บททั้งหมดของ Bound To The Devil's Heir : บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

Damien’s POVThe words Serena spoke still echoed in my skull like a gunshot.Your men some of them are not as loyal as you believe.I had been prepared for anything from her fear, resistance, even another attempt to run. But not this. Not the tremor in her voice when she whispered Matthias’s name, not the quiet certainty in her eyes when she said she overheard voices in the lower halls.I didn’t doubt she’d heard something. Serena wasn’t stupid. What shook me was the possibility that she might be right.That betrayal lived inside my walls.The rage hit me fast and violent, but it wasn’t for her.No this wasn’t her fault.This was on them.The men I fed. The men I paid. The men I gave protection and power to.And now, if what she said was true, some of them were selling pieces of my empire to Matthias like it was cheap merchandise at a street corner.That night, I summoned my inner circle to the war room.Luca. Vincent. Antonio. Salvatore. Men who had been with me for years, whose blo

Damien's point of View The mansion had never felt like this before.Not even during the bloodiest wars my father waged, not even when bullets rattled outside the gates and bodies dropped on the marble steps.Back then, I knew where my enemies stood on the other side of the gun.But now they were inside. Wearing my crest, bowing in my hallways, eating at my tables.And smiling in my face.Serena had planted the thought like a blade between my ribs, and it twisted deeper every hour.I watched her across the dining room, her head slightly bowed as Emilia tried to distract her with chatter about art galleries and Paris couture.Serena nodded politely, but her eyes wandered constantly flicking to the guards posted near the doors, then to me. She felt it too. The shift. The rotting undercurrent.I should hate her for it for making me doubt the very men I’d killed and bled beside. But instead, I wanted to drag her into my lap, crush my mouth against hers, and tell her she was the only one

Serena's point of View I could feel it in the way the men walked, their boots hesitant against marble, their gazes avoiding mine as if one flicker of eye contact could ignite another execution. Blood left stains that soap couldn’t erase not from floors, not from hands, not from memory.And she Serena was quieter than all of them.She didn’t speak at breakfast. Didn’t meet my gaze when I passed her in the hall. She ate like someone being punished, pushing food around her plate until it lost all warmth. Every time I stepped into a room, I could feel her breath catch, as though my very presence forced her to relive Anton’s end.Her guilt was written across her face, even if she didn’t say it out loud.I had done what needed to be done. A traitor had been cut out, cauterized from the wound before rot could spread. But in her eyes, I wasn’t a surgeon I was a butcher.And the strange thing? It mattered.I wanted her to understand me. To see that the blood I spilled wasn’t chaos it was

Damien's point of View The halls reek of smoke and tension.Not from fire, but from fear the kind that lingers in the air after a storm of blood.I can taste it on my tongue as I pace through the west wing, Luca trailing at my side, silent but alert. The mansion is a fortress, but tonight it feels like a cage of mirrors. Every glance, every shuffled step, every whisper among my men gnaws at me.The net I cast is working. The first traitor was flushed out, Anton’s betrayal dragging others out of the shadows like rats scurrying when the light touches them. I had told myself his death would be enough an example, a warning. But men are greedy. And greed makes them bold even in the shadow of fear.And so, I set another trap.The plan is simple: feed them false intel. Spread word of a shipment valuable, easy to intercept—unguarded but essential. I don’t need to tell Serena this. She doesn’t need to know how many fires I light just to see where the smoke will rise.Luca delivers the whi

Serena's point of View It smelled of earth, of wet roses, of something untainted by the iron and smoke that seemed to hang inside Damien’s mansion. For a moment, when my bare feet touched the stones of the garden path, I almost believed I was outside of all of it the cells, the blood, the walls of paranoia tightening around me every day.Almost.The guards weren’t far. They never were. I’d learned the rhythm of their boots, the clipped echo of their voices as they passed each other like clock hands rotating on a face I could never escape. Still, at dawn, there was a hush between their shifts, a thin sliver of silence I’d discovered the morning after Anton’s execution. That was when I started sneaking into the garden, not because I thought I could run Damien had made sure of that but because I wanted to remember what it felt like to breathe without a shadow watching me.I tilted my face to the pale sky. The sun had only just begun to edge past the horizon, bleeding soft pink into