All Chapters of Bait for the devil : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The master suite felt different that night. The fireplace was roaring, casting long, dancing shadows across the velvet curtains and the mahogany furniture. For the first time since I had been traded to this house, the air didn’t feel heavy with secrets. It felt light. It felt like victory. I stood on the balcony, the cool Mediterranean breeze pulling at my silk robe. Below, the fires of the pack were still burning, the sounds of celebration echoing up from the olive groves. They were singing ancient songs, melodies of blood and moon that I finally understood. Girard stepped out behind me. He had showered, his skin smelling of cedar and the expensive soap I liked. He didn’t speak; he just wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back into the furnace of his heat. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his stubble grazing my skin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. “You could have been lost in that void, Arielle.”

The story of my life had begun in a basement, surrounded by the cold smell of damp concrete and the terrifying realization that my father had sold my soul for a patch of territory. But as I stood on the balcony of the North Tower, watching the sun begin to bleed over the Mediterranean, I realized that the story hadn’t ended in tragedy. It had transformed into a legend. The North Tower was no longer a place of screams and silver chains. We had gutted the torture chambers, replaced the stone basins with libraries of ancient lore, and turned the cold, spiraling staircase into a gallery of Roux history. It was no longer a cage for the “Devil”; it was a sanctuary for the Alpha. I held a bundle of soft, cream-colored wool in my arms. Inside, tucked away from the cool morning breeze, was a tiny, sleeping miracle. My daughter. She had been born three weeks ago, during the first snowfall Marseille had seen in a decade. She had my dark hair and the delicate features of a Monet, but when

**Arielle’s POV**The air in the nursery changed in a heartbeat. One moment, the room was filled with the sweet, milky scent of Elena’s sleep and the lavender-infused warmth of the afternoon sun. The next, a draft cut through the chamber—cold, sterile, and carrying a faint metallic tang that sat on the back of my tongue like a copper coin. I frowned, glancing at the arched window. I was sure I had latched it. In a house like this, where every shadow was a potential threat and every breeze was monitored by sensors, a sudden draft was enough to make the hair on my arms stand up. I walked over to the glass, my fingers brushing the stone frame. It was locked. Secure. Yet, the smell of copper grew stronger, thickening until it felt like a film coating my throat. Elena. I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat. My daughter was still sleeping, but her breathing had changed. It was no longer the soft, rhythmic puffing of a contented infant; it was jagged, he

The silence following Girard’s departure was more deafening than the storm. As the white-lightning aura of his body vanished beneath the churning black waves of the Mediterranean, the Lien de Sang didn’t just go cold—it went flat. It was the terrifying stillness of a heart monitor that had stopped its rhythmic beep.  I stood at the edge of the jagged stone gap in the library wall, rain-soaked and shivering. The copper taste was still thick in my mouth, a lingering reminder of Lucian Moretti’s poison, but it was being replaced by the acrid scent of ozone and the heavy weight of realization. My husband hadn’t just fled; he had sacrificed his presence to save my life from the agony he felt when we were near.  “Madame!”  The voice was ragged. I turned to see Bastien stumbling into the ruined library. His tactical gear was shredded, and a deep gash across his shoulder was weeping crimson, but his eyes were clear—and filled with a desperate, mounting dread. He looked at the broken wall,

The water didn’t feel cold at first. It felt like a heavy, velvet curtain closing over the world, silencing the roar of the storm and the crackle of the lightning. As I sank deeper into the black heart of the Mediterranean, the agony of the Solstice Strain—that jagged, purple lightning I had pulled from Girard’s soul—began to settle into a dull, pulsing ache. I was a tether, a grounding wire, and I had done my job. But as the surface light faded into a shimmering, distant memory, the realization hit me: a lightning rod is only useful until it melts. My lungs burned, a desperate, rhythmic throbbing that reminded me I was still human, still fragile, still bound by the laws of oxygen and bone. I watched a trail of silver bubbles float upward—my last breath, escaping into the abyss. Is this how it ends? I thought, my mind drifting toward the image of Elena in her nursery. Did I trade my life for his sanity? Above me, the water suddenly erupted. A massive, glowing shape