Chapter 44 The Beginning Of My Bloodlust
Cole's POV
I had always known I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
My full name... Cole Ryder Buenaventura...was a reminder of who I was, what I represented, where I stood. Enemies were inevitable.
I sat alone in my dark office, contemplating the events of the past week. My thoughts drifted backwards, to one of the first times that truth had been made clear to me.
I was fifteen. My grandfather had just died.
The house had been opened to friends and extended family to mourn with us—a tradition I never grew to like. Strangers in my home, in what was supposed to be my sanctuary. I loathed it. I always had.
I didn’t look like it. I never let it show. But I loved my grandfather.
I drifted through the house in low spirits, opening doors and closing them again without really seeing anything. I existed in a haze, floating through time. He had been strict, unyielding—but he was the only one who had ever truly tried to understand me. He spoke to me like a person, not a machine.
If I had cried, torn my clothes, and wailed like the rest of them, I would’ve drawn more stares than I already did. So I stayed silent.
No one hugged me. No one reached for me like they did the others. By then, they had already given me a name—Paimon, the demon of death. I didn’t fight it. We did not do that here. If they feared you, you accept it and fucking wear it like a weapon, and didn't expect anyone to comfort me.
People didn’t comfort demons. They feared them. Worshipped them. Avoided them. Prayed against them. Revered them from a distance.
No one came to me the way they gathered around my mother, blowing into handkerchiefs and calling it grief.
One day, as I wandered aimlessly through my grandfather’s manor, I heard crying.
That wasn’t unusual in my family house, but this sounded different. It came from the kitchen. It sounded like begging. Like someone was pleading through tears and pain.
I followed the sound, opening the door quietly, not wanting to intrude if someone was alone.
My eyes landed on her instantly.
Her name was Amara.
Her eyes were swollen, glossy with fear—dark gray turned pitch black. I knew her. I had liked her for a while, though I’d never known what to do with the feeling.
She was usually bright. Loud. Always smiling. Auburn hair bouncing as she ran through school halls. Smile lines carved deep into her pretty face.
Now she was frozen.
In front of her stood a family friend—I didn’t know his name. His hands were braced on either side of her head. His right knuckles were bloodied.
Her lip was split. Her face bleeding.
He was older than me. Bigger. He even looked stronger.
It didn’t matter.
I didn’t need anyone to explain what was happening.
My family had its share of animals—men who enjoyed breaking women, hurting them, taking whatever they wanted. I didn’t care what they did outside my walls.
But not here.
Not during my grandfather’s funeral.
Not in my kitchen.
“This has nothing to do with you, boy,” he said. “Run along.”
“You’re in my kitchen.”
I had always been a man of few words. Back then, even fewer.
“Boy, I said—”
He lunged.
I didn’t struggle. I didn’t hesitate. I pinned him to the wall, his arm wrenched behind his back. He yelped, fought—but I was already moving.
I was half his size, but smarter. More experienced.
I dragged his face against the rough kitchen wall, scraping skin away with deliberate force. I felt it—the grating, the resistance, the inevitable tear.
Knowing I had saved her.
Knowing the scar would never fade.
It gave me a sick, quiet satisfaction.
I wasn’t finished.
The bloodlust was familiar to me. It was now an intimate part of me.
He screamed amd it sounded like music to my ears. Ans when he grunted, trying to hold himself back from yelling in pain, i applied more force till he was wailing beneath me.
In all this commotion, Amara didn’t move from where she stood.
I kicked the back of his legs. He collapsed forward, face-first at her feet.
“Apologize,” I whispered.
“S-sorry.”
That was enough. Humiliation mattered more than sincerity.
I looked up at her, waiting for something... I did not wvwn know what I expected her to say. Thank you?
The kitchen door flew open.
My mother stood there—eyes red, face swollen.
Amara ran past me, straight into her arms. Then she turned, pointing at me, shaking violently.
“He—he beat him,” she sobbed. “He ki-killed him.”
The boy lay unconscious.
I hadn’t expected gratitude. I hadn’t wanted praise.
But I hadn’t expected betrayal either.
I didn’t wait to hear my mother speak.
I walked out of the kitchen and locked myself in my room.
Now, years later, sitting in my office, I knew better.
I wasn’t a hero.
Experience had taught me that I would always be the villain in someone else’s story—whether I deserved it or not.
So I stayed vigilant. Eyes open. Ears sharp. Threats crushed before they grew teeth.
I stood, leaving my office, walking the private hallway built solely for me. One elevator led to my office. Another, to everyone else.
The private one went deeper.
I stepped inside, pressed the last floor, and sent a quick text to Jeffery.
The doors opened to red light—sharp contrast to the sterile white floors below.
The corridor stretched long and narrow, walls seeming to close in with every step. I had designed this floor for myself alone.
No appearances. No lies.
The walls were light brown... almost blonde, but to me they looked like blood permanently stained into white. Like someone had tried to clean it, failed, and painted over the guilt.
Red lights blinked intermittently.
There were other doors.
But the one at the end was my favorite. It was my play space.
I loved the look on their faces when they arrived here.
The walk of shame to the last door.
Most were unconscious by then.
The rest didn’t stay conscious for long.