บททั้งหมดของ The Devil's Debt : บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

Lucian woke to silence.The storm had passed, leaving the world rinsed clean, but inside the room the air still smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain. His body felt heavy, stitched together by pain, but the first thing his eyes found wasn’t the bandage or the wound.It was her.Ayla sat at the edge of the bed, her head bowed against the mattress, hair spilling like ink across her cheek. Her arm was draped near his side, her fingers curled as though she had been holding onto him even in sleep. She hadn’t changed out of her wet clothes, hadn’t shifted once. She had kept vigil. All night.Lucian’s lips curved faintly, a smile no one else in the world would have ever believed possible.Carefully—so carefully—he shifted his weight and reached for her. His arm slid beneath her shoulders, lifting her just enough to rest her head properly on the pillow beside him. She murmured softly but didn’t wake, exhaustion anchoring her too deeply. For a long moment, he just looked at her. At the way wo

Lucian sat motionless for a long time, her words echoing in the air between them like sparks refusing to die.Then let me burn with you…He hadn’t expected her to say it. In truth, he hadn’t believed anyone would ever dare. To stand before him—before the weight of his sins, the empire of shadows he commanded—and choose the fire willingly. Yet here she was, refusing to flinch, refusing to run, her gaze locked on his as though she had already accepted the ruin that came with loving him.And against all logic, against the steel walls he had spent years building, something inside him cracked.A faint, almost disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth. It was small, fleeting, but real—the kind of smile that hadn’t touched his face in years. It startled even him.Before Ayla could breathe another word, his hand came up, threading into her hair, pulling her closer. His lips crashed onto hers, rough at first—hungry, desperate, like a drowning man clawing at air. She gasped against him, startled,

The storm had been building all night, and by the time it broke, the skies above the city seemed to bleed thunder. Rain hammered against the glass walls of the penthouse, a relentless percussion that drowned out the hum of traffic far below. The penthouse itself had been transformed. Not into a home, not into a sanctuary—but into a war room.Maps stretched across the long oak table, heavy with the weight of pins and ink. Files lay in messy towers, some marked in red, others circled and dog-eared with Ayla’s scrawled notes. A corkboard dominated the far wall, strung with red lines that connected photographs, names, and ledgers in a web so intricate it looked almost alive. At the center were three names, circled in black: Darius. Marek. Serrano.Lucian stood at the head of the table, his jacket discarded across the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, veins standing out beneath the skin as his hand pressed down on the table. His presence filled the room, steady an

The day came too fast. It slipped past like air—one moment Marco was drowning in the memory of Isabella’s bruised face, the next he was staring at the calendar, realizing that tomorrow wasn’t “soon.” It was now. The eve of blood. Night had fallen heavy over the city, cloaking the penthouse in shadows and steel. The skyline gleamed through rain-streaked glass, but the atmosphere inside was harder than concrete. Lucian’s men moved with precision in the war room—steel boards scattered with maps, red circles drawn over Darius’s empire like wounds on flesh. Ayla cut through hesitation like a blade, her voice cool and sharp, while Elias barked orders as though the earth itself bowed to discipline. Every man drilled, polished, prepared. Everyone was locked in their roles. Everyone but Marco. His chest was a battlefield. His loyalty weighed against blood, Lucian’s trust against Isabella’s life. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips as if his very veins screamed with indecision. He s

Marek had never been a man who relied on faith. Not in loyalty, not in family, and certainly not in mercy. Faith was a luxury, and luxuries were for men who could afford to sleep without one eye open. Marek hadn’t known sleep like that since he was a boy. Since long before Darius plucked him from the gutter and shaped him into a blade. Since before he learned that trust was just another kind of bullet—it always found your back. As he sat in the back of the black sedan tearing through the industrial outskirts, the city’s dawn still bleeding faint red across the horizon, he knew two things with bone-deep certainty: Lucian D’Argento would not stop hunting him, and Serrano would not open his gates without payment. But Marek had prepared for this. The fool who thought he could betray Lucian and buy favor with him had already been useful. A young intel rat, pale and desperate, who had been feeding Lucian scraps of Marek’s routes, hoping to buy himself a longer life. The kind of coward w