Page 7 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Nothing. No flicker of acknowledgment, no movement. Her silence prickles at my nerves, but she doesn’t feel hostile. Not yet. I press on.

“Carmen, I’m Kat, and I want to help you. Can you tell me what happened here?”

Suddenly, she lunges at me, her translucent form solidifying for a split second, enough to feel the cold weight of her presence as she collides with me.

I hit the floor hard, my ass slamming against the wooden boards with a painful thud. The shock of the fall rattles through me, but I barely have time to brace myself before her icy hands clamp down on my face.

Before I can even make a sound—a scream, a gasp, anything—the room shifts.

Suddenly, the cold vanishes, replaced by a stifling warmth. The metallic scent of blood is gone, replaced by something softer, more intimate—the faint aroma of wax and faintly sweet perfume. The lights are off, and the flickering glow of candles dances on the walls.

I’m not on the floor anymore. I’m in a bed. The sheets are soft against my skin, and someone’s weight presses me down. His weight. Damien.

He’s on top of me—no, not me. Carmen. I feel her body react beneath him, her pulse quickening, her breaths coming in short gasps. His hands grip her thighs, his movements possessive, demanding. His dark eyes are fixed on her, intense and unwavering.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he growls against her skin, his voice low and rough. I feel the wet heat of his tongue as he licks the side of her neck. Carmen shivers beneath him, her body arching as a breathless giggle escapes her lips.

I can feel it all. See it all. Not as a witness but as her. Her emotions wash over me—fear, excitement, submissiveness, desire, nervousness. It’s disorienting, a collision of sensations that aren’t mine but feel as though they are.

I want to pull away, to break free from the vision, but I’m trapped in her memories, a prisoner to what she experienced in this room.

The door swings open, the sound cracking through the air as it collides with the wall. The force of it makes me jump, my body jerking back instinctively. Damien freezes, pulling away from Carmen—from me—as a figure cloaked in shadows steps into the room.

“Fuck, it’s early,” Damien mutters, annoyed.

But there’s no time to question what he means, because in the next instant, the candles snuff out, plunging the room into darkness.

The warmth vanishes, replaced by an icy chill that seeps into my bones. I can’t see anything, the pitch-black void pressing in around me. And then, pain.

Someone grabs the back of my head, yanking my hair so hard I swear a chunk of it rips free.

A scream tears from my throat—no, her throat—a sound so raw and primal it echoes in my ears.

Chaos erupts all around me, a cacophony of sounds that are impossible to make sense of.

Crying. Heavy footsteps. Ragged breathing.

Hands clamp around my neck, strong and unyielding, cutting off my air.

I claw at them desperately, wrapping my fingers around their wrists, trying to pry them off.

But they’re too strong. My lungs burn, my legs kick out wildly, my body thrashes in panic.

The darkness makes everything worse—disorienting, suffocating, endless.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the warmth returns.

The room floods with light, too bright, and I’m no longer Carmen. I’m lying on the floor, gasping for air, drenched in a cold sweat. Blood pools around me, soaking into the floorboards, though it’s not mine. The smell is sharp, metallic, and all too real.

I force myself to sit up, panting as my head spins. My hands tremble as I press them against the floor to steady myself. I replay the vision, trying to piece it together, but the details are fractured, incomplete. My heart pounds as the reality of what I saw starts to sink in.

Never in my life has anything like this happened to me.

It’s like his breath is still on my cheek, his hands still around my throat.

I’ve seen snippets of the dead’s memories before—fragments of their last moments—but I’ve never been pulled so deeply into their perspective, never relived what happened through their eyes like that especially without projecting.

My entire body feels shaken, unsteady, like my mind and soul aren’t quite aligned anymore.

I get to my feet, my legs wobbling beneath me and wipe the blood off my hands. Crossing to the mirror, I tug my shirt down, revealing faint bruises blooming around my neck. My fingers brush over the marks, and a cold shiver runs through me. How is this possible?

I don’t wait to collect myself or come up with an explanation for Marco. I need to get out of this room—now.

I yank the door open, and Marco’s eyes meet mine instantly.

He’s farther down the hallway, speaking with two men who have their backs to me, but the moment he sees my face, he strides over.

His gaze rakes over me, sharp and assessing, and I can tell by the way his brow tightens that I look as shaken as I feel.

“What can you tell me?” he asks.

“I need more time,” I gush. “Can I come back tomorrow? After I’ve slept?”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face like he’s trying to peel back the mask I’m forcing into place. I steady my breathing, resuming the calm facade I’ve practiced for years, even though my heart is still pounding like a war drum.

“Very well,” he says after a pause. “Bianca is waiting to show you to your room.”

He waves, summoning her, and I exhale quietly as an older woman steps forward.

Her white hair is pulled into a tight bun, and she carries a stack of fresh towels.

The sight of them almost makes me sag with relief.

The thought of a hot shower or bath feels like salvation right now.

I nod silently, grateful, and step toward her, ready to leave this nightmare behind—at least for tonight.

“Before you go,” Marco interrupts, stopping me in my tracks, “I want you to meet someone.”

I stiffen, already knowing I don’t have a choice. “My other son has finally decided to grace me with his presence,” Marco continues, taking on that smug delivery I hate. “I’ve told him all about my talented little demon.”

My stomach twists. His other son? Of course, he can’t resist showing me off like some circus act.

I shoot Bianca an apologetic look before following Marco reluctantly.

My body screams for rest, but I press on, biting the inside of my cheek and reminding myself that I’m only moments away from being alone.

Marco stops where the two men are talking at the end of the dim hallway. “This is her—Katja, my special little demon.”

One of the men steps into the flickering light.

“Katja,” he says, his tone familiar in a way that punches the air from my lungs.

I look up, and there he is, towering over me with a slight, infuriating smile. His eyes—gold-flecked and chocolate brown—lock onto mine, and my chest tightens.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, extending a hand. “Little demon, is it? I’m Malachi.”

The name hits me like a slap.

It’s him.

My mind races, the puzzle pieces falling into place too quickly to keep up. What a liar. His whole demeanor, his entire act—was it all a ruse? A game? His father works in trade—and not the kind you can talk about without blood on your hands.

I force myself to stay composed, though my pulse hammers in my ears.

“I’d be careful where you put that hand,” I say, my voice cutting like a blade. “Demons tend to bite.”

Marco laughs, clapping a hand lightly against my back. “She can be feisty when she’s tired. Go with Bianca. I’ll find you in the morning.”

I narrow my eyes at Malachi one last time, but his smile doesn’t falter. It’s the kind of smile that hides more than it reveals, and it infuriates me further.

I turn on my heel and follow Bianca, my steps quick and determined. I don’t look back, but I can still feel his eyes on me, watching.