All Chapters of Encore with the Devil: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The lights are blinding.They always have been.The difference, years later, is that I know exactly where I’m standing in them.“The world tour closer,” Mia had said when we planned this date. “We need drama. We need catharsis. We need…pyro.”We compromised.No pyro.There is plenty of catharsis.The stadium is a living thing tonight.Older than the arenas I started in. It's bigger than anything I thought I’d ever fill. Rows and rows of faces climb into the dark, dots of light from phones and wristbands and tears catching LEDs like stars.The screens show me in high‑def when I step out.Older.Lines at the corners of my eyes from laughing and crying and squinting into spotlights.A scar at my throat, you only see if you know to look.Stronger.More me than I’ve ever been.“Last song,” I tell them, voice carrying over the roar. “You know which one.”They do.They scream the title before the band even starts.Owned.The arrangement tonight is a hybrid—part original, part stripped, part

For a man who just walked into a stranger’s dressing room at midnight, he doesn’t move like he expects to be thrown out.He steps over the threshold with the slow, unhurried gait of someone who’s paid for every square inch of floor he touches. The door shuts behind him with a soft click I feel in my teeth.The guard outside says nothing.That scares me more than if he’d yelled.“Who are you?” I manage.Up close, the stranger is worse.Dark suit, perfectly cut, no visible logos but the kind you feel in the stitching. Black shirt, open at the throat. No tie. He smells like something clean and expensive and faintly smoky, like an expensive bar none of my friends have ever been inside.He doesn’t answer immediately.His attention is fixed past my shoulder, on the couch.On my child.Sofie hums again in her sleep, two soft notes that coil like a hook through my chest.I move on instinct, stepping sideways, so I’m between him and the couch.“Hey.” My voice comes out sharper now. “Eyes up, c

For a moment, the room forgets how to breathe.The heater hums.The mini fridge rattles.Sofie shifts in the crib, making a soft, content little sound.And Kael Riven looks at my daughter like he’s seeing a ghost.“Stop saying that,” I whisper. “She’s not your sister. She’s not your omen. She’s my kid.”He drags his gaze from the crib back to me.“It’s not about what she is to me,” he says. “It’s about what they’ll decide she is.”“Who is ‘they’?” I demand.He studies my face as if weighing how much ignorance is real and how much is denial.“The men who killed my mother,” he says finally. “Their sons. Their brothers. The ones who think a song is a curse and blood is the only way to answer it.”“This is insane,” I say.“Probably,” he says calmly. “Doesn’t make it untrue.”I fold my arms over my chest, more to keep from shaking than anything.“You think these…guys…are going to what? Watch a concert clip, recognize some melody, and decide to…what? Hunt me down in a hotel because it remin

If the hotel felt like a cheap stage set, this place felt like someone built a movie villain’s lair and then tried to make it cozy.It almost works.Cold air bites my cheeks as I climb out of the SUV, Sofie is still heavy in my arms. Gravel crunches under my boots. The night is quiet in that rich‑people way—no traffic, no sirens, just the distant rush of wind through trees and the faint hum of hidden electrics.The house rises ahead of us, all dark stone and narrow windows, softened by warm light spilling from the entry and a flicker of something hearth‑like deep inside.Two men stand by the front steps.They look like every security cliché I’ve ever seen in a movie—broad, straight‑backed, scanning the perimeter. One of them, a little older, has that military‑set jaw and the kind of eyes that file everything away for later.He nods when Kael approaches.“Clear,” he says.“Thank you, Marco,” Kael replies.He turns back to me.“You can breathe,” he says. “For the moment, no one but us k

By the time Ava is done poking me, I’m convinced my body is made of coffee, stubbornness, and sheer spite.“You’re dehydrated,” she says, scrolling through something on her tablet. “Borderline anemic. Adrenal glands probably think you hate them. You sleep, what, four hours a night?”“Five,” I say defensively. “On good days.”“How many good days in the last month?” she asks.“…One?”She looks over her glasses at me.“That’s what I thought,” she says. “We’ll start supplements. And water. And maybe not three shows in four days with a toddler in tow.”“Tour schedules are brutal,” I say. “You should see the others.”“I’d rather not,” she says. “I like my blood pressure where it is.”She jabs one last note into the tablet and snaps it shut.“You’re not dying,” she concludes. “Yet. But you are not allowed to faint dramatically on my floors. If you feel dizzy, sit. If you feel like you can’t breathe, call. If you feel like singing until your throat bleeds, maybe…don’t.”“That’s kind of my job