The night was colder than usual.
Avery sat on the edge of her bed, her posture still, her hands clenched in her lap. The dim yellow glow from the bedside lamp barely reached the far corners of the room, but she wasn't looking at the darkness around her — she was staring into the one Dante Harlan had left behind.
His words still echoed through her bones.
"You mistake me if you think this will be easy. I do not deal with kittens."
The way he said it—flat, dismissive, deliberate—had stung more than she'd expected. But it wasn't the rejection that bothered her. It was the truth behind it. He had looked at her and seen someone soft. Someone afraid. Someone desperate enough to hand over her body like a coin in exchange for a kingdom.
And maybe, for a moment, she had been.
But not anymore.
She rose slowly, walked over to the window, and drew the thin curtain aside. Outside, the world was still. But inside her, something had shifted. Broken and reforged.
Avery Quinn had no crown. No army. No magic. But she had pain—and she had purpose.
She remembered the look in Ethan's eyes earlier that day. His face pale with fever. His hand clutching hers, as if he knew she was slipping away into a place even he couldn't follow.
And she remembered the fire that lit inside her the moment Dante dismissed her. That fire was still burning. Hotter now. Controlled.
He had said he didn't deal with kittens.
She was no kitten.
She crossed the room to her dresser and pulled out a clean shirt, sliding it on over her shoulders. Her fingers moved with quiet precision as she buttoned it up. This wasn't just dressing — it was preparing. She wasn't going to him as a girl anymore. She was going as something else. Something sharper.
Her eyes flicked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her—calm, steady, and unflinching.
Good.
She walked over to the bed and reached into the drawer where she had tucked away the paper with Dante's address. It was slightly wrinkled now, worn from the tension of her grip that night. She folded it carefully and slipped it into her coat pocket.
Avery took one last glance around her room. This place had once been a shelter. Now, it was just a reminder of everything she couldn't protect.
She moved to Ethan's room next. The boy was still asleep, his fragile body curled beneath the thin blanket. She brushed his hair back gently, and for a brief moment, the fire in her chest gave way to tenderness.
"I won't let them take anything else from us," she whispered. "I swear it."
He didn't stir.
Avery straightened, turned, and walked out of the room. Her footsteps didn't tremble. Her hand didn't hesitate as she closed the door behind her.
The bargain wasn't done.
It had only just begun.
She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the worn floorboards. Across the room, Ethan slept soundly, tucked beneath layers of blankets. His breathing was shallow, but steady.
And the world outside didn't care.
She stood, reached for her coat, and grabbed the paper with Dante's address still folded inside the pocket. But she didn't go back to the manor.
Her body needed movement. Her mind needed noise.
She walked.
Past shuttered stores and humming streetlights. Past people who didn't see her. Past her fear.
She didn't even realize where her feet were leading her until the sharp thrum of music and city haze led her to The Hollow Room—a low-lit bar known for two things: secrets and shadows.
She almost turned away.
But then the door opened, and the shadows parted just enough for her to see him.
Dante.
He stood at the edge of the bar's warm, dim light, glass in hand, eyes cast downward.
He hadn't changed. The same black coat. The same calm stillness. Like nothing could touch him.
And just as before, she felt it—that weight in the air around him. Like gravity bending toward a black hole.
He turned to go back inside. Didn't see her.
She followed.
Not because she planned to. But because she had to.
Inside, the haze clung like smoke. Gold light filtered through dust, and whispers slipped through jazz music. He was already seated at the back—his usual place, she suspected—alone, a king on his cold throne.
She approached slowly. Sat across from him without a word.
He didn't look at her. Not at first.
"I wasn't expecting you," he said finally, swirling the glass.
"I wasn't expecting to find you," she replied. "But here we are."
Now he looked at her—expression unreadable, gaze like an ocean without a bottom.
Avery took a breath. "I didn't come to beg."
"Good," he said smoothly. "You're terrible at it."
She leaned in, her voice steady. "I came to bargain."
Now his mouth curled at the edges. Barely. Not quite a smile.
"You're learning," he said softly. "But be warned—bargains with devils never end gently."
Avery leaned forward, eyes unflinching. "I need power. Influence. Enough to protect my brother and bury the people who destroyed my family."
Dante's expression remained unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes — a slow-burning curiosity, or perhaps a calculation.
"I don't trade in sentiment," he said coolly. "Protection, revenge... emotional causes make for clumsy bargains."
"I don't care if you believe in my reasons," she replied. "I'm not here to convince you why it matters. I'm here to ask what it costs."
That made him pause. He tilted his head, studying her with something colder than interest. "You speak like you know what you're offering."
"I'm offering myself," she said, her voice firm, even if her stomach twisted. "Whatever that means to you."
He chuckled — a dark, hollow sound, humorless and sharp-edged.
"Flawed currency," he murmured, his gaze gliding over her with a glint of disdain. "Too pale. Too slight. Too... soft. I don't deal in soft things, Avery Quinn."
Her name in his mouth sounded like a threat.
"I'm not soft," she said.
"You were," he replied, tone deceptively mild. "At my door. In your eyes. In your voice. But I'll admit... you've brought a different edge tonight."
Avery's jaw clenched. She refused to let him rattle her. Not now.
"So, what do you want?" she asked, her voice low. "If not me... then what's your price?"
Dante swirled the whiskey in his glass, gaze turning inward.
Then he looked up — and smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile. It wasn't even a human one.
"The cost isn't a thing," he said. "It's not a body, or money, or a name. It's a piece. Something... deeper."
Avery's fingers curled into the leather of the booth. "Say it."
His voice was velvet-laced steel. "Your soul, Avery. Not in the poetic way. Not in some vague metaphor. I mean your loyalty. Your conscience. Your ability to draw a line and refuse to cross it. I want the version of you that still hesitates."
She blinked.
"That part of you," he finished. "You give it to me. And I'll make you powerful enough to destroy whoever you want."
Avery didn't move. Her heart thundered, but her eyes never left his. "And what happens... when you decide you want more?"
Dante leaned in, and the space between them disappeared in a single breath.
"Then we'll renegotiate," he said.