By the time I got home, my brain felt like scrambled eggs.
Between Lucien's cryptic words, the creepy note, and the text from a blocked number, I was spiraling faster than Zoya during exam season.
I collapsed onto my bed, face-first.
And then something… burned.
Not emotionally. Not metaphorically.
Physically.
A sharp, invisible sting raced across my ribs, like I'd been whipped with hot wire.
I shot up, gasping.
There were no bruises. No marks. Just pain — deep, real pain — and then it vanished as fast as it came.
My chest rose and fell rapidly. My hands trembled.
This wasn't anxiety. This was… something else.
---
The next morning, I woke up with a headache that made me want to punch the sky.
I dragged myself to school like a zombie. Zoya took one look at me and deadpanned, "You look like you just had a spiritual awakening and hated every second of it."
"I think I'm dying."
"You say that every Monday."
"No, like really."
She handed me coffee. "Let's unpack this in Literature class, aka the only time nobody notices if we're having a breakdown."
---
During class, while everyone else was fake-analyzing Shakespeare's daddy issues, I slipped out my phone and Googled:
> "Why does my body feel pain that leaves no bruise?"
Top results were:
"phantom pain"
"psychosomatic response"
"trauma-related nerve misfires"
All reasonable. All boring. All wrong.
Then one link, buried deep, caught my eye.
> The Inheritance Gift: Transference Empathy Disorder (TED)
My thumb froze mid-scroll.
I clicked.
It was a barely-loaded, glitchy forum. Black background. Blood-red font.
Real subtle.
One post stood out:
> "TED is rare. It runs in bloodlines.
The Inheritor doesn't heal or help. They absorb.
For 5 minutes, they can take someone else's pain into their own body.
But it leaves no trace—only memory. Only fire."
> "No bruises.
No wounds.
Just the pain.
Just the curse."
I swallowed hard. The words blurred as my vision tightened into a tunnel.
Was this… me?
---
Lunch was worse.
I told Zoya I wasn't hungry and went to the library instead. Because nothing says "mentally stable" like hiding between ancient encyclopedias and Latin dictionaries no one has touched since 1902.
I found the dusty supernatural section.
It was wedged between Psychology and Myths & Legends like a forgotten child.
I ran my fingers along the cracked spines. One book practically jumped out at me — literally fell off the shelf as I walked by.
It was titled "Empathic Anomalies in Bloodline Inheritors."
Subtle.
I opened it.
Chapter One: Inherited Pain, Mutated Purpose.
My throat went dry.
---
Then, I felt it again.
The sting.
Across my shoulder blade this time. Like someone had carved a line of fire into me with invisible fingers.
I gasped, clutching the edge of the shelf.
No one saw.
I flipped pages in a panic, scanning wildly.
> "Inheritors often experience ghost pain from others nearby — not emotional pain. Real. Physical.
They are drawn to suffering like lightning to iron.
Pain feeds their awakening.
The body remembers, even if the skin forgets."
Suddenly the lights flickered.
I looked up.
And saw a figure outside the library glass.
Tall. Black hoodie. Face hidden.
He didn't move.
Just watched.
And then — he was gone.
---
I slammed the book shut and rushed out, heart punching my ribcage.
Lucien was in the hallway, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting for me.
"I felt it," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
He looked straight into my soul. "You were hurting. Just now. In the library."
"How—"
"I don't know." His voice was low. "But it wasn't just yours, was it?"
I couldn't breathe.
I whispered, "You think I'm crazy."
"I think you're not alone."
He stepped closer. His gaze intense. "Whoever sent that note… they know. About you. About this thing in your blood. And they're watching you because they want it."
I backed away.
"No," I said. "No, this can't be real. It's not a power. It's a curse."
And I turned and ran.
---
That night, my phone buzzed again.
Another blocked number.
> "Pain without scars is a gift, Rhea.
One I'll take from you when the time is right."
My hand shook.
I typed back without thinking.
> "Who are you?"
No response.
But somehow, I already knew.
Whoever it was… wasn't in high school.
Whoever it was…
Was older.
Watching.
Waiting.
And slowly getting closer.
I was walking home.
AirPods in. Hoodie up. World drowned in the soft beats of a sad indie song no one had heard of.
And then — screech.
A black car.
Sleek. Tinted. Expensive.
It pulled up like it was late for a mafia meeting.
Two guys stepped out — tall, built, dressed like bodyguards from a John Wick sequel. Their faces were blank, cold.
"Rhea?" one asked, but it wasn't a question.
I froze. "Who's asking?"
He didn't answer.
The next second—
A hand gripped my arm.
Hard.
"HEY!" I shouted, twisting, but it was too fast.
Too clean.
Too planned.
The world spun.
A sharp jab to my neck.
Darkness pulled me under like a velvet curtain falling on stage.
---
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
My heart was the first thing I felt.
Then the ache in my skull.
Then the coldness of the floor.
I blinked, dazed, trying to sit up.
I wasn't in my room.
I wasn't even in the city.
No posters.
No lights.
Just walls made of glass and marble. Floors so polished they reflected the chandeliers above like liquid diamonds.
The windows were taller than me. Framed with velvet drapes. A fireplace crackled at the far end, its flames casting long shadows on the wall.
And in front of it stood him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Jet-black suit, collar open like he owned the air. His face—sharp jawline, deep-set grey eyes, a single mole beneath his lip.
His gaze met mine like it had been waiting.
Deadly calm.
Undeniably powerful.
Undeniably… beautiful.
I scrambled backward across the cold marble.
"WHO— WHO ARE YOU?!" I shouted, voice cracking. "Where the HELL am I?!"
His eyes didn't flinch.
He took a step closer. Slow. Precise. Like a king who didn't need to raise his voice to be feared.
"You're in my home," he said, smooth as silk over steel.
"And you are?"
He cocked his head slightly. "Still figuring that out, aren't you?"
I flinched.
What?
"You kidnapped me!" I snapped, trying to stand, legs wobbling.
"Yes."
My heart dropped.
No excuses. No lies.
Just yes.
"Why?! What do you want?! I don't have money! I'm not—"
"I don't want your money."
His voice deepened.
"I want your blood."
I froze.
A long silence.
He stepped forward. The firelight lit his face in gold and shadow.
"I want you, Rhea," he said, softly. "The girl who feels other people's pain like it's her own. The girl who hasn't even scratched the surface of what she is."
I took a shaky breath, backing into the couch.
"How… how do you know that?"
"I've known since the day you were born."
I stared.
This was insane. Impossible. Nightmare material.
"You're lying."
"No." He moved closer, until he stood right in front of me.
"I'm Adam."
My breath caught.
The note.
The texts.
The watcher.
It was him.
It had always been him.
I whispered, "You're sick."
Adam's eyes darkened. He crouched to my level, not touching me, but close enough that I could smell his cologne—dark, expensive, terrifying.
"You haven't even seen what sick looks like," he said.
His lips curled into the faintest smirk.
And for a moment, I hated him.
I hated the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he'd already solved.
I hated the way my body reacted—heart racing, skin tingling with fear… and something else I didn't want to name.
"But don't worry, Rhea," he whispered.
"You'll get used to this place."
He stood, turned, and walked away without a glance back.
The door shut with a soft, terrifying click.
And I was alone again.
In a mansion of marble and shadows.
With the devil himself lurking somewhere behind the walls.