CHAPTER FOURTY-FOUR

LUCIFER

Sipping from my glass, I observe Ella as she gazes out the window, watching the ground shrink beneath us.

She’s dressed in jeans and a blue fleece sweater, her small feet tucked into bulky black sheepskin boots—Uggs, I think they’re called.

Despite my distaste for her choice of footwear, she still looks stunning. I much prefer her in summer dresses, her skin glowing under the sun’s warmth.

As I study her calm expression, I wonder what’s going through her mind—if she has any regrets.

She shouldn’t. I would’ve taken her either way.

Sensing my eyes on her, she turns toward me. “How did they find out about me?” she asks softly. “The men who kidnapped me—how did they learn I existed?”

Her question sends a jolt through me, my body going rigid. My mind reels back to those harrowing hours after the clinic attack, and a familiar wave of rage and fear crashes over me.

She could’ve died. She would have died if I hadn’t reached her in time.

Even if I had given them what they wanted, they still would’ve killed her—to punish me for not caving to their demands sooner. I would’ve lost her, just like I lost Sarah.

Just like we both lost Daphne.

“It was the nursing assistant at the clinic.” My voice is cold, distant as I set my champagne glass back on the tray. “Vivi. She was working for Al-Quadar all along.”

Ella’s eyes gleam with fury. “That bitch,” she breathes, her voice laced with pain and anger. Her hand trembles as she sets her glass down. “That fucking bitch.”

I nod, forcing myself to rein in my own fury as Majid’s video replays in my mind.

They tortured Daphne before killing her.

They made her suffer.

Daphne, who had known only suffering since her bastard father sold her to a brothel across the Mexican border when she was thirteen. She was one of the few people whose loyalty I never doubted.

They made her suffer… and now I’ll make them suffer worse.

“Where is she now?” Ella’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, where I relish the idea of having every Al-Quadar member at my mercy. When I meet her gaze in confusion, she clarifies, “Vivi.”

I smirk at her innocent question. “That’s nothing for you to worry about, my pet.”

Vivi is nothing but ashes now, her remains scattered on the clinic’s lawn in the Philippines.

Paul’s methods of interrogation are ruthless but effective, and he always takes care of the evidence afterward.

“She paid for her betrayal.”

Ella swallows, and I know she fully grasps what I’m implying. She’s no longer the same girl I first encountered at that club in Chicago.

I see the darkness in her eyes, shadows that weren’t there before—and I know I’m the one who put them there.

No matter how hard I tried to shield her on the island, the ugliness of my world still reached her, stripping away her innocence.

Al-Quadar will pay for that, too.

A dull ache pulses beneath my scar, and I brush my fingers over it. Though the pain lingers at times, I’m nearly back to how I was before.

Considering I spent a significant part of the last four months in a near-comatose state, I can’t complain.

"Are you okay?" Concern flickers across Ella’s face as she lifts her hand, gently touching the area above my left ear. Her fingers are light against my scalp. "Does it still hurt?"

Her touch sends a rush of pleasure through me, igniting something dark and possessive deep within. This is what I crave from her—to feel the warmth of her concern, to see the worry in her eyes when she looks at me.

I want her to care, to ache for me, to need me in a way she doesn’t yet fully understand.

I want her love, despite the chains I wrapped around her soul—even though, by all reason, she should despise me.

But she doesn’t. Not entirely.

I make no illusions about who I am. I am the kind of man people whisper about in fear, the villain in every story. The one the news warns you to stay away from, the shadow lurking just beyond the light.

I took her simply because I wanted her. Not out of kindness, not for some noble cause—just sheer, undeniable possession.

I saw her. I desired her. So I took her. And now she belongs to me.

I offer no excuses for my actions, nor do I seek redemption. I don’t need to be forgiven, because I feel no guilt. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t hesitate. I would still claim her. I would still make her mine.

And she is mine. She looks at me now with something deeper than fear, something raw and unspoken. Whether she realizes it or not, I have become the center of her world, the axis around which she spins.

And I will never let her go.

Because I am everything she needs, everything she yearns for. She may not have chosen this life, but she feels it—this pull between us, this inevitable surrender. I will give her everything, but in

“No, it’s fine,” I murmur in response to her question. “It’s almost healed.”

She starts to pull her hand away, but I catch it, unwilling to surrender the pleasure of her touch just yet.

Her fingers are small and delicate in my grasp, her skin warm and soft. She instinctively tugs, but I tighten my hold, refusing to let go.

Compared to my strength, hers is inconsequential; she can’t break free unless I allow it.

Not that she truly wants me to release her. I can sense her excitement, the tension crackling between us. My body tightens, hunger stirring deep within me once more.

Leaning forward, I deliberately unfasten her seatbelt, my movements slow and intentional.

Then, without letting go of her hand, I rise to my feet and guide her toward the bedroom at the rear of the plane.