I woke with a dull, throbbing pressure pressing against my skull.
For a long moment, I didn't move. The ache was slow, persistent, like my head had been wrapped too tightly in some invisible vise. Even my breathing made it throb, each inhalation sharpening the discomfort just enough to make me wince.
I lifted a hand to my temple.
Nothing. The contact brought no relief. The pain remained stubborn, heavy, as though my thoughts themselves were weighed down by it. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to steady the dizziness, trying to summon a foothold in this strange, blurred world.
Then my fingers brushed against something unexpected.
Fabric.
I opened my eyes instantly, every nerve alert.
I stilled, moving my hand carefully along my scalp. A bandage circled my head, snug and firm, holding everything in place with almost paranoid precision, as if someone had feared my skull might collapse otherwise.
My mind struggled to catch up with the sensation. I couldn't remember this.
Slowly, I pushed myself upright. The movement sent a faint wave of discomfort through my head, the pressure shifting but not fading. The room blurred for half a heartbeat before settling back into place.
I lowered my hand, my gaze drifting downward until it settled on my leg. Another bandage. It circled my ankle, wrapped neatly and with obvious care. I stared at it, a quiet confusion tightening in my chest as I tried to recall how it had gotten there. No memory surfaced. No explanation followed. I didn't remember being injured.
The realization left a faint, uneasy weight in my stomach. My eyes lifted at last, moving slowly as I took in my surroundings for the first time, and it became immediately, unmistakably clear that I had no idea where I was.
I turned my gaze around the room and froze. My bed was enormous, wide enough to disappear into, with heavy curtains draped around it. They were a soft, pale mint green, the kind of color I had always loved. The mattress looked impossibly thick, perfect for someone who had been unconscious for days, and the sheets and pillows were arranged with meticulous care.
I swung my legs off the side and stood, the floor cool beneath my feet. My eyes wandered, taking in the rest of the room. It was spacious, light spilling in from a large opening on one side. I stepped closer, curiosity pushing me forward, and my heart caught in my chest. What I had thought was a window was actually a door, framed in white wood, opening onto a balcony.
I pushed it open.
The night air rushed in, scented with something strange and intoxicating.
The balcony itself was beautiful, the kind of classical white columns you might imagine on a Greek villa, smooth and gleaming in the torchlight that flickered along its edges. I stepped out carefully, letting my hands brush the railing, and looked down.
The view stole my breath.
Below me stretched a city I didn't recognize. Lights twinkled like scattered jewels, lanterns and windows glowing in warm yellows and oranges. Music floated up from somewhere deep within the streets, mingled with laughter and the faint clinking of glasses. The air smelled faintly of night flowers and wood smoke, and everything was alive, vibrant, and impossibly distant at the same time.
I leaned a little farther over the railing, trying to take it all in. My chest tightened. "Am I in heaven?" I whispered to myself. The thought sounded ridiculous, but nothing else made sense.
I was still leaning against the smooth white columns, staring down at the city below, when a shadow shifted behind me.
"Not quite," a voice said and it sent a shiver straight through me.
I spun around, startled, my heart leaping into my throat. "Wh—"
The words died in my mouth. Standing there, just a step behind me, was a figure I didn't recognize at first. "You're actually in the Underworld," the voice said again.
I spun around, my heart leaping in my chest.
Death.
He stood on the balcony, calm and composed, wearing a dark blue coat that caught the torchlight in subtle shadows. His shirt was fully buttoned this time, neat and deliberate, the careless openness from before gone. He looked… perfect. Stunning, like someone had sculpted every line of him with impossible care.
I blinked and hated myself for noticing, for envying him, for the quiet, infuriating perfection of it all.
Then the memory hit me. It surged forward all at once, the goblet, the black blood, the Underworld, the price.
"You monster!" I shouted, my voice cracking, and before I could think better of it, my hands were on his chest, slamming into him.
I hit again. And again.
"You filthy bastard, you tricked me!" The words tore out of me, each one fueled by disbelief and fury. My nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, into the taut muscles beneath.
He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. He just stood there, calm and unflinching, letting me vent all the anger I had been holding in, letting me release it in a storm of fists and shouts.
I stepped back slightly, still trembling from the rush of anger, my hands brushing uselessly against his chest. My voice wavered, a mixture of disbelief and fear. "So what? Am I dead now? Did you just take me to hell where monsters like you come from?"
He tilted his head, red eyes catching the torchlight, calm as ever. "As I said, you are in the Underworld. And believe me, there is a vast difference between this realm and the one you call hell."
He stepped closer. "And no, you're not dead. You blacked out after the bargain was struck. Who knew you carried so much weight beneath that mortal frame? And who knew you were dramatic enough to fall so hard you'd injure both your ankle and your head?"
Heat rushed to my face instantly. Red burned my cheeks as I stepped back a fraction, my hands clenching at my sides. "I don't understand," I stammered, my voice sharper than I intended. "You said the price is my soul, so does that mean you're going to—" My words faltered. "kill me?"
He rolled his eyes, a faint sigh brushing the night air. Before I could think, his hands came up, firm but careful, cupping my cheeks. I froze instantly, caught between shock and instinct, unable to move, unable to speak.
"I'll repeat it again," he said, his voice low and soft despite the sharpness of his tone. "You are not going to die yet."
My pulse thudded in my ears as his eyes held mine, steady, unblinking, leaving no room for argument.
I yanked my hands free, shaking his fingers from my face, my pulse still racing from the sudden contact. "Then, what did you mean," I asked, my voice trembling slightly, "when you said the price is my soul?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. Then that odd, cruel smile returned to his lips, it sent a shiver crawling down my spine.
He tilted his head, red eyes fixed on me, that faint smirk still lingering"What I meant," he said, his voice cold as ice, "is that your soul belongs to me, until I deem you no longer necessary."
I froze, my pulse leaping. "WHAT?" I shouted, the words trembling as they left me.
He raised a hand as if to quiet me, his tone soft, almost casual. "You will do exactly what I say, when I say it."
My stomach tightened.
"Let me demonstrate," he said, the faint edge of amusement returning to his voice. He gestured toward a shelf across the room. "Pick up a book from that shelf."
I blinked. Nothing happened at first. I didn't move. I couldn't move.
And then, impossibly, my body obeyed. My legs began carrying me forward, my arms reaching out as if they had a mind of their own. I wanted to resist, to stop, to shout, but my voice caught in my throat.
My fingers brushed the spine of a single book. It was bound in dark leather, worn but beautiful, and a golden bookmark hung from the top, dangling delicately on a thin thread. I lifted it, my hands trembling, every instinct screaming at me that I was no longer entirely in control.
I stared down at the book in disbelief, heart hammering in my chest.
He watched me carefully, expression calm, eyes glinting. "See?" he said softly. "Exactly as I said."
I swallowed hard, every nerve in my body tense, every thought a tangle of fear, awe, and an unsettling, helpless wonder.
As soon as I got control of my body back, I didn't stop to think. I slammed the book at him, hoping it hit his head hard enough to take him out for good.
He moved almost lazily, dodging it with ease. One finger pointed at me, like he was scolding a mischievous child. "Careful," he said, voice mock-serious, "that book isn't paper and glue, you know. It's made out of something that will leave a mark if it hits you."
"Good," I snapped, my voice sharp and trembling. Heat rushed through me, my fists clenching without thought. I was so angry I could barely stand still, my body buzzing with frustration and disbelief.
I sank against the floor, gripping the cool stone as my thoughts twisted in on themselves. I had been completely under his control. A puppet. My body, my limbs, my very will, bending to his command like I had no say at all. How could I have let this happen? How could I have trusted someone like him?
My mother had been right. I should never have trusted him. I should never have made a pact.
The word hit me suddenly, sharp and cruel. A pact. My stomach twisted.
And then panic slammed into me like a tidal wave. "Wait , where is my mother?" I whispered, my hands trembling, my voice tight. The bargain, the promise I had made, flashed before my eyes. I had wished to see her again, and now… now I didn't even know if that meant anything anymore.
I swallowed hard, chest tightening, and shouted almost involuntarily, "WHERE IS SHE?"
He tilted his head, that faint, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Do not worry," he said smoothly. "I stay true to my word. You will see her, once we have concluded some… affairs."
"Some" I echoed, frowning "Affairs?"
He let out a low, amused hum, leaning back, eyes flickering in the torchlight. "Do you really think I needed your soul for mere amusement? As much as I enjoy meddling with mortals, especially you, I wouldn't have made the whole bargain for it."
I clenched my fists, heat rushing to my face again. "Shameless lizard," I spat, my voice sharp, trembling with frustration. "You act like you're the victim of this bargain, as if any of this is hard for you!"
He let out a soft sigh at that. "Do you have any idea," he said, his voice smooth "how fortunate you are that it was me you stumbled upon, and not some other cruel immortal? Much more crueler than me in fact?"
I stared at him, still seething, my hands balled into fists at my sides.
"Most immortals," he said at length, voice edged with quiet indifference, "would have seized upon your desperation without hesitation. They would have dressed their intentions in whatever shape you found comforting, told you precisely what you wished to hear, and turned your own grief into leverage." His eyes returned to mine, steady and unreadable. "Not for a bargain. Not for an exchange. Simply for their own pleasure."
A chill slid down my spine, but the bitterness rising in my chest burned hotter.
I shook my head. "That's exactly what you did," I shot back. "You saw someone vulnerable and took advantage of it. You took my soul. You took my will. Don't pretend this is any different."
He leaned back slightly, that calm, infuriating composure never leaving his face. "I never said your soul would belong to me forever," he said, voice steady, deliberate. "I only need it as part of a… task. A service, if you will. And even then, you would never have agreed if I had asked outright. If I had simply said, 'My name is Death, and I require your help,' you would have refused."
I blinked at him, incredulous. "Then tell me what kind of help you need from me?"
He shook his head as a clear refusal"I cannot tell you yet. It is not the time. For now, you will live under my care, here in this house, until the work is complete." His red eyes held mine, steady and unflinching. "Once it is done… only then will you see your mother again."
I blinked at him, my hands gripping the balcony railing. "Live HERE under your care, in the Underworld?" My voice was sharp, incredulous. "You're serious?"
He shrugged. "It's not as if you have anywhere else to go," he said smoothly, voice low and almost amused. "Considering how welcoming your family has been lately…" His eyes flickered toward mine, unflinching. "or rather, how little they cared to keep you. You were, shall we say, comfortably unneeded."
I glared at him, eyes narrowing. "How long have you been spying on me?"
He let out a faint hum, tilting his head lazily. "I didn't need to spy," he said smoothly, voice calm and infuriating. "Your family made it abundantly clear you were no longer needed. Throwing all your things onto the streets was quite sufficient."
My jaw tightened.
He continued, almost casually, as if the matter were trivial. "I simply picked up what remained and had it delivered here, in case you found yourself in need."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Part of me bristled at the thought of him meddling in my life, yet another part, the smallest, most stubborn part , couldn't deny that it had been considerate, in his own twisted way.
I looked away, forcing my eyes to the balcony, my chest tight with frustration and something else I refused to name.
He gave me one last measured look, that faint smirk tugging at his lips. " Very well. I will leave you to your thoughts. If you need anything, the gargoyles are nearby. They will attend to your needs."
I froze. "Gargoyles…?" I asked, brow furrowed, taking a cautious step forward.
But before he could answer, he was gone.
I blinked at the empty space.
The place was getting weirder and weirder with every passing moment. My mind raced, grasping for something familiar, something to anchor me. Maybe… maybe I'm just dreaming, I thought, the absurdity of it all pressing down on me.
I lifted a hand and pinched my arm, hard, trying to wake myself.
Pain shot through me. Sharp, real, and decently undeniable.
Nope, i wasn't asleep.
Then it hit me, he had said all my belongings were here.
I scanned the room, looking for anything that could resemble a closet.
At the far wall, a wooden door blended almost seamlessly with the stone. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then reached for the latch, holding my breath as it gave way.
Inside…
It wasn't a closet. Not even close. The space stretched farther than I expected, a hidden chamber bathed in a soft, golden glow.
Polished wooden floors gleamed under the light, and one wall was entirely mirrors, reflecting rows of garments that seemed unreal in their perfection, silks, velvets, gowns, and coats, all immaculately arranged, their colors and textures playing off one another like a secret rainbow.
Jewels lay in trays on a nearby vanity, catching the torchlight in fiery flashes of gold, ruby, and sapphire, as if daring me to touch them.
I refused to touch any of the outfits. Who knew, maybe he was testing me, seeing if I would give in to this finery, let it soften me or distract me from what had just happened. Not a chance.
And then, in the far corner, almost apologetically, sat my own things. My old, rugged jackets, scuffed shoes, and the few pieces I had carried through life, looking worn but honest amid the extravagance.
I turned back to my old jacket, fingers brushing the worn fabric, but it felt heavier than I remembered. Puzzled, I dug into the pocket, my hands scanning what was weighting it down.
The notebook. The one I had stolen from his study.
The golden edges I remembered so vividly were gone. Now they were black, dark, glossy, as if they weren't reflecting the torchlight but swallowing it whole.
And the heart, the tiny symbol embossed on the cover, was pulsing. A slow, steady thrum, like it had its own heartbeat.
I tugged at the cover, but it refused to budge. Completely sealed.
"What can open this stubborn book?" I muttered, my voice tight with frustration. I shook it gently, tapping the blackened edges. Nothing.
Then my eyes locked onto the heart symbol. The pulse seemed to hollow out the center, forming a tiny cavity, a perfect void that seemed to be waiting for something.
A shiver ran down my spine. It needs to be filled?
But with what?
And then it hit me. This came from his study. Of course. It wasn't meant for me. It wouldn't open for just anyone.
Which meant, it needed something of his. Something from him.
My mind raced. His blood? The thought made my stomach twist.
I held the notebook in my hands, staring at the pulsating heart.
If I was right, and this notebook truly required his blood, then I needed a plan, one he wouldn't suspect. Because if he ever realized I had taken it, who knew what else he might take from me?
Maybe this time it wouldn't just be my soul, maybe he'd claim my life instead..