she broke the kiss, gasping, the air was a choking, toxic cloud.

"I've hated you," she hissed, her voice a shattered pane of glass. "I hate that I missed you. My damned one. My only poison."

His smile was a slow, crimson crescent. His eyes were no longer molten; they were dead, vacant space, filled only with reflection of her chaos.

"My bride, my wife, you are the love of my life," he breathed, the sound a low, velvet threat. "Submit to me. Confess it. Tell me you adore the darkness I drag into your world. Whisper that you belong to only me, your Master, your God."

Her chest was heaving, her lungs screaming for air that didn't feel tainted by the metallic tang of his blood and her own frenzy. 

She was ready to say it—ready to throw the last shred of her sanity into the fire just to keep him close for one more second.

Then the sound tore through the night.

Shriek.

Not a cry, but a raw, piercing shriek.

Damien.

The sound was a physical blow that ripped her out of the blood-drenched haze.

Strauss's entire body seized. Her vision snapped from the blurred, scarlet focus of Vlad's face to the razor-sharp clarity of the surrounding darkness. The blood on her mouth instantly felt cold.

"Move," she snarled, the voice not entirely her own, and shoved him with the full, instinctual force of a mother whose child is in danger.

They tore apart with a violent, sickening sound—the wet sound of fabric and skin separating. 

Both of them stumbled for balance, adrenaline instantly spiking from lust to terror.

They ran.

 

The floor shook under Vlad's steps. Strauss's boots pounded beside him, her blade catching flickers of overhead lights as they sprinted down the corridor.

The hallway ahead filled with more guards, all drawn by the noise of their daughter's scream.

Neither of them slowed down.

Because Damien was behind that door.

And anyone standing between them and their daughter was already dead—they just didn't know it yet.

Strauss hit the first guard with a flying knee that caved in his sternum. Vlad grabbed the second by the throat and threw him into a wall hard enough that the concrete cracked.

They tore through the remaining guards like paper.

Strauss's movements were precise—trained, efficient, every strike calculated for maximum damage with minimum energy.

Vlad's were pure chaos—grabbing, breaking, throwing bodies like they weighed nothing.

They broke past the metal barricade and kicked open the reinforced door.

The inner chamber was thick with smoke. Emergency lamps flickered weakly. 

Bodies were scattered across the floor—some unconscious, some groaning, some completely still.

And in the center of it all stood Damien.

Her small boots were planted firmly. Her hands were still raised in a defensive stance. 

Someone else's blood streaked her cheek in a diagonal line, but her eyes were bright and steady and completely unbothered.

She looked like she'd just finished an annoying workout.

"Mom. Dad," she said, raising one eyebrow. "You got back together just to save me? That's sweet."

The word 'sweet' dripped with so much sarcasm it could've corroded metal.

Strauss froze.

Relief hit her so hard her knees almost buckled. Her chest went tight. Her throat closed up.

For a second, she couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at her daughter—alive, safe, standing in a room full of unconscious kidnappers like she'd been waiting for room service.

Vlad followed Strauss's gaze.

His expression shifted—sharpened like a blade, then softened in a way he rarely allowed. He took in everything with those too-old, too-knowing eyes. 

The broken restraints on the floor. The knocked-out guards. The scorch marks on the walls where someone had clearly used some kind of explosive.

Understanding hit him.

"She tricked us," Vlad murmured, voice caught between admiration and exasperation. "She staged her own kidnapping."

Strauss clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached.

Damien's smirk grew wider. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

“For my defense, I’m busy seducing your long-lost mom.” Vlad stepped closer, studying his daughter like she was a particularly interesting specimen. Or a bomb that might go off.