9: The Devil’s Arrival
739 Words
He walks into the room like he owns the air we breathe.
The silence that follows him isn't just quiet. It’s heavy. Suffocating. It’s the kind of silence that happens when a wolf walks into a pen of sheep. Only my brothers aren't sheep. They’re wolves too. But this man? He’s the monster wolves tell stories about to scare their cubs.
He’s massive. At least six-three, with shoulders that strain the fabric of a black suit that costs more than my entire life’s earnings. He doesn't move like a normal person. He moves with a predatory grace, smooth and lethal.
I step back, hitting the edge of the mahogany table. My hands grip the wood until my knuckles turn white.
"Stavros," my father says. His voice is steady, but I hear the tension in it. "You're early."
The man—Stavros—doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at Dimitris.
His eyes are locked on me.
They’re dark. So dark they look black, burning with a cold, terrifying intensity. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow, a jagged white line against tan skin. Another one disappears under the collar of his shirt. He’s not handsome. He’s devastating. Brutal. A weapon wrapped in silk.
He takes a step toward me.
The sound of his heavy boot on the marble floor echoes like a gunshot.
"Stop," I whisper. My voice is a pathetic squeak.
He doesn't stop. He keeps coming, closing the distance with long, purposeful strides. He ignores everyone else in the room. He walks past Nikos, who tenses, his hand twitching toward his jacket. He walks past Leo, who looks ready to pounce but stays frozen.
They are predators, but they know they are outmatched. They know they are in the presence of something worse.
Stavros stops inches from me.
He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. He smells like expensive whiskey, smoke, and something metallic. Like blood. Or maybe just pure, unadulterated violence.
I have to crane my neck to look at him. My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I think he can hear it. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"You're smaller than the pictures," he says. His voice is deep, a rough growl that vibrates in my chest.
I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell, to tell him to back off, but the words die on my tongue.
He reaches out.
I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut, expecting a hit. Expecting pain.
Instead, rough fingers wrap around my chin.
His grip is iron. Unyielding. He forces my head up, tilting it back until I’m looking straight into those abyss-like eyes.
"Open your eyes," he commands.
I do. I can't help it. My body obeys him before my brain can even process the order.
I look at him, breathless and terrified. And then I feel it.
A jolt. A sudden, sharp spike of electricity that arcs from his skin to mine. It zips down my spine, hot and unwanted. It’s not attraction. It can't be. It’s fear. It has to be fear. But my breath hitches, and a flush creeps up my neck.
He sees it. His eyes narrow, tracking the heat rising on my skin. He knows.
"Green eyes," he murmurs, his thumb brushing my lower lip. The skin there is rough, callused. "Just like your father's. But you look like your mother."
"Don't touch me," I manage to gasp. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. Not enough to bruise, but enough to hold me perfectly still.
"I'll touch you whenever I want," he says softly. "Get used to it."
He turns my face to the left, then the right. Inspecting me. Examining me. Like I’m a prize horse at an auction. Like I’m a car he’s kicking the tires on.
I feel tears of humiliation burn my eyes. I’m a person. I have a name. I have a life. But in this room, under his hand, I am nothing but a transaction.
He drops his hand abruptly. The loss of contact leaves my skin tingling, cold and exposed.
He turns to my father. He doesn't ask for permission. He doesn't negotiate. He doesn't offer a dowry or discuss terms.
He just looks at Dimitris with that cold, dead stare.
"She'll do," he growls, turning back to look at me one last time, claiming me with a single glance. "The wedding happens in one month."
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