Owed to the Devil
He stepped back, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to stop himself from doing something he’d regret.
“You’re making me weak,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. His chest heaved, breath ragged, as if just looking at me made it harder to breathe.
And then his gaze snapped back to mine.
“No more games, Isla.” His voice was ice now. Deadly calm.
“You want to pay that debt? You want your freedom?”
I nodded, terrified, desperate.
“Then you’ll do it on my terms.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, grabbed his glass, and downed what was left of the whiskey like it was water.
Bab Populer