The Devil’s Canvas (The Devil’s Bargain #1)

7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Ophelia

I can't speak, can't move. Hell, I may not even be able to breathe. His words are just replaying in my head.

The Mark of Duvain. You belong to me now, whether you like it or not. You’re my soulmate.

A laugh spills out before I can stop it. It’s raw, jagged, almost bitter. But hell, if he gets to say insane things, I get to laugh at them.

"No," I start. "No. That's not happening. I'm not your soulmate. You're mistaken."

"It’s no mistake, sweetheart," he says, leaning against a chair.

He's just sitting there. Seriously? Like this isn’t a huge deal. Like he didn’t just say something that tipped my entire world off its axis. He has to be lying.

"I’m not lying," he says.

Wait. I didn’t say that out loud?

"Nor am I insane," he adds.

I take a step back, pulse hammering. "Okay, I know I’m not talking."

"Nope. You’re thinking," he replies smoothly, leaning back like this is nothing new, like he’s already a step ahead. His fingers drum lazily against his thigh, his mouth twitching—half amusement, half boredom, like he’s waiting for me to catch up.

I stare at him, my skin prickling. "Thinking? What? What the hell are you talking about? Don’t say that you can ‘read’ me, no one has been able to do that for years."

He sighs, shifts to his feet, walking toward me—slow, measured, like he has all the time in the world. "Yeah, darling. Thinking."

I swallow hard, trying to suppress the unease curling through me. "I think it’s time you explain."

A ghost of a smile. "The soulmate bond," he says.

I scoff. "The what?"

His amusement doesn’t waver, but there’s something sharper beneath it. "The soulmate bond," he repeats, like I should already know.

I fold my arms, grounding myself. "That’s not real."

"Oh, it’s real," he says, voice steady. "And you’re already feeling it." Julian watches me for a long moment before exhaling. His voice lowers, slow and deliberate. "The bond isn’t a choice. You don’t get to pick who your soul is tied to. Neither do I. It’s written into existence, whether we like it or not."

I shake my head, refusing to accept that. "No. That’s—no. That’s not how things work."

"It is," he says, lips twitching. "A beautiful, impossible, inescapable trap."

That should be poetic. Instead, it feels like a warning.

"You’ve felt it already," he continues, watching me too closely. "The pull. The way your emotions spike when I’m near. The way your body reacts before your mind catches up."

I stiffen but don’t answer.

"That’s the Mark," he says, his gaze flicking toward it. "A physical manifestation of the bond. You can see it, but you haven’t learned how to use it yet. Not fully." He watches me carefully, his voice even, measured. "It reacts—to emotions, to proximity, to supernatural forces. And when I get too close—" he takes a slow step forward, the air tightening, heat curling beneath my skin "—you’ll feel it."

He steps forward, closing the space between us, and instantly, a slow, crawling heat spreads through my veins. A pulse beneath my skin that wasn’t there a second ago. I jerk back, breath catching. "What the hell—?"

Julian smirks. "See?"

My hand presses against my chest, heart pounding.

"It’s not just physical," he says, voice quieter now. "The bond is emotional. You’ll feel what I feel. Anger. Pain. Desire. Fear. It doesn’t matter if you want to or not."

"That sounds like a nightmare."

"It can be," he admits. "Especially when one of us is injured. Pain sharing is part of the deal. If I take a hit, you’ll feel it. Sometimes a dull ache. Sometimes like it’s happening to you."

I swallow hard. "Fantastic. What else?"

He tilts his head. "It goes deeper than that. Over time, it strengthens. If we let it."

Something about the way he says ‘let it’ makes my stomach tighten.

"It’s why I can hear you," he adds.

A chill runs through me. "What?"

Julian’s smirk deepens, like he’s been waiting for me to realize. "You’re not hearing me yet," he says. "But I hear you."

Dread seeps into my spine. "You—" I cut myself off, a dozen thoughts spiraling at once.

How much has he heard?

His expression answers before he does. "Everything, sweetheart."

I clench my fists, my stomach twisting. "That’s—no. That’s not fair."

Julian draws in a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I see something beneath the amusement—frustration.

That throws me, I can’t explain why, but it hurts far more than I’m ever going to admit.

"But it’s fate," he continues. "And fate doesn’t care what we want."

I let out a sharp laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "I don’t believe in fate."

Julian raises an eyebrow, tilting his head like I’ve just said something that doesn’t make sense. "You will."

I shake my head, the weight of all this pressing in. "No, fate is just an excuse people use when things don’t go their way. It’s a crutch. A way to pretend we don’t make our own choices."

He exhales, slow and measured, rubbing his fingers together like he’s considering his next words carefully. He looks at me, gaze unwavering. "That’s cute."

I bristle. "It’s not cute. It’s reality."

"No, sweetheart. Reality is this—" He steps closer, and the second he does, I feel it again—that pull, that static crawling over my skin like invisible threads tightening.

I don’t want to react, but my body betrays me.

"That’s reality," he says, watching me shiver. "No matter how much you fight it."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat feels tight, my thoughts a tangled mess of denial and something dangerously close to belief.

For the first time, I ask the question I should have from the start. "What... what are you?"

His gaze sharpens, gold flecks catching the dim light.

I shake my head. "No, seriously. You’re reading my mind, you’re talking about fate like it’s written in stone, and I—" My breath stutters. "You’re not... normal, are you?"

Julian chuckles, slow and dark. "Haven’t figured it out yet?"

I don’t respond. I can’t.

He tilts his head, watching me like he’s waiting for the realization to click into place. Finally, he gives me the truth. Smooth. Simple. Unshaken.

"I’m a demon."

Something inside me goes ice-cold. My stomach drops, my skin tightens, and suddenly, it’s like I can feel my own pulse too loud in my ears. I stare at him, but he doesn’t waver.

No laugh, no smirk. Just fact.

"No," I say, firmer this time. "You’re lying. Or worse—you’re telling the truth, and you think that matters to me."

"I already told you—I don’t lie."

"So now what?" I ask.

For the first time since this started, he hesitates. Just a flicker of something in his expression, gone in an instant, but I catch it. I bite back a smirk. Good. I got something over him.

"What do you mean?" Julian asks, recovering quickly. "You don’t seem scared."

"Scared?" I scoff. "Please. You’d have to be scarier than this."

His eyes flicker with interest. "What do you feel?"

I exhale sharply, frustration curling around my ribs. "I can’t tell you."

His lips twitch. "Can’t or won’t?"

"Both."

For the second time, he doesn’t have a response ready. Not an easy one, at least. He studies me, gaze sharper now, like he’s picking me apart thread by thread.

"Open up," he says.

I frown. "Do what?"

"Stop blocking me. Show me how you feel."

I narrow my eyes, if this is true, if he can sense me, he should know that I can’t. "You can do that?"

He just waits, like he already knows I’ll try. And maybe I will. Maybe it’s worth a shot, just to prove something to myself.

So, I stop fighting it. Stop keeping everything buried so deep inside me that I can barely feel it myself. Instead, I push—not words, not explanations, just raw emotion, like shoving open a locked door and letting him see inside.

Julian doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

His lips part slightly. Just for a second. A slow inhale, controlled but not entirely unaffected. "Well, I guess fear isn’t your main emotion. More like determination."

I hold his gaze. "Because if this is forever, I’m not going to be the one to break first."

Something in his eyes flickers—something dark, knowing. "Careful, sweetheart. That sounds a lot like a challenge."

I don’t blink. "Maybe it is."

A slow smirk stretches across his lips, like he’s savoring every second of this. "But you don’t like me," he says.

I scoff. "Fuck no."

His amusement deepens. "Why?"

It’s the way he says it—genuine, like the idea is incomprehensible. Like no one has ever not liked him before. And maybe they haven’t. He’s hot, probably gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, especially from women.

I let the silence drag before answering, just to watch him wait. "You’re arrogant. You talk like I’m supposed to just accept all of this because you said so."

His eyes show more curiosity than anything else now. "Anything else?"

"I’m sure you’ve used this exact thing plenty of times to get women to do what you want," I say, crossing my arms, my voice sharp,I don’t want him to see the uncertainty.

Julian laughs—quiet, low, amused. “You think I need the bond for that?” His gaze rakes over me, deliberate. “I don’t force. I don’t chase. They come to me.”

My fingers twitch at my sides, my pulse kicking up despite the flat look I shoot him. "Why are you following me?"

Julian tilts his head, considering me, his smirk never fading. "Who said I’m following you?"

"You’re always there," I snap. "Always watching. Always waiting. If it’s not the bond, what is it?"

That lands. Not in a way that fazes him, but in a way that interests him. Like he’s just found something worth pulling apart. "And that bothers you?"

I straighten my shoulders, refusing to let him see the way my stomach tightens. "Yeah, it does. You act like this is already said and done. Like I don’t have a say. But I’m not going down without a fight."

Julian studies me for a moment longer. Then his voice dips, velvet over flame. “Good. I’d hate for this to be too easy.”

He makes a show of breathing out like I’m the exhausting one, then tilts his head. “You’re so sure you don’t like me, aren’t you?”

I don’t hesitate. "I know I don’t."

His lips twitch like he finds this amusing. "Well, that’s a relief. Because I don’t like you either."

I roll my eyes, of course he doesn’t, no one has in a very long time. "Good. We’re on the same page."

"Hardly." His tone is silk and steel, smooth but edged with something sharp.

I fold my arms. "Oh, please. What could you possibly hate about me?"

He takes a step closer, his eyes glinting like he’s been waiting for me to ask.

"You’re stubborn to a fault," he says, voice quiet but carrying weight. "You refuse to see what’s right in front of you just because you don’t like the way it looks. You think if you ignore the truth hard enough, it’ll change. It won’t."

I stiffen. "That’s not—"

"You push people away before they even get the chance to decide if they want to stay." His voice is softer now, and somehow that makes it worse. Too precise. Too accurate. "And you act like that’s power, when really, it’s just fear dressed up as control."

A slow, mocking smirk flickers at his lips as he watches my hands curl into fists. "What? Don’t like hearing the truth?"

I swallow hard, refusing to let him get a reaction out of me, despite the fact that I think I’d finally be able to have a reaction. "You’re so full of shit."

He laughs, dark and quiet. "Maybe. But I’m not wrong, am I?"

My nails dig into my palms. I hate him. I hate him.

He watches me for a second longer, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll break. With a bored exhale, he steps back. “You don’t like me? Fine. But don’t pretend you’re the only one suffering.”

I glare at him, forcing my voice to stay even. "Oh yeah? And what are you suffering from exactly?"

His smirk is slow and infuriating. "The endless misfortune of being stuck with you."

I clench my jaw as he turns, completely unfazed.

"It’s a shame fate has such a cruel sense of humor, isn’t it?"

I don’t know who moves first.

One second, I’m glaring up at him, my pulse hammering in my ears, and the next—his hands are on me, and my back slams into the wall.

My breath catches. My body reacts before my mind can scream at me to stop.

Julian is heat and pressure and dominance, his palm flattening against my hip, fingers digging in just hard enough to make me gasp. His other hand cages me in against the wall, the heat of him pressing into me like he’s trying to brand himself under my skin.

"Hate me all you want," he murmurs, his breath a whisper against my lips, "but don’t lie to yourself, little fighter."

I want to shove him. I want to tear him apart. Instead, I grab the front of his shirt and yank him down into a kiss.

The second our lips crash, it’s not a kiss—it’s a war.

Julian doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop to breathe, doesn’t give me even a second to pretend I have control. He takes. His fingers tighten around my waist, pulling me forward until I’m pinned between him and the wall, no space, no air, just heat and hunger and the suffocating weight of this bond between us.

A growl rumbles in his chest, low and rough, vibrating against my body as his mouth devours mine, all tongue and teeth and something feral. His lips move with slow, devastating precision, teasing mine apart just enough to let his tongue slide against mine—hot, claiming, tasting.

I gasp into him, my nails digging into his shoulders, and that’s when he really reacts.

His hands grip my thighs, lifting me effortlessly, forcing my legs around his waist.

I moan before I can stop myself.

He smirks against my lips.

Smug bastard.

So I bite him.

A sharp nip to his lower lip, just enough to bruise, just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

He loses it.

His hands tighten, his body pinning me harder against the wall as his mouth moves to my neck. Hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, marking me as if he knows he shouldn’t but can’t stop.

I arch against him, unable to hold back the way my body reacts to him. It’s electric, consuming, fire and friction, every part of me screaming for more, more, more.

His lips drag up, pressing against my ear, voice dark and full of pure sin.

"I knew you’d taste like this."

I shudder, my nails raking down his back, and his hips grind forward—slow, teasing, deliberate.

Fuck.

I hate him. I hate him.

But right now, I need him.

I need this.

"You think that was surrender?" His voice is steady, but his breathing isn’t. His grip is still tight, too tight, like he’s holding something back. Like if he lets go, he won’t stop. "Try again, little fighter."

This isn’t fate. This isn’t magic. This is me, giving in to the one thing I swore I’d never want.

A soulmate bond is a tether. This one feels like a leash—wrapped around my throat, held by a demon who won’t let go.