The Devil you made

The Devil you made
Damian’s POV

“Damian, slow down. We traced the call. It’s an abandoned motel off Eastwood—Haven Inn. Signal’s cold now, but she was there.” Cassian’s voice cut through my thoughts.

Was.

That single word detonated in my skull.

I didn’t answer. Just drove faster. The phone was still cracked from my grip, the screen spiderwebbed where I’d crushed it after hearing Isla scream my name. Her voice was still in my head—raw, broken, echoing through the space that used to be calm.

Cassian said something else, but I didn’t catch it. My thoughts were too loud.
I saw her face. I saw her tied up. I saw what they might’ve done. And all I could think was—I should’ve been there.

The rain thickened, hammering the hood as I pulled off the main road and onto the dirt path that led to the old motel. The headlights cut through fog and skeletal trees. Then I saw it.

HAV_N IN_. The half-dead sign flickered red against the storm.

I killed the engine. The silence hit hard—only rain and the low growl of thunder. I got out, boots sinking into mud, the cold biting through my clothes. My hands wouldn’t stop flexing. Rage had nowhere to go—it pulsed under my skin like a second heartbeat.

The front door was half off its hinges. I slipped inside. The air smelled like rot and gasoline. My footsteps made no sound. Two guards stood near the far end of the hall, muttering about the storm. I didn’t think, I just moved.

One turn. One silent step.
The first man went down before his cigarette hit the ground. The second didn’t even have time to breathe. Their bodies hit the floor like a whisper.

Every door I passed opened into shadows—broken furniture, stained wallpaper, echoes of what this place used to be. And then—something.

A sound. Faint. Metal scraping wood.

I followed it.

The room at the end of the hall was half-lit by a flickering bulb. The smell hit first—blood, sweat, rope.

And then I saw it.

The chair.
The ropes still tied, the floor dark with blood.
She’d been here.

I moved closer. My pulse drowned out the rain. On the ground, something small caught the light—a silver earring, shaped like a blade of light—the one I’d given her.

I picked it up. My throat closed. For a second, the walls spun. Then the lights flickered—and a voice filled the room. “Well, well. The great Damian Cross still plays the hero.”

I froze.
That voice—low, smooth, tainted with the kind of hatred that outlived time.

“Where is she?” My voice came out low, deadly calm.

Laughter crackled through an unseen speaker. “Always so direct. You never did learn patience.”

“Jace.”

The name tasted like rust.

“I killed you.”

“You tried.”

The sound of his voice clawed straight down my spine. The years between us vanished in a heartbeat—gunfire, firelight, blood. The last time I saw Jace, he was lying on the ground with a bullet in his chest, and I walked away.

“You should’ve stayed dead,” I said.

“Oh, but then who would teach you what loss really feels like?” His tone turned almost playful. “You think this is about the girl? No, Damian. This is about you. It’s always been about you.”

The bulb above me flickered again, and through the static, I heard faint movement—footsteps, scraping metal, a door slamming somewhere distant.

Isla.

“Where is she?” I roared.

“Close enough to hear you. Far enough that you’ll never reach her in time.” My grip tightened around the earring. My knuckles burned.

Jace’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You took everything from me. So now, I’ll take everything from you. One scream at a time.”

A low click echoed through the ceiling.

Then—boom.

The blast ripped through the far end of the corridor, a wall of smoke and flame. I dove behind the doorframe as glass shattered and fire licked through the cracks. The building groaned, ceiling tiles falling like ash.

I coughed through the smoke, eyes burning, lungs screaming. The floor trembled beneath my boots.

Jace’s laughter followed me through the static, sharp and bright. “Welcome back to hell, brother.”

The line cut.

I pushed off the wall, moving through the haze. Flames had eaten through the hallway, but I didn’t stop. I shoved through debris, ducked under beams, eyes scanning for movement—any trace of her.

She wasn’t here. Not anymore.

I found the back door half-broken, tracks in the mud—fresh tire marks, two sets of footprints. They’d moved her. I stepped out into the storm. Rain hissed against the fire, steam rising into the night. Somewhere beyond the trees, an engine roared to life.

Branches tore at my jacket as I crashed through the undergrowth. The truck lights flashed once through the trees before vanishing into the dark road ahead.

Too far.

I stopped, chest heaving. The rain plastered my hair to my face. For the first time in years, I felt it—that old, choking guilt. The one I buried with everybody I left behind.

She’d called me. She’d begged for help.
And I was too late. Cassian’s voice cracked through the earpiece. “Damian, come in! We’ve got movement on your side—heat signatures leaving the property!”

I pressed a hand against the comm, still staring into the dark. “I found the place. She was here. They moved her.”

“What about the leader? Any visuals of him?”

I hesitated. My voice dropped. “It’s Jace.”

“Jace? Damian—he’s dead.”

“Not anymore.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The rain swallowed everything. Finally, Cassian said, “We’ll track the truck. I’ll get eyes on every exit point between Eastwood and the highway—”

“Don’t.”

“Damian—”

“I said don’t.”

The words came out rough, torn from somewhere I didn’t want to touch. Cassian hesitated. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m thinking exactly right.”

The wind whipped through the trees, carrying smoke and rain. I looked down at the earring still clenched in my fist. The metal bit into my palm.

“He wants me to come for her.”

“Then we plan—”

“There’s no plan.” I cut him off. “There’s only what comes next.”

“Damian—”

“Stay back.”

Static hissed. “You can’t take Jace alone. That’s suicide.”

I looked up at the road where the taillights had vanished, the echo of Isla’s voice still bleeding through my skull.

“If he wanted a war,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “he just got one.”