The first body was an accident.
That's what Damien told himself afterward. What he kept telling himself as he watched the men clean the blood from his office floor. What he repeated in the dark of night when Christabel slept beside him and his hands still remembered the feel of a throat collapsing under his grip.
An accident.
A man had crossed him. Men crossed him all the time. Usually, he handled it with money or threats or the kind of violence that left bruises but not bodies.
But this man had done something different.
This man had mentioned her.
---
His name was Viktor. Middleman. Courier. The kind of man who moved money and messages between people who shouldn't be connected. Damien had used him before. Trusted him, as much as he trusted anyone.
Then Viktor had come to him with a warning.
"There are people asking about your woman. About Christabel. Where she came from. What she's worth. How to use her against you."
Damien had gone very still.
"Who?"
"I can't tell you that."
"You can't, or you won't?"
"I won't. Because if I tell you, I'm dead."
Damien had stood up from his desk. Walked around it slowly. Viktor had been smart enough to look afraid.
"You're already dead," Damien had said. "The only question is whether it happens fast or slow."
Viktor had talked.
He'd given names. Dates. Places. He'd told Damien everything about the people who were circling, watching, waiting for an opportunity to strike at the monster through his woman.
And when he was done, Damien had killed him anyway.
Not because Viktor deserved it. Not because he'd lied. Because he'd known something Damien couldn't allow to leave the room.
He'd known that Christabel was the weakness.
And Damien couldn't let that knowledge exist in anyone else's head.
---
He didn't tell her.
Not that night. Not the next. Not in the weeks that followed, when more bodies dropped and more men disappeared and the empire grew more ruthless under his hands.
He told himself he was protecting her.
That she didn't need to know about the blood. The bodies. The parts of him he'd tried to bury and was now digging up again.
But she knew.
She always knew.
---
It was three weeks after the pact. Three weeks of no rules, no lines, no going back. Three weeks of the kind of intimacy that left bruises on both their bodies and something deeper on their souls.
Christabel was waiting for him when he came home.
Not on the couch. Not by the window.
Standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, eyes dark.
"You killed someone," she said.
Not a question.
Damien closed the door behind him. Set down his keys. Took off his jacket.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Someone who knew too much."
"About what?"
He walked toward her. Stopped when he was close enough to touch. Didn't.
"About you."
---
She didn't flinch.
That was the thing about Christabel. She never flinched. Even now, standing in front of a man who'd just admitted to murder, her eyes were steady and her voice was calm.
"What did he know?"
"That you're the only thing that can hurt me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she stepped closer. Put her hand on his chest. Right over his heart.
"Am I?"
"You know you are."
"Then why are you still here? Why haven't you sent me away?"
"Because I can't." He covered her hand with his. Pressed it harder against his chest. "Because even knowing you'll be the death of me, I can't let you go."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet.
"I don't want to be the death of you."
"Too late."
---
She kissed him.
Not softly. Not gently.
The way she kissed him now—the way she'd learned to kiss him over the weeks of their pact. Deep and demanding and full of something that felt like desperation.
"Show me," she said against his mouth.
"Show you what?"
"What you did. What you are. Don't hide from me, Damien. Not anymore."
He pulled back. Looked at her.
"You want to see the monster?"
"I want to see all of you."
---
He took her to the basement.
Not the basement of the penthouse—a different building. One she'd never seen. One that existed in the shadows of his empire, where the things he couldn't afford to be seen were kept.
The elevator ride was long. Silent. She held his hand. Her grip was steady.
The doors opened onto a room that looked like a medical facility. White walls. Bright lights. A drain in the center of the floor.
And a chair.
A simple metal chair with straps on the arms and legs.
"This is where I ask questions," Damien said. "This is where people answer."
Christabel walked into the room. Slowly. Her footsteps echoed on the tile.
"Who was the last person in that chair?"
"Viktor. The man I killed."
"What did he say before he died?"
"Everything."
She turned to look at him. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady.
"Did he suffer?"
"Yes."
"Did you enjoy it?"
The question hung in the air.
Damien crossed the room. Stopped in front of her.
"No," he said. "I didn't enjoy it. I didn't hate it either. It was just... necessary. He knew about you. He could have sold that information to the wrong people. I couldn't let that happen."
"So you killed him."
"So I protected you."
---
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then she reached up. Touched his face.
"This is who you are," she said.
"Yes."
"This is what you do."
"Yes."
"And you think I should be afraid."
"I know you should be afraid."
She shook her head. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I'm not afraid of you, Damien. I'm afraid of how much I don't care. I'm afraid that you could show me a hundred bodies and I would still want to go home with you. I'm afraid that somewhere along the way, I stopped being the woman who flinched and started being the woman who watches."
He pulled her into his arms.
Held her tight.
"Then we're both monsters," he said into her hair.
"I know."
"Does that scare you?"
"It terrifies me." She pulled back. Looked up at him. "But not as much as losing you."
---
They didn't go back to the penthouse that night.
They stayed in the basement. In the white room with the drain in the floor and the metal chair in the corner.
Not because Damien wanted to show her more.
Because she asked.
"I want to understand," she said. "What you do. What you've done. What you'll do to keep me safe."
"You don't need to understand."
"I need to know what I'm choosing."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he told her.
Everything.
The first man he'd killed. The way his hands had shaken afterward. The way they'd stopped shaking somewhere around the tenth body. The empire he'd built on blood and fear and the willingness to do what others couldn't.
She listened.
She didn't interrupt. Didn't judge. Didn't look away.
When he was done, she took his hand.
"Show me the next one."
"The next what?"
"The next body. The next time you have to do this. I want to be there."
"Why?"
"Because if you're going to be a monster, I'm going to be standing beside you. Not waiting at home. Not hiding in the penthouse. Beside you, Damien. Where I belong."
---
He should have said no.
Should have protected her from this part of himself. Should have kept her in the light while he stayed in the dark.
But the pact was clear.
No rules. No lines. No going back.
And she was already standing in the middle of his darkness, asking for more.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. The next time, you'll be there."
She smiled.
Not the careful smile. Not the real smile.
A different smile.
One that looked like hunger.
---
They went home.
The penthouse was dark. The city was quiet. Christabel undressed him slowly, piece by piece, like she was unwrapping something fragile.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"I love you, and I'm not going anywhere. No matter what you do. No matter what you've done. I'm here. I'm staying. And I'm choosing this. Choosing you."
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her lips.
"You're choosing the monster."
"I'm choosing the man who loves me enough to kill for me. The monster is just... part of the package."
---
That night, they made love differently.
Slower. Deeper. Like they were both aware that something had shifted. That the pact had taken on new meaning. That there was no separating the man from the monster anymore.
Afterward, Christabel lay with her head on his chest.
"How many?" she asked.
"How many what?"
"Bodies. How many have there been?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"I stopped counting."
"Tell me anyway."
"Seventeen. Before tonight."
She nodded. Like he'd told her the weather. Like he'd said it was going to rain.
"That's not as many as I thought."
"It's enough."
"It's never enough, is it? There's always another threat. Another person who knows too much. Another reason to kill."
"Yes."
"And you'll keep doing it."
"Yes."
"And I'll keep loving you."
He looked down at her. At the woman who should have run. Who should have been terrified. Who should have called the police or her sister or anyone who could save her from the monster in her bed.
Instead, she was tracing patterns on his chest. Humming softly. Like she didn't have a care in the world.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why what?"
"Why do you stay?"
She looked up at him. Her eyes were dark and deep and full of something he couldn't name.
"Because you're the first person who ever made me feel like I wasn't alone in the dark," she said. "And I've been in the dark my whole life, Damien. I just didn't know it until you showed me what the light looked like