THE DEVIL YOU KNOW.

Volume 3, Chapter 87 – The Devil You Know

Zane's grip on his wrist tightened, but Vincent couldn't bring himself to pull away from Dominic's stare.

It was in the way Dominic looked at him. The absolute certainty in his gaze.

Like he already knew how this was going to end.

Vincent's throat was dry. His fingers curled into a fist. "I told you before," he said quietly, "I don't want anything to do with you."

"And yet," Dominic took a step closer, the light catching against the cruel curve of his lips. "Here I am."

Vincent exhaled, slow. "You came all this way for nothing."

"Oh, I don't think so." Dominic tilted his head, dark eyes sweeping over him. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't get to make that choice, Vincent."

Something cold and ugly slithered up Vincent's spine. "What are you talking about?"

Dominic didn't answer right away.

Instead, he turned his head.

And that's when Vincent felt it.

That shift in the air. That change in pressure. That sudden, visceral sense of being watched.

He didn't want to look. Didn't want to see.

But his body had never been his own, and he looked anyway.

And there he was.

Cain.

Sitting in the farthest chair, leaned back like he owned the fucking world.

And smiling.

His gaze slid slow and heavy over Vincent. Not in a way that threatened. In a way that swallowed.

Like Cain had already opened a door and was just waiting for Vincent to step through it.

Vincent felt his ribs squeeze tight around his lungs. "This isn't—" He swallowed. His voice came quieter. More fragile. "This isn't happening."

"It is," Cain murmured. "It was always going to."

Dominic stepped closer, just enough for Vincent to feel the heat of him. Just enough to trap him between the devil he knew and the one he didn't.

"Do you understand now?" Dominic asked, voice soft. "You didn't promise me."

Vincent blinked. "What?"

Dominic's smirk was sharp. "You promised him."

The floor felt like it was tilting.

No.

No, that wasn't right. It had been Dominic. Dominic was the one who—who had held him down, who had pressed bruises into his skin, who had dragged his hands through Vincent's hair and whispered—

"Say it," Cain murmured. "Say my name."

Vincent went cold.

His heart slammed once, hard.

And then he realized.

He had always been leaving. Always been running.

But it wasn't Dominic he had been running from.

Not really.

He took a slow step back. Zane was there in an instant, steady and solid at his back, a warmth against his spine.

Vincent's throat burned.

"I was just a kid," he whispered.

Cain smiled. "And now you're not."

Vincent shook his head. "I don't belong to you."

Cain exhaled, amused. "Don't you?"

His gaze flicked down—to Vincent's hands.

To where his fingers still curled—desperately, instinctively—around Zane's.

Cain laughed, dark and knowing.

"Then tell me, Vincent," he murmured, voice like silk over steel. "Why are you still holding on?"

And just like that—Vincent's chest locked.

Because Cain was right.

Vincent had spent his whole life letting go before he could be left behind. He had always been able to walk away, always been the first to run.

And yet, here he was.

Holding on.

Not moving.

Not running.

Not fighting.

And Cain?

Cain was watching.

Waiting.

Because Vincent had just given him all the proof he needed.

Vincent had made his choice.

Now, he was just waiting for Vincent to realize it.

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