Page 55 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter Thirty

A bark followed by a warm sensation in my lap wakes me.

I open my eyes to see Mischka jumping in my lap.

My head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and dipped in acid.

Every breath is shallow, tinged with the metallic tang of damp air.

When I try to move, my limbs feel sluggish, like they’re weighed down by invisible chains.

Where the fuck am I?

The floor beneath me is cold, hard concrete. I blink against the dim light filtering through a single bare bulb swinging overhead. It casts long, erratic shadows across the room, distorting the shape of the basement I suddenly realize I’m in.

A basement. Marco’s basement.

I sit up too quickly, and a sharp pain shoots through my skull. I press my palm to my forehead, trying to ground myself. How did I get here?

I glance down, noticing the dirty scrapes on my arms and legs. My jacket is gone, my boots too, leaving me in my socks and the same clothes I wore at the cabin. The faint memory of Orin’s sneer flashes in my mind. Did he drug me? How long have I been here?

The walls of the basement are stone, old and damp, with rivulets of water trailing down like veins.

A staircase stands to my left, leading up to a heavy wooden door with no visible handle.

Across the room, a single metal chair and table sit under the flickering light, like something out of an interrogation scene.

I give Mish a pet, and she jumps down before disappearing as I push myself to my feet, legs trembling. I stagger toward the door, testing its weight. Locked, of course.

A sound—soft, almost imperceptible—sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. It’s coming from the shadows in the far corner of the basement. I spin around, heart pounding, trying to make sense of what I’m hearing.

“Hello?” My voice comes out hoarse.

Silence.

I take a cautious step forward, peering into the darkness. Something shifts, a faint rustling, and a shape emerges—a figure slumped against the wall. My stomach drops.

It’s a person.

“Who’s there?” I demand and edge closer.

The figure doesn’t move, and as I step into the faint light, I see why. It’s a man tied to a chair, his head lolling forward. Blood mats his hair, streaks down his face and neck. For a second, I think he’s dead, but then his chest rises, barely, and I realize he’s breathing.

Holy shit.

I crouch down, reaching out to lift his chin. His skin is clammy, his lips cracked and pale.

Banks.

“What the hell did they do to you?” I murmur, shaking him gently. His eyelids flutter, and he lets out a low groan, but he doesn’t wake.

“Don’t touch that sympathizer.” Orin’s voice cuts through the silence.

The echo of his polished shoes on the concrete stairs fills the dimly lit space as he descends.

My stomach churns at the word—sympathizer?

What happened while I was out? I press my fingers to my temple, trying to sift through the fragments of memory, but my mind is blank.

Did Banks…

No, there’s no way.

“You look like shit, and Marco wants to see you,” Orin continues, his tone cold as he tosses a wet, soapy rag at me, followed by a pile of clothes that land at my feet with a dull thud. My fingers instinctively flinch away from the damp cloth.

“Get cleaned up,” he orders, plopping down on the bottom stair, his eyes raking over me with that unsettling expression he always wears, the one that makes my body tense up.

“You’re going to sit there and watch?” I glare at him, holding the rag like it’s toxic.

His smirk deepens, the dim light casting harsh shadows across his sharp features. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss the show.”

I clench my jaw, the anger bubbling beneath the surface, but I swallow it down, knowing better than to rise to his bait right now.

I grab the clothes and move to the farthest corner of the room, turning my back to him.

The damp chill of the basement seeps into my skin, but I force myself to keep my movements steady, defiant even in this small act.

“Don’t take too long,” he calls out suggestively. “Marco doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I inhale deeply, the metallic tang of the air mixing with the faint soap scent from the rag.

Stay calm, Kat. For now.

Once I’m dressed in the black dress and tights Orin tossed at me—hardly ideal for an escape but precisely what Marco would expect—I try to steady my breathing.

It’s not a practical choice, but Orin knows Marco likes his “pets” presentable.

My skin still feels grimy despite wiping it down, but there’s no time to linger.

I quickly braid my hair to the side, tying it off with a frayed ribbon from the pile of clothes.

A poor attempt to look polished when I still feel like a caged animal.

“You clean up nice, parasite,” Orin says. He motions for me to go ahead of him, always so happy when he gets to order me around.

I fight the urge to spit some retort back at him, opting to stay silent. My pulse hammers in my ears as I move toward the stairs. Each step feels heavier than the last.

Orin’s presence behind me feels like a weight pressing down on my spine, his eyes burning into the back of my head. I want to run. I want to bolt, fight, scream, make him bleed for everything he’s done. But not yet.

Not yet.

As we climb the stairs, my thoughts race. I’ve tasted freedom now—felt what it’s like to be beyond their reach. I can’t stay here, not after I’ve known what it’s like to be more than a pet here.

When we reach the top of the stairs, Orin opens the door, reaching past me and gesturing mockingly like he’s some sort of gentleman. “After you,” he drawls, his grin widening when I brush past him.

“Can we stop at my bathroom, please? I really need to go. And look—” I gesture at myself, throwing in a touch of exasperation for good measure. “I don’t even have shoes. Marco won’t approve of this sloppy look.”

Orin narrows his icy blue eyes, as if deciding whether to indulge me or not. Then, to my surprise, he nods once, motioning for me to lead the way.

“Fine. Make it quick,” he says, following me into my bedroom. He sits on the edge of my bed, his sharp gaze tracking my every move as I step into the adjoining bathroom.

I close the door with a soft click, exhaling a shaky breath. At least he didn’t follow me in here to watch. Small mercies, I suppose.

The bathroom feels impossibly small under the weight of my nerves.

I glance at myself in the mirror. I don’t look as bad as I feel, but the cut on my forehead tells a different story.

My eyes are tired, the kind of tired that doesn’t fade with sleep, and my cheeks are still smudged with traces of grime.

I quickly use the toilet then grab my toothbrush. I know hygiene should be the least of my worries right now, but I can’t shake the need to brush my teeth. I feel disgusting, like layers of this place are clinging to me.

As I brush, my mind starts to churn. I don’t have much time. I rinse, pat my face dry, and open the door, moving to my closet in a hurry. Orin watches me with a lazy smirk, his amusement barely hidden.

I grab a pair of black loafers—polished enough to meet Marco’s standards but far more practical than heels. They’ll pass inspection, and more importantly they’ll be easier to run in if it comes to that.

I slip them on quickly, avoiding Orin’s stare as I straighten. “Ready,” I say, my voice steady despite the anxiety building in my chest.

“Good. Let’s not keep my father waiting.”

We walk through the halls toward Marco’s wing of the house, and everything looks as it always does.

Security guards stand at key points, their postures rigid and alert, while the usual servants move about, heads down, carrying trays or tending to the decor.

It’s unsettling how normal it all seems—like I’ve stepped back in time to a life I no longer fit into.

Calling this place home feels wrong now.

When we reach the large double doors to Marco’s private rooms, Orin knocks. The sound echoes in the marble hall. A moment later, the door opens, and to my surprise I’m met by a tall man with deep-blue eyes and slicked back hair, it’s Gary—the more level-headed of Marco’s sons.

He spares me a glance, the expression on his clean-shaven face tight, before stepping past us without a word. He doesn’t even acknowledge Orin. His shoulders are rigid, and the irritation radiating off him is evident as he storms down the hall.

“There she is.” Marco’s voice draws my attention. “It’s been too long, my little demon.”

I step into the room, every nerve on edge.

Marco’s suite is as grand as ever, ostentatious like the rest of the estate.

The white marble floors gleam under the warm glow of the chandelier, and the walls are equally pristine.

A massive bed dominates one side of the room, draped in gold and cream silks, while a sitting area flanks a gold-trimmed fireplace.

It’s immaculate, controlled, and deeply unsettling.

I take a few hesitant steps forward, my footsteps swallowed by the soft rug beneath me. The heavy doors close behind me, the sound final, and Orin lingers long enough to earn a pointed wave from Marco.

“Leave us,” Marco says, not even sparing him a glance.

Orin doesn’t argue, his retreating footsteps fading quickly down the hall.

I’m alone with Marco.

“Come, sit.” Marco motions toward one of the large leather chairs in front of the fire, his tone smooth, almost too casual.

I hesitate but force my feet to move, crossing the room to the chair. He watches me with the calculated gaze of a predator as I lower myself into the seat, sinking slightly into the expensive cushion.

“I know you must feel neglected,” he says, swirling the whiskey in the glass he poured from the drink cart. “But know it hasn’t been by choice.”