CHAPTER THREE
DAMIEN — POV
I walk out of the warehouse with a slow, satisfied grin stretching across my face.
Brianna survived.
Her body withstood everything we put it through—the games, the pressure, the temptation, the subtle twisting of her desires—until her mind finally cracked just the way it needed to. The implantation was successful. Another dark seed planted. Another heart tied to my master.
Another disciple.
I hate it when weak girls die during the process. It makes the whole exercise a complete waste of time and energy—and leaves us with the messy task of disposing of a body. That's why I choose them carefully. They have to look strong. They have to be emotionally unstable but physically durable. And if they're pure, even better.
Pure girls break beautifully.
Like the girl who walked away from me at the club.
Ashley.
She looked pure. Not innocent in the childish way—but pure in the way her soul felt untouched by the kind of darkness I carry. She sensed me, recoiled from me, rejected me. Most people are drawn in. She pulled away.
That's rare.
That's dangerous.
That's… interesting.
I unlock my car and slide behind the wheel. For a moment, I just sit there, hands on the steering, eyes on nothing.
Nights like this always pull me back.
Back to the beginning.
Back to when I wasn't Damien—the incubus, the corrupter.
Back to when I was just a poor boy with a dead father, a tired mother, and a head full of dreams that had no money to stand on.
Back to the night everything changed.
---
I grew up with my mother in a cramped, fading apartment, the kind of place where you could hear your neighbour's life through thin walls. My father died when I was four. I barely remembered him—just a deep laugh, the smell of engine oil, and strong arms lifting me high.
After he died, my mother became everything: provider, teacher, nurse, judge, guardian.
We were poor.
Not the kind of poor where you complain about not affording new phones. The kind where you count coins before buying bread. The kind where you water down soup so it lasts one more day.
Still, my mother did her best.
She had three Golden Rules she drilled into me:
1. Don't look twice at what you don't want.
2. Don't hold what will hold you back.
3. Don't go where you're not seeking anything.
At the time, I didn't understand how deep those rules were. To me, they were just words she repeated while we washed plates or folded clothes.
But now, I know what they really were:
Warnings.
I lived simple.
School during the day.
Chores in the evening.
Then, at night, I worked at a small bar not far from our place. I served drinks, wiped tables, smiled when customers were rude, and earned just enough to buy food during lunch break at school. Everything else—rent, clothes, electricity—my mother struggled to handle on her own.
There was one dream we both shared: university.
"Damien," she would tell me, "if you get a degree, you'll break this circle. You won't live like this. You won't have to choose between food and bills."
I believed her.
But belief doesn't pay fees.
I was supposed to write my final exams, but we didn't have the money. My mother tried, borrowed, begged—but it wasn't enough. So I stayed back a year, working more shifts at the bar, saving every extra coin.
And then she walked in.
---
It was a Thursday night.
Not particularly busy. A few regular men playing cards, two couples drinking in corners, a group of friends at the far table pretending not to be drunk.
I was behind the counter wiping glasses when the air changed.
The door opened.
And she stepped in.
An elegant woman in a fitted black dress that hugged her like it had been sewn onto her skin. Her hair was long and dark, cascading over her shoulders. Her lips were painted wine red, matching the polish on her nails. She didn't look like she belonged in that bar.
She looked like she walked out of a different world.
The moment my eyes landed on her, something inside me whispered:
Run.
That first Golden Rule flashed in my mind.
Don't look twice at what you don't want.
My body didn't listen.
My legs carried me forward, feet moving without permission, and soon I was standing in front of her table, heart thudding too loudly.
"Good evening, ma'am," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "What can I get for you?"
She lifted her gaze slowly and looked right into my eyes.
The bar disappeared.
Her eyes were dark, but there was something behind them—like shadows moving. I felt… caught. Held. Like a small animal under a predator's paw.
Her lips parted.
"You," she whispered.
For a second, I thought I misheard. I blinked, swallowed, tried to focus.
"I—sorry, ma'am. What drink would you like?"
She smiled then—small, slow, unsettling.
"A bottle of your best red wine."
Something in me relaxed at that. A simple request. A normal order. Maybe I was overthinking things. Maybe I was tired. Maybe—
No.
I turned to go, and I could feel her eyes on my back like fingers.
In the storage room, my hands shook as I grabbed a bottle and one of the cleanest glasses. I inhaled, exhaled, told myself to snap out of it.
When I returned, she had crossed one leg over the other, revealing a smooth, toned leg. Her skin was flawless. Her perfume was rich, the kind you don't smell in neighbourhood bars.
I set the bottle and glass down.
She didn't look at them. She looked at me.
"Get yourself a glass like this," she said, tapping the crystal with one finger, "and come sit with me."
I almost laughed. "I'd be fired if I did that. I'm here to serve, not sit and drink."
She tilted her head. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen," I replied.
"You must be in university."
I shook my head. "No, ma'am. I'm still in my last year of high school."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Why?"
I swallowed. "Couldn't write my final exams last year because of… financial issues."
I regretted saying it immediately. Why was I explaining my life to a stranger?
But she didn't mock me. Didn't pity me. Didn't even look surprised.
Instead, she said calmly, "Quit this job now. Come with me, and I will make you richer than you can imagine. If you want to enter university tomorrow, I'll make it happen."
I stared.
Then I laughed. "Why would I believe that? And if it's true, at what cost?"
She didn't laugh with me. She just watched me with that unnerving, patient gaze.
"How much are you paid here?" she asked.
"Three hundred a night," I said. "Four nights a week."
Her lips curled. "Quit now, and I'll give you half a million."
I froze.
"You… do you have that kind of money with you?"
"We live in a digital world, Damien," she said softly. "Do you have a bank account?"
I nodded slowly. "My mother does."
"Good," she said. "Give me the number."
Something in me hesitated. This was insane. Unreal. Impossible.
Then I thought about my mother crying quietly at night when she thought I was asleep. I thought about the landlord threatening to throw us out. I thought about my friends writing their exams while I washed glasses and wiped vomit off floors.
My fingers moved.
I gave her the account number.
She opened a banking app on her phone, typed in the details, entered the amount, and pressed send.
Seconds passed.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
When I saw the alert, my heart nearly stopped.
₦500,000.
Half a million.
She had actually done it.
I took off my apron and dropped it on the floor.
"I quit," I said.
My boss stormed out from the back, face red. "Damien! What the hell are you doing? Pick that up and get back to work!"
"I quit," I repeated, a little louder this time.
He slapped the back of my head. I winced.
"Don't be stupid! Is it because of this woman? You think she cares about you? You—"
The woman never even turned her head.
She simply said, "He quit."
My boss tried to grab my arm, but his hand froze mid-air. His eyes widened. He clutched his throat, gasping, then dropped to his knees, coughing violently like he was choking on invisible smoke.
He collapsed to the floor.
I stared, stunned.
After a few seconds, he recovered enough to crawl away, mumbling something under his breath, too afraid to look at her again.
I looked at her.
She smiled.
"Sit."
I sat.
She poured wine into the glass and slid it towards me. I lifted it and gulped it down like water. It burned a little, then warmed my chest, but there was something else—a strange buzz in my head.
"How far are you willing to go to be successful?" she asked.
I thought of the alert on my phone. Thought of the future I wanted. Thought of what I had just seen.
"As far as you want me to," I said.
Her smile deepened.
"Good," she murmured. "Drink from my glass."
She handed me her own glass. I hesitated, then took a sip. Then another. I don't know why, but I couldn't stop. I drank until the glass was almost empty.
My head spun.
My thoughts blurred.
A voice that wasn't mine spoke in my mind:
Take her. Now.
I flinched.