Prologue — Two Years Ago
The chapel was supposed to be off-limits.
No one prayed here anymore. The stained glass was cracked. Dust choked the pews. The candles melted in place like they were afraid to burn too long.
She shouldn't have been here.
And neither should he.
---
Lightning flared outside. It lit the tall windows red and gold, casting his face in a stained-glass shadow. He stood near the altar, head bowed slightly, hair falling into his eyes like a boy mourning something he never had.
But Skye Thorne didn't mourn.
He hunted.
And tonight, it was her he had followed.
---
"Don't run," he said.
The words were soft. Too soft. They struck louder than thunder.
Emory Vale stayed where she stood, three pews back, heart pounding loud enough to echo. Her coat was soaked from the storm. Her hand still trembled from the slap she gave someone who said too much. She hadn't meant to cry, but the tears had already dried into her collar.
"I wasn't going to run."
He turned to face her.
"You always do."
The air crackled between them.
She hated him. She did.
He was arrogant. Reckless. Rich enough to never say sorry and charming enough to never have to.
But he had followed her here. And that meant something.
Didn't it?
She stepped forward once. Then again.
"Why are you here?" she whispered.
He looked at her, and for once, there was no smirk.
"Because you break everything you touch, Emory," he said. "And I want to be next."
---
She didn't kiss him.
Not right away.
But when she did, it wasn't sweet. It wasn't innocent.
It tasted like rain, regret, and the beginning of something they would never escape.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.
---
🖤 End of Prologue
Perfect! Let's now dive fully into a longer, cinematic Chapter One for your story, The Devil's Whisper.
Chapter One — Welcome Back to Hell
Braxton University looked exactly the same—golden stone buildings reaching toward the clouds, iron fences coated in ivy, and that eerie, stiff silence that came with money. Nothing had changed.
Except Emory Vale.
She stepped out of the black car slowly, heels hitting the pavement like punctuation. Her driver stayed quiet, as always. He knew better than to ask questions, especially when she returned from the Vale estate. Especially when her mother was involved.
Her mother was always involved.
The air was cool, crisp with late autumn, and the sky had already darkened, though it was only mid-afternoon. The kind of day that looked good in pictures but felt like a warning.
A thin breeze tugged at her coat as she walked toward the east quad. Behind her, Jessie and Mariah trailed with rolling suitcases, sunglasses, and latte cups, looking more like models arriving at a shoot than students returning to campus.
"Well," Jessie said, tossing her curls over one shoulder. "Here we are again. Back at the prison with a prettier dress code."
"It's not that bad," Mariah murmured.
Jessie side-eyed her. "You say that every year."
"It's a beautiful prison," Emory replied, smoothing her collar as they walked. "Just happens to be crawling with lies, legacies, and the kind of men who think silence is power."
Jessie whistled. "Damn. Who woke you up with poetry?"
But Emory didn't answer. Her eyes had already shifted toward the far end of the quad.
And she saw him.
Skye Thorne.
---
He stood near the courtyard fountain, half-hidden behind a pillar, dressed in black like the wind was scared to touch him. Leather boots. Silver chain. Dark coat unbuttoned, like he wasn't even trying to look dangerous—he just was. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit, flicked between his fingers like it was part of a ritual.
And even from across the square, Emory felt it: the pull. Like a thread wrapped around her throat.
He hadn't seen her yet.
Not clearly.
Which meant she still had time to turn around.
She didn't.
---
Jessie caught her gaze. "Don't tell me you're still into that dark little circus."
"I'm not into anything," Emory said too quickly.
"Mm-hmm."
Mariah blinked. "Isn't that Skye Thorne?"
Yes. And no.
The boy standing there wasn't just Skye anymore. Not the Skye she kissed in secret, not the boy she left behind in a cold chapel with rain on his collar. This Skye looked sharper. Colder. Like he'd learned how to weaponize silence and wear cruelty like a cologne.
He moved without a word, flicking the cigarette into a bin before walking straight toward the building across from them.
The ethics wing.
Her next class.
Of course.
---
Inside the grand hall, students shuffled to assigned seats, and the buzzing of too many conversations layered like static. The high windows let in filtered light, and an old chandelier swayed slightly overhead, creaking with age.
Emory walked in with calm steps. Controlled. Cold. She sat third row, center.
And she felt him before she saw him.
A pause. A breath. A weight behind her.
Skye dropped into the seat directly behind her.
The click of his pen was louder than it should've been. Like he was reminding her that he was still here.
Still watching.
Still remembering.
---
She didn't turn around.
But her voice was steady when she said, "You're in the wrong class."
"No," he replied, voice low. Smooth. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
Silence.
And then—
"Still running from your mother's leash, Vale?"
She clenched her jaw.
"Still trying to sound like you aren't lonely, Thorne?"
He chuckled. Dark. Dangerous.
And the sound of it slid down her spine like heat.
---
The professor entered. Old, tired, too underpaid to care who hated whom. He began a lecture on the foundations of moral compromise in classical literature. Something about kings who killed for love. Lovers who betrayed their empires. Sacrifice disguised as choice.
But Emory couldn't hear any of it.
Not with Skye this close.
Not with the scent of rain still clinging to his coat.
And not when he leaned forward, whispering close to her neck—
> "You never said sorry, Emory."
She froze.
> "Two years," he murmured. "And you still haven't said it."
She turned her head slightly. Just enough for him to see the crack in her perfect mask.
> "And you," she whispered back, "still haven't earned it."
---
The class went on.
The world outside turned darker.
But in that room, beneath old chandeliers and silent stares, something ancient and dangerous reawakened.
The kiss they never spoke of.
The betrayal they never explained.
And the war that was only just beginning.
Expect more peeps🖤