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Chapter Eight – Bar Nocturne
Last Updated:
2025-08-05 19:28:06
Latest chapter
The Devil's Debt Chapter Seventeen – The Queen’s Gambit
The cavern’s air thickened, heavy with jet fuel and anticipation. Every breath tasted metallic, every inhale coated her tongue with copper and smoke. The aircraft’s turbines groaned to life, each rotation a grinding reminder of inevitability, the sound clawing at her bones like a predator circling its prey.Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and sterile, turning every shadow into something sharp, deliberate. The technicians below moved in a choreography that was too precise to be improvised. Every flick of a wrist, every turn of a wrench seemed timed to the heartbeat of the engines. None of them looked at her. None dared. Their devotion to Lucian’s silence was absolute.Ayla’s thumb hovered over the red dot in her pocket. The phone’s casing felt hot, though she knew it wasn’t heat—it was her own pulse, hammering so violently it turned plastic and steel into an illusion of fire.Ninety seconds. That’s all it would take. Ninety seconds to erase everything—the machine, t
The Devil's Debt Chapter Sixteen – Engines in the Dark
The hiss of hydraulics lingered like a drawn breath, vibrating faintly through the cavern floor. Ayla stood at the edge of the stacked crates, her gaze fixed on the widening door, watching as shadows stretched long across the underground staging ground. The smell of jet fuel grew sharper, cutting through the stale air, prickling the back of her throat until every breath felt like she was inhaling fire.Beyond the opening, pale light bled into the gloom—fluorescent, sterile, nothing like the dim amber glow of the corridor she’d just passed through. And with it came the unmistakable hum of engines, a low resonance that settled deep in her chest and rattled the metal scaffolding overhead. It wasn’t just sound; it was intent, something alive and ready to move.Marek’s stance had shifted. His shoulders weren’t loose anymore; they carried the subtle readiness of a man about to draw lines in the sand. He wasn’t just following her now. He was waiting—for her decision, for the next
The Devil's Debt Chapter Fifteen – The Red Door
The hum of the machinery followed her like a warning, deep and constant, vibrating faintly through the soles of her shoes. It wasn’t a clean, modern hum—this was older, like an animal growl that had learned to hold its breath. Each step along the narrow corridor echoed longer than it should have, as though the building itself was taking note of her intrusion.She slowed her breathing, forcing herself to listen. Every drop of condensation hitting the concrete carried weight in the silence. The smell down here was sharp and layered—oil, metal, damp stone—like she’d stepped inside the ribcage of some giant, sleeping thing.Somewhere above, the elevator cables whispered against their pulleys. The sound was faint but constant. She imagined Lucian’s measured patience, Marek’s lean momentum. Either one could be on the move, following her. The thought didn’t make her speed up. If anything, it slowed her, sharpening each movement. She’d learned early in her life that rushing gave the game away
The Devil's Debt Chapter Fourteen – Breaking the Board
The wind caught the edge of her dress, lifting it just enough to whisper the way out. One step. Two. The narrow iron stairwell spiraled down into the shadows, slick with mist, promising anonymity if she moved fast enough. Below, a scatter of yellow streetlamps stretched along a narrow lane, their light warped by the film of rain clinging to the air.Lucian stopped five steps short of her, but his voice traveled like a touch against her skin.“Ayla. Don’t make this a spectacle.”He said it like a warning, but it felt like possession—an invisible hand tightening on the back of her neck.Marek didn’t so much as glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on her, steady, sharp, almost impatient.“You’ve got ten seconds before the ground changes under you.”Her fingers curled around the railing, feeling the slickness of cold metal against her palm. The keycard pressed into her hand through the fabric of her clutch, its edges cutting faintly into her skin. A reminder she still had options. A remi
The Devil's Debt Chapter Thirteen – Exit Strategy
The steps felt longer than they should have. Each one took her higher, but not further from the pull of the room below. The gallery’s air was warm from too many bodies and too much tension; her skin prickled as if she were still in the vault with Marek’s gun aimed steady in her direction.The sound followed her up—muted conversations, the dull hum of money changing hands, the faint chime of crystal as drinks met lips. Even here, where the mezzanine curved like a balcony above the lower floor, she could feel the heat of attention. It stuck to her like smoke.She reached the top and merged into the stream of guests drifting toward the upper lounge. Waiters moved through them like chess pieces, balancing trays of champagne flutes, collecting empties without ever breaking stride. Laughter rose and fell in polished little bursts, the kind people gave not because they were amused, but because someone else was listening.No one up here knew she had just been auctioned like a rare coin. No on
The Devil's Debt Chapter Twelve – The Bidding War
The lower gallery was already in motion when Ayla emerged. The transition from the dim hallway to the vaulted space felt like stepping from shadow into theater. A polished mahogany table stretched the length of the room, its surface empty except for a single black gavel that gleamed like onyx in the low light. Above, chandeliers hung heavy with crystal, but their glow had been muted to a dusky gold, forcing shadows into the corners where conversations whispered and eyes lingered too long. The guests had arranged themselves in a crescent arc, champagne replaced by numbered paddles—symbols of power disguised as civility. Ayla didn’t take a seat. She preferred the wall. A vantage point where she could see every player without offering herself up as one. The auctioneer appeared from behind a paneled door—an older man with iron-grey hair and the kind of voice that made corruption sound like fine poetry. He began with something innocuous by their standards: a stolen painting from a Ber
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