Chapter 213 His House
>>Riona (Present)
No matter how much I try to recall it, I can’t remember how it all happened. The investigation said my fingerprints were everywhere and I had no defense to give.
I looked down at my bare thighs.
The car wound through quiet, empty streets, pulling up eventually to a sprawling house perched behind iron gates. It was the kind of house that only existed in magazine spreads—a luxury estate with vast windows, gleaming against the night.
I stared at it in awe but it wasn’t exactly surprising. I expected him to be living in luxury for how much money he threw into buying me.
The driveway curved into a garage tucked beneath the mansion, and as we entered, I glimpsed the sleek, polished cars lined up in immaculate rows.
Wow…
Demos parked and got out, his movements brisk as he came around, opened my door and grabbed my wrist, his hold unyielding as he pulled me from the seat.
I didn’t struggle but I stumbled a little, the cold floor of the basement garage beneath my bare feet, but he didn’t slow down. He led me through a narrow doorway that opened into a surprisingly lavish lounge area. The walls were lined with dark wood and the floors gleamed with smooth stone tile that looked as though it had been polished to perfection. Plush leather couches sat in a semi-circle around a low glass table, with soft lighting casting an amber glow across the room. It was eerily quiet; not a single other soul seemed to be around.
Demos guided me to one of the single-seater armchairs, his grip never faltering until I was seated. I sank into the soft leather, my skin prickling with unease as he stepped back, watching me with an unreadable expression.
…
The silence between us stretched but I didn’t dare look up at him. It was uncomfortable to do so.
I knew not to struggle against him because now I was genuinely scared of him. Who wouldn’t be? He killed three men without mercy and hesitancy. That is the kind of thing that comes to a person after repeated doings.
That means he must have killed a lot more people too.
As I settled stiffly into the leather couch, he stood before me, looming like a shadow I couldn’t escape. His gaze fixed on me, sharp and unwavering, and I could feel it crawling over every tense line of my posture. I kept my head down, breathing shallowly, my focus trained on a scuffed spot on the polished floor. My pulse hammered, the only sound in the heavy silence.
Then, slowly, he moved closer. My body went rigid as he leaned down, his face just inches from mine, so close that I could feel the heat radiating from him. His hand reached forward, fingers brushing just beside my cheek as he lifted a stray, messy lock of my hair. The touch was almost gentle, almost curious, but as his fingers grazed my skin, a shiver shot through me, and instinct took over.
I recoiled, shifting back on the couch, my shoulders hitting the leather with a muffled thud as my eyes shot wide, barely containing my own trembling.
The sharp breath I sucked in felt loud in the quiet room, and I clamped my lips shut, afraid to breathe, afraid to even look at him.
He paused, I wasn’t looking at him so I can’t tell what expression he wore as he slowly let his hand fall away.
“You’re afraid,” He murmured, his voice low. His gaze didn’t waver; he simply watched me, absorbing every flicker of panic, every shudder I couldn’t hide.
I didn’t respond to him, I wasn’t sure what to say.
I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, feeling his gaze dig into me.
After a few seconds, he sighed, a sound almost impatient, though softened by something else—something unreadable. “Are you hungry?”
My mouth felt dry, but I managed to choke out, “...No.” The word came out almost a whisper, barely audible,
“Okay,” He stepped back, still watching me, “If you feel like eating something, the kitchen is right over there.” He pointed in a direction but I didn’t look and nodded.
I kept my eyes lowered.
A faint, familiar sound broke the silence—the distinct click of shoes against marble, growing louder as someone descended the stairs. I stiffened, and my eyes darted toward the noise even though I stayed in my seat. Demos moved and walked into the right hallway. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see much but I heard everything because of how quiet it was.
"Here," came a voice from the stairwell, casual and laced with amusement. Riker. His tone was light. He didn’t seem to step onto the floor as he handed something to Demos,"This is what we’ve currently found," He continued, an edge of humor in his voice that made my stomach twist. “It’s really funny. Give it a read.” I then heard the sound of him moving back up the stairs, his footsteps fading away soon enough.
Demos walked back into the lounge, his eyes on the papers. I turned to look at him as he walked towards the couch across from me and for a fleeting moment, I felt like I could breathe, like I was invisible.
But just as he was about to sit down, he suddenly looked up, his eyes locking onto mine with a jolt that hit me like a cold wave. I flinched, a shiver rushing down my spine. My eyes shot back down to the floor, the burn of his stare lingering even as I forced myself to look away.
As Demos read, his face grew hard and unfeeling, his brow furrowing for a moment as he absorbed whatever words lay hidden in that file. I dared to watch him, noting the faint lines of a tattoo trailing up his neck, and then his arm—a snake twisting its way from his elbow toward his thumb and index finger.
He sat in a position with his hand on his face. His thumb on his cheek and his fingers on his chin, right where the snake’s open mouth seemed poised to strike at his face. The tattoo made him even more menacing, as if his big frame wasn’t enough.
He broke the silence with a dark chuckle, “It really is funny,” he said. Startled, I instinctively glanced away.
Without warning, he slapped the file shut and tossed it onto the side table with a force that echoed in the quiet room. The sudden sound jolted me, and I forced myself not to shrink back. His eyes were trained on me.
“So,” he said, voice dripping with curiosity, “You had no idea how your parents died?” His words shocked me. My heart pounded painfully in my chest. His words pricked at something raw. My throat tightened as I looked at him, “And,” he continued, his gaze shifting back to the file briefly, “The investigation states you were the killer.” He leaned back, the corners of his mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile. “Well, the pictures sure make it seem like you were.”
His words carved into me like knives. He met my stare, his eyes unyielding, daring me to challenge him.
But I couldn’t stay silent, this was an accusation that was eating me up, “I didn’t kill them,” A whisper was all I could manage. Demos tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with what seemed like mild amusement. But for once, I didn’t look away.
"Oh," His lips were curled up in a smirk, "I highly doubt it was you."
My heart stopped at his words and my eyes went wide.
I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed to hear someone else say that I wasn’t responsible—someone other than Anna, who had always been on my side. Demos’s low, confident voice cut through my uncertainty, and as he smirked, his tone dripped with something close to assurance.
A strange warmth spread through me, "You… you believe me?"
"Yes." He sounded so sure, reaching into the file and pulling out a photograph from in between the papers, his smirk turning thoughtful. "Because I have a pretty good idea who actually did." He lifted the picture, holding it between his two fingers but at the moment I could only see the blank side of the photograph.
He had an idea who actually did it? How?? How would he know that when he doesn’t even know me or my family- Wait, he must be a very powerful man. It shouldn’t be hard for him to get the information.
"Who?" I managed to ask, unable to contain the question. The air between us felt taut, and he flipped the photograph over, his gaze piercing.
"Your ex-fiancé," he said, letting the name drop with deliberate slowness. "Milo."
I felt the shock hit me like a physical blow, freezing me in place.
Milo?
The name alone dredged up so many memories that it made my head spin. I took in the image, seeing his familiar face, his gentle eyes, and the smile I trusted. I remembered the way he’d hold my hand, the quiet promises we’d shared.
It didn’t add up; it couldn’t. I forced myself to look away from the photo, my heart racing as my mind rejected the thought with every fiber of my being.
"No." I shook my head as I looked up at Demos, the disbelief clear in my voice. “There is no way Milo did it.”
“Well,” He flipped the picture towards himself and stared at it, “You should believe it because he is the person behind your kidnapping.”
My heart dropped, “What?” I replied as if I couldn’t understand it, but I did. Yet Demos decided to make it crystal clear for me.
“He’s the one who sold you to that auction.”