Devil Doesn't Bargain

Chapter 3: The Red String Tightens

My heart stirred, Cillian's emotions mixing with my own, a dangerous warmth that threatened to pull me under. "I'm not alone now," I said, a half-smile tugging at my lips, more Elliot's sarcasm than Cillian's softness. But Lorian's gaze was earnest, searching, and I felt the red string falter, its pulse dimming in his presence.

The garden's thorns seemed to close in around me, their blood-red petals glistening in the drizzle like drops of my own fate. The cracked fountain reflected my trembling face, silver hair matted against my cheeks, pale blue eyes wide with the weight of a truth I couldn't escape. The red string glowed brighter, a crimson thread pulsing from my heart into the darkness, tying me to Raviel Draven—the devil who'd break me, just as The Devil's Throne promised. His golden eyes haunted me, even here, in this fleeting refuge. I clutched the book from the library, its brittle pages heavy with secrets: the demonic charm, Eryndor's curse, and my role as the "chosen heart" doomed to die for the crown.

Kael's mocking laughter still echoed in my ears, his amber eyes glinting with a challenge that wasn't just for me but for Raviel. "Raviel doesn't share his toys," he'd said, echoing Lady Seraphine's venomous taunt. The court mage's violet eyes had seen too much, her words a warning that the charm's magic ran deeper than I knew. And Lorian—his green eyes, warm and steady, lingered in my mind, his touch on my hand a dangerous comfort I couldn't afford. The red string burned, a reminder that every step I took, every heartbeat, pulled me closer to Raviel's blade, to a shattered mirror and a rose stained with my blood.

I stood, my wet robes clinging to my skin, the dagger in my sleeve a cold anchor. The book's words swirled in my head, mingling with Cillian's memories, painting a picture of a world I was only beginning to understand. The Devil's Throne wasn't just a novel—it was a tragedy written in blood, set in Eryndor, a kingdom cursed by a pact with a demon named Asmodei. Centuries ago, the Draven dynasty traded their humanity for power, binding each heir to a chosen heart—a sacrifice whose death renewed the curse's strength. Cillian Vale was that heart, his love for Raviel crafted by Lady Seraphine's charm, a silver bracelet pulsing with demonic magic. In the novel, Cillian's devotion led to his downfall: poisoned by Raviel's enemies or killed personally by Raviel, his body left in a rose garden, the rain washing his blood into the earth.

But there was more, buried in Cillian's memories. House Vale, my family, was a pawn in this game. My father, Lord Cedric Vale, with his graying silver hair and cold blue eyes, had pushed Cillian toward Raviel, desperate to elevate our minor house. "Your magic is our salvation," he'd said, his voice sharp as he handed Cillian a vial of healing salve, a gift for the prince. My mother, Lady Elira, was a ghost in these memories, her golden hair and soft gray eyes fading after her death from a curse-tainted illness when Cillian was ten. Her last words to him—"Be kind, my star, but guard your heart"—haunted me, a warning Cillian had ignored. And Lysa, my sister, with her sharp green eyes and silver hair, had always resented Cillian's role. A memory flashed: Lysa slipping a letter into Cillian's room, her handwriting sharp: "Don't embarrass us, little brother. Raviel's favor is all we have."

I clutched the book tighter, my knuckles white. House Vale's ambition had chained Cillian to Raviel as surely as the charm had, and now I was trapped in their game. Elliot Lin, the sarcastic BL reader who'd hated this story's ending, was now living it, fighting a fate that felt written in stone. The red string pulsed, hot and tight, and I pressed my hand to my chest, willing it to fade. Only I can see it, I reminded myself, the crimson thread a secret that isolated me even from Lorian's warmth. It was the charm's magic, forcing Cillian's love, but my defiance—Jade's defiance—was making it falter, and that made Raviel dangerous.

A rustle broke my thoughts, and I turned to see Lorian stepping through the garden's archway, his brown hair still damp, his green eyes catching the moonlight like a forest reborn. His tunic clung to his frame, outlining the strength beneath, and I felt a flush of warmth that wasn't just Cillian's heart. The red string flared, punishing me, but Lorian's presence dulled its burn, like a candle against a storm.

"You're still here," he said, his voice soft but edged with worry. He stopped a step away, close enough that I could smell the leather and rain on him, a contrast to Raviel's sandalwood and ash. "I told you it's not safe."

I managed a half-smile, Elliot's sarcasm slipping through. "Nowhere's safe in Eryndor, Lorian. You should know that." But my voice trembled, betraying the fear I couldn't hide. The book in my hands felt heavier, its secrets a weight I couldn't carry alone.

Lorian's gaze softened, and he reached out, his fingers brushing my wrist where the dagger hid. The touch was light, but it sent a shiver through me, warm and electric, a 19+ spark that made my breath catch. "You're bleeding again," he said, nodding to my palm, where the thorn's cut had reopened, a thin line of blood mixing with the rain. He knelt beside me, pulling a cloth from his belt, and wrapped my hand with a gentleness that felt like a betrayal of the red string's pull.

"Lorian, don't," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but I didn't pull away. His fingers lingered, warm against my cold skin, and for a moment, I let myself imagine a world where his touch could save me, where Raviel's shadow didn't loom. The red string burned, a sharp sting that made me gasp, and I yanked my hand back, the cloth stained red like the rose petal in my pocket.

"I'm sorry," Lorian said, his green eyes searching mine, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "I just... I can't watch you break, Cillian." His voice was raw, and I realized he wasn't just talking about tonight. In the novel, Lorian had died for Cillian, a knight cut down by Raviel's enemies. My changes were rewriting his fate too, but at what cost?

Before I could respond, a shadow moved at the garden's edge, and a familiar voice slithered through the rain. "How touching," Prince Kael said, stepping into the moonlight. His silver hair—darker, stormier than mine—glinted, and his amber eyes sparkled with a mischief that felt like a blade. His black velvet tunic hugged his lean frame, a ruby pendant at his throat catching the light like a drop of blood. "The knight and the healer, stealing moments under the stars. My brother will be furious."

The red string flared, hot and tight, as if Raviel's name alone summoned its power. Kael's smile was all charm, but his eyes held a hunger that made my skin crawl—not for me, but for the chaos he could sow. In the novel, Kael was a wildcard, flirting with Cillian to provoke Raviel, his ambition to steal the throne driving every move. "Leave us," I said, my voice sharper than I meant, but Kael only laughed, stepping closer.

"Oh, Cillian," he purred, his voice low and suggestive, a 19+ edge that sent heat to my cheeks despite my fear. He reached out, brushing a wet strand of silver hair from my face, his touch lingering too long. "You're wasted on Raviel. He doesn't know how to appreciate you."

Lorian surged to his feet, his hand on his sword. "Back off, Kael," he growled, his green eyes blazing. The air crackled with tension, and I felt the red string pulse, a warning that Raviel's obsession was a fire Kael was stoking.

Kael raised his hands, his smile never faltering. "Just a friendly chat," he said, but his eyes locked on mine, promising trouble. "Think about it, Cillian. You could have so much more." He turned, vanishing into the shadows, his laughter a sharp echo in the rain.

I sank against the fountain, my heart pounding. The reflection showed my fractured face, the crack wider now, a rose petal floating in the water, red as blood. Lorian knelt beside me, his hand hovering near mine, but I pulled away, the red string burning. "I have to break it," I whispered, more to myself than him. The charm, the curse, the string—they were my chains, and I'd rather die than let Raviel's hand shatter me without a fight.

But as the rain fell, I saw it—a fleeting vision in the fountain's surface. My body, broken, blood pooling among roses, a shattered mirror reflecting Raviel's golden eyes, filled with regret too late. The novel's promise was closing in, and I was running out of time.

To be continued...