I didn't sleep.
How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marcus's soul swirling in that crystal container, heard the wet thud of George Kellerman hitting the warehouse floor, felt the dark hunger that had stirred in my chest when Damien's eyes turned red.
By 6 AM, I'd given up on rest entirely. I stood under scalding water in my tiny apartment shower, scrubbing my skin raw like I could wash away the memory of how much I'd enjoyed watching that man die.
It didn't work.
At 7:30, I stood outside Cross Industries in a black pencil skirt and white silk blouse, looking like every other ambitious assistant in Manhattan. My reflection in the building's dark glass showed someone composed, professional, completely normal.
I was getting better at lying, even to myself.
The lobby buzzed with Monday morning energy—coffee-clutching executives, delivery guys wheeling packages, security guards trying to look alert. I badged in with the temporary access card Jennifer had given me, noting how the turnstiles made a different sound when I passed through. Lower, more resonant, like a church bell struck underwater.
The elevator to the forty-seventh floor felt longer this time, each floor number lighting up with deliberate slowness. When the doors finally opened, Jennifer was waiting with a stack of paperwork and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Sarah! Right on time." She wore a navy suit that probably came from the same department store as her forced enthusiasm. "Mr. Cross is in meetings until ten, so I'll get you settled first."
She led me through a maze of cubicles where employees typed with the focused intensity of people who knew their jobs depended on looking busy. The air smelled like expensive coffee and something else—something that reminded me of the incense from last night's auction.
"Your desk," Jennifer announced, stopping beside a sleek workstation positioned just outside an imposing set of double doors. "Mr. Cross's office is right through there, but he prefers not to be disturbed unless it's urgent."
The desk came equipped with everything an executive assistant could need—dual monitors, high-end laptop, phone system that looked like it could launch missiles. But it was the location that caught my attention. From this spot, I could see everyone coming and going, monitor every visitor, control access to the most powerful man in the building.
It wasn't just a job. It was a watchtower.
"Any questions?" Jennifer asked, already backing away like she had somewhere more important to be.
"Just one." I settled into the leather chair, testing how it swiveled. "What happened to the last assistant?"
Jennifer's smile flickered. "She... found other opportunities."
"Recently?"
"Friday afternoon." The words came out clipped, final. "I'll send you the calendar system login. First meeting's at ten sharp—don't keep him waiting."
She hurried off, leaving me alone with a computer screen full of passwords and a view of Damien's office doors that seemed to draw my attention like a magnet.
I spent the first hour learning systems, inputting contacts, reviewing schedules packed tighter than a Swiss watch. Damien Cross apparently ran on thirty-minute meeting blocks from 8 AM to 8 PM, with breaks only long enough to sign documents and drink that mysterious coffee.
Speaking of which—at exactly 9:45, I was supposed to have a fresh cup waiting on his desk. Black, two sugars, and whatever he added from that silver bottle.
The executive kitchen was tucked behind a frosted glass door, all marble counters and appliances that cost more than most cars. I found the coffee—some exotic Ethiopian blend that probably went for fifty dollars a pound—and started brewing.
The machine hissed and gurgled, filling the air with rich aromas that couldn't quite mask the underlying scent I'd noticed all morning. Something sweet and cloying, like incense mixed with copper pennies.
While the coffee percolated, I explored.
The forty-seventh floor was laid out like a fortress. Damien's office occupied the entire northeast corner, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of Central Park and the Upper East Side. Conference rooms lined the western wall, each equipped with technology I didn't recognize. Everything screamed money, power, control.
But it was the small details that made my skin crawl.
The artwork, for instance. Abstract pieces that looked normal at first glance but seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. A sculpture in the main conference room that cast shadows shaped like screaming faces. Fresh flowers in crystal vases that looked beautiful but smelled like something had died nearby.
And the walls.
I noticed them while carrying Damien's coffee to his office, using the master key Jennifer had given me. What I'd thought were decorative elements in the architectural crown molding were actually symbols—intricate designs carved directly into the expensive wood paneling.
They covered everything. Door frames, window casings, the junction where walls met ceiling. Hundreds of symbols in a dozen different styles, some looking ancient as sin, others sharp and modern like computer code.
I set the coffee on Damien's desk—same expensive Persian rug, same view of the city, same silver pen lying at perfect angles—and found myself drawn to the wall behind his chair.
The symbols here were different. Deeper. More complex. They formed patterns that hurt to look at directly, like optical illusions designed by someone with a migraine and a grudge against geometry.
Without thinking, I reached out and touched one.
Agony exploded through my nervous system.
Not metaphorical pain—actual fire racing from my fingertips to my shoulder, like touching a live wire made of molten silver. I screamed, stumbling backward as every angelic instinct I still possessed shrieked in protest. The burning spread up my arm, searing pathways through my body that felt like they were being carved with hot knives.
The symbol I'd touched blazed crimson, light pulsing like an exposed nerve. The illumination spread in waves—symbol to symbol, wall to wall—until the entire office pulsed with hellish radiance that made my eyes water and my soul ache.
"Fascinating reaction."
I spun around to find Damien standing in his doorway, perfectly pressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my rent. His green eyes tracked from my face to the glowing walls, then back again with scientific interest.
"You're early," I managed, cradling my burned hand against my chest.
"And you're curious." He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing with finality. "I appreciate that in an employee."
The symbols were fading now, returning to their camouflaged state in the wood grain. But I could still feel them—a low vibration that made my teeth ache.
"What are they?" I asked.
Damien walked to his desk and picked up the coffee I'd brought, taking a sip before answering. Still no sugar, I noticed. Just the rich black brew and whatever he'd added from his private collection.
"Security measures," he said, settling into his chair with predatory grace. "This building attracts... particular clientele."
"What kind of clientele needs warding symbols?"
"The kind that might object to my business practices." He picked up that silver pen, twirling it between his fingers. "The symbols maintain order."
"By burning people who touch them?"
"By identifying threats." His eyes found mine. "Though the reactions vary depending on what someone brings to the table."
I cradled my throbbing hand against my chest. "What did I bring?"
"Something the walls recognize as dangerous." He leaned back, studying me like a fascinating specimen. "Question is—dangerous to whom?"
"That's not an answer."
"Neither was yours when I asked why you're really here." His smile was all teeth. "But we're both learning, aren't we?"
Before I could answer, his desk phone rang. Damien glanced at the caller ID and sighed.
"We'll have to continue this conversation later," he said, reaching for the handset. "But Sarah? Stay away from the walls. For your own safety."
I nodded and headed for the door, my burned hand throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat. At the threshold, I paused.
"Mr. Cross?"
"Yes?"
"Those symbols—are they meant to protect you, or restrict you?"
For just a moment, something flickered across his face. Surprise? Approval? Then his professional mask slipped back into place.
"Good question," he said, lifting the phone to his ear. "Maybe you'll figure out the answer."
I closed the door behind me and returned to my desk, where a stack of contracts waited for my attention. But I couldn't focus on merger agreements and acquisition terms. My palm kept stinging, and every time I looked up, I could see those office doors like they were taunting me.
The morning passed in a blur of phone calls, scheduling, and trying to look competent while my mind raced with questions. The symbols clearly reacted to something in me—something that Damien recognized but wasn't ready to discuss openly. Something that made me dangerous enough to warrant supernatural security measures.
At noon, I was inputting meeting notes when I noticed her.
A woman in her late twenties lingered near the reception desk, dark hair pulled into a professional ponytail, clothes that screamed 'federal employee.' She scanned the office floor with the kind of systematic attention that made security guards nervous.
When she approached my desk, every conversation within twenty feet died.
"Lunch?" She held up two coffee shop bags with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You look like someone who could use a break from all this corporate luxury."
Jennifer's head snapped up from across the office, her face tight with suspicion. The security guard by the elevators had gone rigid, hand drifting toward whatever he kept under his jacket.
"I don't think we've met," I said carefully.
"Maya Chen." She flashed credentials so quickly I barely glimpsed the federal seal. "FBI consultant. I was hoping we could chat." Brown eyes that seemed older than her face, black hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, clothes that said 'government employee' without trying too hard.
"Sure," I heard myself saying. "Lunch sounds good."
We rode the elevator down in silence, but I could feel her studying my reflection in the polished doors. When we reached the lobby, she led me to a small park across the street where food trucks gathered for the lunchtime rush.
"So," she said, unwrapping a sandwich that smelled like heaven. "How's working for the Devil of Wall Street?"
"Demanding." I picked at my salad, not really hungry. "But the pay's good."
"I bet." She chewed thoughtfully. "You know, I've been researching Cross Industries for a while now. Interesting company."
"Interesting how?"
"High employee turnover. Especially in executive support roles." Her eyes met mine. "Your predecessor lasted three weeks. The one before her made it six days."
Ice water replaced the blood in my veins. "What happened to them?"
"Officially? Career changes. Unofficially?" Maya leaned closer, lowering her voice. "One's in a psychiatric facility upstate, keeps talking about shadows with teeth. The other moved to Montana and won't say why, but she burns sage every night and won't go outside after dark."
I set down my fork. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because there's something off about Damien Cross, and I think you're smart enough to see it too." She pulled out her phone, showing me a screen full of financial data. "His company's profit margins don't make sense. The deals he closes shouldn't be possible. And his employees..." She swiped to a different screen. "Seventeen resignations in the past year, all from people who worked directly with him."
"Maybe he's just a difficult boss."
"Maybe." She put the phone away. "Or maybe there's something else going on. Something the FBI would be very interested in hearing about."
The implications hit me like a truck. Maya wasn't just a concerned citizen—she was investigating Damien. And somehow, she'd targeted me as a potential source.
"I should get back," I said, standing abruptly. "Thanks for lunch."
"Sarah." Her voice stopped me. "If you ever need someone to talk to, someone outside that building..." She handed me a business card. "Call me. Day or night."
I took the card, noting the federal seal and direct phone number. Maya Chen, Cyber Crimes Division. Someone with the resources to dig deep into Cross Industries' secrets.
Someone who could destroy everything before I learned the truth about what I was becoming.
Back in the office, I threw myself into work with desperate focus. Scheduling meetings, reviewing contracts, answering emails—anything to avoid thinking about Maya's warning or the way the symbols had burned my hand.
But around 4 PM, I found myself staring at Damien's closed doors again. He'd been in meetings all day, visible through the glass conference room walls as he negotiated deals with people who looked like they'd stepped out of Fortune 500 centerfolds.
Through it all, I'd watched him work. The way he moved his hands while talking, precise and controlled. How he listened with perfect attention before speaking just long enough to get exactly what he wanted. The small smile that played across his lips when someone agreed to terms they'd probably regret later.
He was beautiful in the way predators are beautiful—sleek and dangerous and absolutely captivating.
Which was why I didn't notice him behind me until he spoke.
"Productive first day?"
I jumped, spinning around to find Damien standing beside my desk with two cups of coffee. He offered me one—the good stuff from the executive kitchen, not the swill from the main break room.
"Very productive," I managed, accepting the cup. His fingers brushed mine during the exchange, and I noticed they felt warmer than this morning. More human.
"Good." He perched on the edge of my desk, close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive and dark with something else underneath. "Any questions about the job?"
"Just one." I met his eyes, noting they were their normal green now, no trace of the red I'd seen at the warehouse. "The woman who had this job before me—what really happened to her?"
Damien's smile was all sharp edges. "She asked too many questions."
"Is that a warning?"
"It's a fact." He stood, smoothing his suit jacket. "But you're not like her, are you Sarah? You're not afraid of dangerous answers."
Before I could respond, he was walking away, leaving me with coffee that tasted like it had been brewed in Heaven and questions that led straight to Hell.
My phone buzzed. Text from Maya.
Drinks tonight? I found something you need to see.
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button. Maya represented everything I'd lost—safety, sanity, the normal world where angels were just stories and souls weren't commodity goods. She was offering me an escape route, a chance to walk away before whatever was happening to me went too far.
Damien's office door opened. He emerged with that predatory grace, straightening his tie as he approached my desk. When he leaned over to check something on my computer screen, his cologne filled my lungs—expensive darkness with an undertone of something that made my pulse quicken.
"Working late?" he asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Finishing up." My burned palm throbbed, the symbol-shaped mark vivid red against my skin.
"Good." His fingers brushed my shoulder as he straightened. "Dedication is... appreciated."
The touch lasted only seconds, but heat spread from the contact point like liquid fire. Not painful this time. Something else entirely.
I deleted Maya's text and got back to work.
Behind me, Damien's soft laughter sounded like approval.
End of Chapter 4