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The Devil Dog inside me settles, satisfied for now. It curls up near my spine, purring with a low rumble that vibrates through my entire chest.

I remember the way Gregory said his name. Bellamy. A pretty name for a pretty little thing.

Mine, it whispers again, softer. Rather than a demand for blood, it’s more like a possessive promise. I lean down closer, my face inches from his. The warm puff of his breath brushes my lips. My crimson eyes trace every detail of his face. From the curve of his Adam’s apple to his pouty lips, up to the furrow in his brow.

“The cryptid inside of me wants to claim you,” I whisper into the quiet room, my thumb stroking the soft skin of his cheek. “You have no idea what you’ve awoken, Bellamy.”

Almost against my will, I slide my hand down to his throat, my long, claw-tipped fingers encircling his neck loosely. Possessively. I feel his pulse leaping beneath my palm, alive and warm. Tightening my grip, I realize I don’t think I can stop this desperate need deep inside of me. But more importantly, I don’t think I want to.

“You belong to a monster now,” I purr. A dark, dangerous smile curves my lips as my shadow tendrils pull the thick duvet up over his chest, enveloping him in darkness. “And unlike that trash chasing you earlier, I never let go of what’s mine.”

Chapter three

Bellamy

It’s the eerie silence that pulls me awake. Silence was never peace for me; it was a warning. It meant punishment, whether from the threat of my father’s fists or the suffocating walls of Gregory’s cell. For someone like me, silence doesn’t bring comfort. It brings dread.

Confusing memories swirl in my mind before I can open my eyes. I almost expect the sound of harsh rain hammering against the windshield. Or the harsh gravel crunching under boots. At the very least, I expect Gregory’s venomous voice, but it doesn’t come.

More memories surface. Gregory locking me in that cold, musky basement. My escape. Twisting my ankle. The chase. The pain.

For several terrifying seconds, I lie completely still. I brace myself for the cold, gross sensation of wet mud soaked into my clothes and the agony of my cracked collarbone.

It never comes.

I blink my eyes open, staring up at a vaulted ceiling made of dark wooden beams. Soft, golden firelight flickers across the stone walls, casting warm, dancing shadows over an enormous room that looks like it was ripped straight out of a Gothic historical drama. What the fuck? Where the hell am I? My fingers curl around a soft velvet duvet, and the bed I’m lying on is larger than any I’ve ever seen.

I scramble backward against the headboard; my breathing hitches in my throat as panic surges through my veins. I look down at myself.

My torn, mud-caked shirt has been cut open, but my chest is completely clean. I raise a trembling hand to my jaw and throat, probing the skin where Gregory’s men grabbed me. Where my bones felt smashed and bruised.

Nothing. No pain. No swelling. Not even a lingering ache.

I pull back the collar of my torn shirt and trace my collarbone. The deep, purple contusions that made it painful to take a breath just hours ago seem to be completely gone. My skin is smooth and soft.

Panic slams into me, heavier than before. Demon eyes and writhing shadows should be the thing that undoes me, but his healing touch is what truly scares me. No one gives anything away for free. No one acts out of kindness without wanting something in return, especially not a demon I signed my life away to.

The terrifying figure wrapped in the wolf cape actually healed me. I stare at my hands, a shudder running down my spine as I remember the sensation of shadowy, liquid tendrils sinking into my skin and that suffocating, furnace-like heat rolling off his body. It should be impossible, but the lack of pain in my own flesh is undeniable proof.

My eyes sweep the grand bedroom, taking in the antique stone hearth burning with strange blue-and-red flames, the velvet drapery, and the dark oak furniture. Near an armchair in the corner, my gaze lands on the wolf pelt from the crossroads.

It rests draped over the carved wood, imposing and so fucking ominous. I stare at the hollow skull resting over the chair’s back. The pelt’s eyes are empty dark sockets now, showing no sign of the unnatural blue light that had burned in them last night.

I frown. I remember those glowing blue eyes from the wolf’s head. They were the exact same shade as the local town folklore; the stories told around campfires in Wraith Harbor I used to hear as a child. But then I remember the moment the hooded figure knelt in the mud in front of me. Beneath the pitch-black void of that hood, I saw a second set of eyes.

Demon red. Crimson.

So that’s why no one in town can ever keep the cryptid lore straight. Why there were always two separate stories, I realize, my mind racing as pieces of the puzzle begin to click into place. It was two entirely different pairs of eyes. Probably two entirely different entities sharing a body.

I remember the horrific wet crunch when TJ was ripped off his feet, thrown twenty feet through the air by a disjointed, bear-sized shadow that moved on its own. The growl that echoed inside my head had been wild and animalistic. Yet the voice that spoke from beneath the wolf pelt was cool, aristocratic, and dripping with sophisticated dominance.

If I have to guess, they’re two separate beings. Maybe a demon and a beast bound together?

The thought sends a cold spike of fear through my chest, quickly followed by a hot flare of anger. It doesn’t matter how handsome or refined his voice sounds, or that he saved me from Gregory. I’m trapped. Again. I traded an abusive monster for a devil wrapped in shadows. I swapped one cage for another.

Sitting on a large nightstand beside me is a set of folded clothes and a folded sheet of parchment sealed with black wax. It’s almost as if I stepped into a fucking Regency romance.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and grab the letter, snapping the wax seal open. The handwriting inside is elegant and precise.