Chapter 46

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Chapter 46: The Devil's Mark

Isla did not sleep.

The words from the letter continued to play back in her mind like a charm, keeping her poised between terror and wakefulness. He's observing you the way he used to observe me.

She felt it now—in the darkening perimeters of the house, in the cold touch of night air seeping underneath her window, in the sound of silence echoing more boisterously than noise.

Victor Kane was not fiction. He was not a protagonist in her mother's tale.

He was real.

And he had been close.

By the morning, the air was thick with quiet. The sort that was too thick, too deliberate, like a man holding his breath right behind you. Isla moved slowly, deliberately, through the manor. Every mirror was an eye. Every creak of the wooden floorboards under her bare feet was like a whisper.

She could no longer keep this bottled up. She required answers.

She required Christopher.

When she had found him in the conservatory, he was resting against the tall glass windows, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a half-smoked cigarette clutched in one hand. He wasn't upset that she was there—at least, not as upset as he looked unhappy. Tired.

Couldn't sleep either?" he murmured.

Isla shook her head. "She knew. She knew that he was watching me. Even all these years on."

Christopher's teeth locked. "Victor's always had an ulterior motive. He fools you into believing he's vanished, that he's a ghost. But he's not. He's a storm behind the clouds."

She advanced a step, the letter still clutched in her hand. "I read her message. I don't think I ever understood until now what she contained inside of her. What I've had inside of me without even knowing it."

Christopher extended his hand and brushed against her elbow, anchoring her. "You're stronger than she is, Isla."

"Yes?" she breathed. "Because I feel as if I'm apart." 

"Apart isn't weak," he told her, speaking low. "Sometimes you need to break down so you can look at what's worth keeping."

They stood there quietly for a second. Then she spun and jammed the letter into his chest. "I have to know it all. Everything about Victor. About the past. About how much of this was planned."

Christopher's eyes flashed. "It's not just your past he's involved in. Mine too."

"What do you mean?"

He breathed slowly, then waved toward the old wine cellar. "Come with me."

The cellar was colder than she remembered. Moisted stone walls enclosed them, and the faint rustle of pipes echoed in the stillness. Christopher lit one bulb over them. The pale light gathered about them like a secret.

He led her to an old metal cabinet. He opened it with a click and pulled out a box. It contained photographs, papers, letters—records. Each carefully dated and labeled.

"What is this?" Isla asked, her voice cracking.

"A log of surveillance," Christopher replied. "Your mother wasn't the only thing he spied on. After she dumped him, Victor… he got fixated on legacies. He began following families. Bloodlines. You."

He handed her a photograph. It was her—at the age of twelve—playing in a park with her nanny. The picture gave her the shivers.

"I was just a kid," she whispered.

"And he was already planning your future," Christopher spat, a growing anger creeping into his tone. "You were never going to have a normal life. He was corrupting you in secret. Keeping you near."

Isla's hands shook. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I thought I could protect you. I thought if I distanced myself, if I buried it all beneath, perhaps he wouldn't track us down again. But he always does."

The air between them thickened.

Then she asked, "Did you love her? My mother?"

Christopher's gaze met hers. "Yes."

"Even when she still belonged to him?"

"She never did belong to anyone," he said quietly. "She was attempting to escape him. And I— I was attempting to save her. But I couldn't. She was already marked."

"Marked?" Isla repeated.

Christopher paused. Then, without speaking, he removed his shirt.

There, on his chest, below the collarbone, was a faint scar. A sign. A mark etched years ago.

Isla gasped. "What is that?"

"Victor's idea of ownership," he said dully. "He gave it to everyone he felt he owned. Your mother wore one. So did others. People in his path. or whom he loved."

Isla stepped back, breath caught in her throat.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you need to know what he can do," replied Christopher. "He doesn't just play games. He brands people. Claims them."

"Has he… claimed me?" she breathed, her voice shaking.

Christopher's expression hardened. "Not yet. But he'll try it."

—

Later that night, Isla returned to her bedroom, still shaking uncontrollably. She pushed back the cuffs of her blouse, staring at her skin as if she expected a brand to show there. Nothing.

But the mark did not necessarily have to be physical.

She could sense him.

Victor Kane was on his way.

Not as a ghost.

Not as a memory.

But as the devil who never lets go.

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