บททั้งหมดของ The Devil's Debt : บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The stairwell groaned under their weight, metal teeth grinding against each other as Ayla and Marek climbed. The red strobes followed them upward, casting the steel walls into a sick rhythm of shadow and fire. Each alarm pulse seemed to sync with Ayla’s heartbeat, a drumbeat of panic and resolve pounding in her ears. Behind them, vapor from the ruptured container thickened, curling up the stairwell like a living fog. Its metallic tang clung to the back of her throat, sharp and unnatural, and with every inhale she felt the wrongness of it sliding deeper into her lungs. Marek pushed her forward, his hand firm between her shoulder blades. He was still gasping from Lucian’s crushing hold earlier, his breaths ragged, but his grip never faltered. “Don’t stop,” he rasped. “Not for anything.” She nodded, though her body screamed for air. Each rung of the stairwell felt longer than the last. The engines’ roar vibrated through her bones, as if the aircraft itself strained to hold the weigh

Her knees shook, but Marek’s arm around her steadied her. They had made it home. For now. And tomorrow waited. The base unfolded around them in a blur of shouts, running boots, and floodlights snapping off one by one in the dawn. Soldiers moved in like a tide, guiding them away from the transport craft as medics and officers spilled onto the tarmac. The airstrip reeked of fuel and scorched metal, but beneath it lingered something achingly familiar—wet soil, cut grass, the earthy breath of home. Ayla wanted to collapse into it, let the ground swallow her whole. But she forced herself to keep walking, even as every nerve in her body begged for rest. Marek’s weight pressed against her shoulder, heavier than before. He leaned into her just enough to remind her of his injuries, but not enough to falter. He never faltered. That was Marek. And yet, as they approached the waiting line of officers, she felt a faint pulse of unease stir inside her chest. “Lieutenant Ayla.” A commander

The night dragged heavy against the windows, pressing its weight against the steel walls until Ayla swore she could feel it in her chest. The silence was unnatural, the kind that carried not peace but menace, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Even her own heartbeat seemed too loud, every thump echoing in her ears. Marek’s house was wrong in every way. It wasn’t a home—it was a cage disguised as one. Each corner seemed measured, each shadow placed. The air reeked faintly of oil and polish, a sterile sharpness that reminded her of surgical rooms. She hadn’t noticed before, but now every detail screamed at her: the cameras too neatly placed in the ceiling corners, the faint seam of reinforced locks, the single exit door she could already tell was wired. She couldn’t wait. Her body trembled with exhaustion, but her hands moved anyway, rifling through the desk drawers, scanning the counter, searching the kitchen shelf. She found a pen, then a fork, gripping them like life

Dawn crept over the horizon in pale shades of silver, seeping through the trees and painting the forest in reluctant light. The air was damp with dew, heavy with silence, and for the first time in hours, Ayla stirred without flinching. Her lashes fluttered, breath hitching as if she had surfaced from some dreamless pit, and she blinked blearily into the shifting shadows above. Lucian rose before she could sit up, his movements smooth, deliberate—his body coiled with the same readiness he’d carried through the night. Even after the fight, even after the escape, even here beneath the pale hush of morning, he was a taut line of vigilance. He didn’t need to tell her they had to keep moving. The shadows beneath his eyes, the stiffness in his jaw, the faint cut still bleeding at his cheekbone all spoke louder than words. He offered a hand and, reluctantly, she took it. His palm was calloused, firm, grounding. He pulled her to her feet, steadying her when her knees threatened to fold. Her

The city was still awake when Ayla opened her eyes again. She hadn’t meant to sleep—her body had stolen the choice. Even now, the haze of exhaustion clung to her, but the sharp edge of fear had dulled into something else, something she couldn’t name. Her body remembered too much: the bite of restraints, the weight of cold eyes watching her, the way her chest had burned when every breath was a fight. Yet here, wrapped in silence and the faint hum of the penthouse, her heartbeat slowed enough for her to notice other things. Lucian hadn’t moved far. He stood where she’d last seen him, near the glass wall, his frame cut against the skyline in pale light. The city glittered below, restless, alive, but he remained still, shoulders drawn taut as steel. His reflection shifted faintly—fingers flexing once against the glass, then curling back into a fist. He hadn’t noticed she was awake. Or perhaps he had, and chose not to turn. Her throat tightened. There was something strange in him toni