Chapter 3

Angel's POV

I sobbed silently as the door slammed shut behind him. My body ached in places I didn't even know could hurt. My wrists throbbed where the ropes had bitten into my skin, and my head felt too heavy to hold up.

Why was this happening to me?

Who was Alessandro King?

Why was I here?

None of it made sense. And at this point, I was too exhausted to care. The only thing I felt was pain—deep, suffocating, all-consuming.

The door creaked open again. My body tensed on instinct, a shiver running down my spine as I flinched. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with the faintest trace of blood told me exactly who it was.

My heart pounded violently against my ribs.

"Lunchtime," he said in that cold, emotionless voice.

I didn't move.

He stepped forward, setting a plate down on a stool in front of me. My stomach twisted painfully at the sight of the food. Porridge. Simple. Warm.

I was starving. But I was also tied.

My eyes flickered up to him in confusion, my lips parting, but I didn't have the strength to speak.

Then, he did something unexpected.

He knelt in front of me.

I inhaled sharply, my body tensing as I stared at him in disbelief. The monster—the same man who had slapped me, cut me, broken me—was now at my feet, a spoonful of porridge held in front of my lips.

I swallowed thickly. What was this? Another trick? A twisted mind game?

"Open your mouth," he ordered, voice still cold, still unreadable.

I hesitated. But then, weak and exhausted, I obeyed.

He fed me the first bite—gently.

Gentle? From him?

The warmth of the food spread down my throat, and I almost moaned at the feeling. It was the first bit of comfort I had felt in—God, how long had I been here?

Another spoonful. Then another. And still, I couldn't stop staring at him.

This man—this monster—had screamed at me, beaten me, sliced my skin open… and now he was feeding me?

"Stop staring," he muttered, placing another bite against my lips. "I don't want you dying of starvation."

I nodded weakly, lowering my gaze as I ate in silence.

But the questions wouldn't stop swirling in my head.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and spoke softly, hesitantly. "Can I ask you something?"

He stilled. As if surprised. As if no one had ever asked him anything before.

"Yes."

I inhaled shakily. "Who are you?" My voice barely above a whisper. "And why do you hate me so much?"

His cold eyes locked onto mine, unreadable.

"Did I hurt you before?" I continued. "Did I… do something to deserve this?"

Silence.

A shadow of something flashed in his expression, too quick for me to catch. Regret? Doubt? Pain?

Then, in a voice lower than before, he murmured, "No, you didn't, Angel."

I stiffened. Angel. He had never called me that before.

He reached out slowly, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was soft. Too soft.

"I just want you to tell me about Alessandro," he continued, his tone unreadable. "He hurt my family. This isn't personal." A pause. Then— "I don't have anything against you."

I searched his face for the truth.

"Then… who are you?" I whispered.

He exhaled, as if reluctant to answer.

"Lucas Moretti." His jaw tightened. "Lucifer's brother."

The name sent a chill down my spine. Lucifer. The man they feared. The man they worshiped.

And now… the man who would decide my fate.

Lucas's POV

I slammed my fist into the wall, the impact rattling through my bones. The pain was nothing compared to the storm raging inside me.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I had fed her. Fed her. Like she was some fragile thing that needed my care. Like she wasn't the daughter of the man who destroyed my family.

The man who murdered my parents. My baby sister.

A growl built in my throat, raw and bitter. How could I have been gentle with her? How could I have let myself falter?

Ever since my men caught her, a part of me had screamed that something was off. But I ignored it. Emotions make men weak. My brother drilled that into me from the moment we stood by our family's graves, two broken boys with nothing left but vengeance.

And I had lived by it. Felt nothing. Became nothing.

So why?

Why did her soft voice haunt me?

Why did I feel my stomach twist when she flinched?

Why did I remember the way her lips trembled when she whispered, I don't know him?

I had tortured her, even as she sobbed, even as she begged, her voice breaking apart like shattered glass. And I hadn't stopped. I didn't let myself stop.

I had wanted her to feel pain—because I had spent my entire life drowning in it.

Her father was the reason I had no childhood.

Her father was the reason I had no home.

I had spent years alone, broken, clawing my way through hell while she had lived with a loving father. How was that fair?

I had been seventeen when my brother brought me from the boy's hostel. But the man who saved me wasn't the same one who once shielded me from bullies in preschool, the brother who used to tuck me in at night.

That version of him died with our family.

The one who remained was Lucifer.

And he molded me in his image—a soldier, a monster, someone who wouldn't break.

But now—because of her—

I felt something I hadn't felt since the night of the fire.

Something that made my stomach churn and my hands shake.

Guilt.

Every tear she shed burned through my chest like acid, and I hated it. Hated her for making me feel it.

Because deep down, I knew—

I was the reason she was crying.