The night was colder than usual.
Avery sat at the edge of her bed, hands clenched. The room was dim, silent, but her mind echoed with Dante Harlan's words:
"I don't deal with kittens."
He'd seen her as weak. And maybe, that night, she had been.
But not anymore.
She stood, walked to the window, and looked out into the quiet dark. Inside her, something had changed—pain sharpened into resolve.
She thought of Ethan, burning with fever, gripping her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him. She couldn't afford fear anymore.
Crossing to the dresser, Avery pulled on a clean shirt, buttoned it with steady fingers, then opened the drawer and took out the wrinkled paper bearing Dante's address.
In Ethan's room, she brushed his hair gently. "I'll fix this. I swear."
He didn't stir.
She walked out without a sound. No tremble. No hesitation.
This wasn't over. It was just beginning.
She needed air. Movement.
She walked.
Through quiet streets. Past shuttered shops. Until neon and low music led her to The Hollow Room—a bar cloaked in smoke and secrets.
She almost turned away—until she saw him.
Dante. Alone near the back, a glass in his hand, shadows curling around him like armor.
She followed him inside, sat across from him without invitation.
"I wasn't expecting you," he said, not looking up.
"I wasn't expecting to find you."
Now he looked at her—calm, unreadable.
"I didn't come to beg," she added.
"Good. You're terrible at it."
She leaned in. "I came to bargain."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "You're learning. But devils never offer mercy."
"I need power," she said. "Enough to protect my brother. And bury the people who ruined us."
He studied her. "I don't trade in emotion."
"I'm not asking you to care. Just tell me the cost."
That made him pause.
"You speak like you know what you're offering."
"I do," she said. "Me. Whatever that means."
He laughed, low and cold. "You think that's rare? Girls like you are soft. Pale. Forgettable."
"I'm not soft."
"You were," he said. "But tonight… you brought something else."
She didn't flinch. "So what do you want?"
He tilted his glass, watching the liquid swirl. Then looked up—and smiled.
Not kindly. Not human.
"The cost isn't your body. It's your soul. Not poetry—real. I want your loyalty. Your lines. Your hesitation. The part of you that still questions me."
Silence.
She stared at him. "And when you want more?"
Dante leaned forward, their breath close.
"Then we renegotiate."