Page 5 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Marco never loses his temper. I’ve watched him in situations where most people would snap—in the midst of interrogations, even while inflicting pain—and he remains utterly composed.

I’ve tried to mirror that same calm, adopting it like armor.

Letting people see what you’re feeling or thinking is a weakness.

That’s one of my rules. After Aurora and I were taken, I learned quickly that the life I knew was gone and a new order had replaced it.

I adapted. I made rules. And I carved them into my mind, one by one.

“Marco.” A voice calls out from ahead, deep and commanding.

A man stands outside two massive double doors made of wrought iron, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns that glint in the dim light.

The house—or more accurately, the mansion—is a looming structure that makes Marco’s estate seem modest. Its stark white walls rise against the bleak gray sky, framed by black trim that emphasizes its severity.

Twisting branches creep along the exterior like veins, their tips coated in frost and snow.

Once upon a time when we had warmer seasons, I imagine the vines might have been lush with greenery, but now they’re skeletal, frozen in place.

Marco steps forward, his stride deliberate, and the rest of us—Gary, Orin, Banks, Zane, and I—fall into line behind him.

“Brother, it’s been too long,” Marco says as he opens his arms, and the two men embrace, a gesture of familiarity that feels forced.

As we draw nearer, I can finally make out the man’s features.

They’re startlingly similar to Marco’s—down to the sharp angles of their faces and the way their dark-brown, almost-black hair gleams under the faint light.

Both men have intense eyes the color of rich chocolate, and they tower at least six feet tall.

Their tailored suits fit them perfectly, the clean lines and dark fabric exuding wealth and power.

The differences, though subtle, are enough to set them apart.

Marco’s face is clean-shaven, his skin smooth and unmarred, while Viktor’s beard adds an edge of ruggedness, even though it’s meticulously groomed, trimmed to about an inch thick.

I can’t help but think it suits him, probably serving a practical purpose too, given the unforgiving cold here.

The two of them stand there side by side, like mirrored reflections, and I wonder how alike they are beneath the surface.

“Yes, I wish you were here under better circumstances. Come, let’s get you to your rooms,” Viktor says and turns to the massive double doors. Two men, dressed in black and built like statues, pull them open with a synchronized motion.

As we step inside, I glance back over my shoulder. The headlights of the other cars glimmer faintly at the end of the long driveway. A pang of curiosity strikes me—I wonder who else Marco brought with us.

“All of you will stay here,” Marco instructs as he looks at his men. “When the rest arrive, have them shown to their rooms.” He looks from me to Viktor. “Now, I want you to take us to where it happened.”

I glance sideways at him. Where it happened. Finally, I’m going to uncover the real reason for this visit.

“I take it this is her, the demon you mentioned?” Viktor’s eyes flick to me, his gaze sweeping over me like I’m little more than an inconvenient curiosity. He doesn’t look impressed—more wary than anything.

“Yes, this is Katja.” Marco places a hand lightly on my back. I keep my expression neutral, unreadable, meeting Viktor’s stare without flinching. Let him underestimate me. Let him be wary. I want him to fear me.

“Very well.” Viktor gestures to one of the men near the doors. “Alex, get Bianca and Violet to show the others where they’ll be staying.”

Alex nods, a single sharp motion, though his presence dominates the room. He’s massive, towering over everyone, even Marco, with arms that look like they could crush stone. Definitely more than a doorman.

“You two can follow me,” Viktor says, pivoting and starting down the dim hallway. Marco taps my back lightly, urging me to follow, and I fall in step beside him.

The mansion’s interior is as foreboding as its exterior.

Hallway after hallway stretches before us, dark and cold, illuminated only by small, intricately carved wall sconces that cast faint, flickering glows.

The walls are lined with enormous portraits—grizzled older men with piercing eyes that seem to follow us as we pass.

The floors are hardwood with thick red rugs.

The air feels heavy, oppressive, like the house itself is alive and watching.

After two flights of creaking stairs, we stop outside a dark wooden door. This part of the mansion feels different, older, and less meticulously maintained. The air smells faintly of damp wood and something metallic. Wherever we’re going, it isn’t Viktor’s personal quarters.

“This is the place,” Viktor says somberly. His expression is grim, his features set in a mask of discomfort. “I’ll meet you back in the living room. Take all the time you need.”

“You’re not coming in with us?” Marco asks as Viktor starts to turn away.

“I can’t stand another second in that room,” Viktor mutters before he walks off. His figure disappears around the corner, leaving us in silence.

Marco and I exchange a glance then look back to the door.

He says, “Better see what you can find out.”

I hesitate only briefly, my hand hovering over the cold brass knob. With a steadying breath, I turn it and push the door open, stepping into the room before doubt can take hold.