Alle Kapitel von Bait for the devil : Kapitel 1 – Kapitel 10

The darkness wasn’t just an absence of light; it was a physical weight. It pressed against my lungs, smelling of damp limestone, old blood, and the metallic tang of expensive gunpowder. I leaned my head against the weeping stone wall of the cellar, the rough surface catching in my matted hair. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flashing lights of the gala—the last moment I had been “Arielle Monet, the Syndicate Princess.” Now, I was just a bruised body in a torn silk gown, a prisoner of the most feared man in the French underworld. I had been here for three days. Three days of silence. Three days of refusing to tell Girard Roux’s interrogators the access codes to my father’s offshore accounts. I had endured the cold and the psychological terror of the shadows, fueled by a single, burning thought: My father is coming for me. Marcel Monet was a man who burned cities for less than his only daughter. He was a king of the old world. Or so I had believed. The heavy iron

The "cage" was a master suite that spanned the entire top floor of the west wing. It was a place of opulent torment—heavy velvet curtains, a fireplace large enough to roast a stag, and a bed that looked like an altar of silk and shadow.I stood by the window, watching the moon rise over the restless sea. The wedding dinner had been a silent affair. Girard had watched me eat with the focused intensity of a hawk watching a mouse. He hadn't touched his food; he had only watched me. Now, the door clicked shut. The sound of the lock turning sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my veins. "The dress," Girard’s voice came from the shadows. He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. I turned, clutching the silk at my throat. "I am not your plaything, Girard. You bought a name, not a willing woman." Girard crossed the room in three strides. Suddenly, he was inches away, his heat enveloping me like a furnace. "I d

The estate was a labyrinth of gilded cages. I spent the next few days wandering the halls, always followed by two massive, silent guards who looked like they were made of muscle and bad intentions. They didn't speak; they just watched. I was a bird in a golden cage, draped in the finest silks and fed the richest foods, but I was still a prisoner. Everywhere I went, I felt the eyes of the "Pack." The staff, the guards, the gardeners—they all had that same intensity. That same unnatural stillness. But it was the North Tower that called to me. It sat at the edge of the cliffs, a jagged spire of ancient stone that looked as though it were trying to claw its way into the sky. Girard had forbidden me from entering it. "Rule Four," he had added over dinner, his eyes dark. "The North Tower is off-limits." Naturally, it was the first place I went when the guards were distracted by a shipment of weapons arriving at the docks. I slipped through the shadows of the garden, my bare f

The Lien de Sang hadn’t just changed my mind; it had rewired my very existence. I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, staring out at the olive groves that bled into the Mediterranean. Before the Rite, the world was a collection of sights and sounds. Now, it was a symphony of vibrations. I could hear the rhythmic thrum-thrum of a honeybee three rooms away. I could smell the ozone of a distant storm, but most of all, I could feel him. Girard was a low-frequency hum at the base of my spine. Even though he was downstairs in the study, I knew he was pacing. I knew his jaw was tight. I knew he was hungry—and not for food. The blackened silver ring on my finger felt like it was glowing. It didn’t just sit on my skin; it pulsed against my bone. “It’s called the Lien de Sang,” Girard’s voice drifted from the doorway. I didn’t jump. I had heard his footsteps a mile away—heavy, purposeful, the gait of a king. I turned to find him leaning agains

The look on Marcel’s face was one of genuine surprise, quickly followed by a dark, simmering anger. “You always were too emotional, Arielle. Just like your mother.” He signaled to his men. “Take them both. Kill the girl if she gets in the way. We only need the Alpha’s marrow.” I didn’t wait. I fired, the recoil thudding through my arm. I didn’t hit Marcel—his bodyguards threw themselves in front of him—but it created the opening I needed. I scrambled down the stairs toward Girard, who was struggling to pull the silver harpoon from his shoulder. “Leave me!” Girard gasped, blood—darker and thicker than human blood—seeping from his wound. “The smoke… it’s shutting me down. Run, Arielle!” “No,” I whispered, grabbing the shaft of the harpoon. Through the blood link, I felt a jolt of his agony. It was like white-hot needles being driven into my brain. I screamed, but I didn’t let go. With a heave born of pure, desperate love, I wrenched the silver out. Gir