Nocturne (The Dark Accord #1)

Thirty-Two

Ara

The thing about getting habituated is that you notice when there’s a deviation. And for an obsessively observant person like me, adjusting to the fact that I had a kinda-sorta stalker who sat in the shadows of my classes, followed me home sometimes, offered me coats when it was chilly, and started to show up at every turn I took, had taken some time. And now that I’m used to his presence in my life, it is not fair for the tyrant to act as if he dropped dead.

It definitely is unfair after the night at his office. So much for his grunts of me being his.

Just to set the record straight, I don’t miss him. I’m just… irked that it’s been eight days, and adjusting to this new shift in my life is uncomfortable. I know he will be strutting back into it soon—once I settle into the latest schedule. But in the moments before that inevitable return, I’m left with a nagging emptiness I refuse to name.

So what does an individual who is whacked in her head, who cannot stop thinking about the orgasms he gave her, and who is a little more than crazy, do in situations like this? I’m not sure about the normal ones out there, but my twisted little head dived into research. I’ve dedicated all my free time to finding everything there is to know about the man and his world. Ivy is helping, but I suspect she’s doing it more for her benefit than mine.

Eight days.

One hundred ninety-two hours.

Despite my ability to skim through tons of documents quickly and even with Ivy’s connections from her reporter days, we’ve only come up with scraps. Scraps that did nothing to satiate my curiosity but instead served as fuel—a thirst I need to quench before I go mad.

There were only fragments. Words mentioned here and there, but nothing in detail. For instance, one of Ivy’s contacts told us that Zagan could be a member of something called The Dark Accord . Heaven knows what that means. The man didn’t say anything else; he just dropped that information and vanished.

It’s some sort of council or alliance from the intense dive into confidential documents I made Div dig out for us.

Ivy and I began searching for it and found only the bare minimum. Even those documents—the confidential, government ones which Div refused to dig out at first—did not contain any information to help. I made Div commit a crime for nothing! He’s still pouting because of that.

All there was to find was a small article published in a newspaper decades ago. The publishers retracted those newspapers very soon after their distribution, and the company was promptly shut down a week later.

The said article barely contained any information. Other than an observation about the sudden drop in the crime rate at that time and an assumption that rival mobs seemed to have forged a pact, there was nothing. Yes, the reporter wrote about the ramifications of such an alliance—how it could reshape power and control—but there were no details about the people involved or what exactly it was.

A few words were mentioned here and there, vague enough to be prompts for a database. But I couldn’t venture into the dark web. I don’t know it, and when I asked Div, his warnings were enough to send jitters and shivers down my spine. So that’s out of the question.

My only option was Yuri, the man who had become my silent shadow, and from trying to sneak information from Eero, he was one of the higher-ups. I’m hoping he has the information I want.

Other than the brief questions about where I’d like to go while he drives my car, he doesn’t talk much. I suppose a man like Zagan—who has an aversion to talking—must also have an aversion to people who yap, and it would make sense for him to hire people or train them to shut up.

Huh.

All I do is yap. I wonder how sick he is of the constant drill of my voice. Perhaps that’s the reason he’s stopped coming to my classes. Apart from him finding it boring—which anyone other than my students would—he must be done with the way I go on and on about the subject.

It shouldn’t send the stab into my heart like it does now. I’ve vowed not to let anything he does affect me. Tying myself emotionally would not bode well for me. The thought feels like a delicate thread—one I’m constantly pulling at, unravelling more than I can handle.

Missing him isn’t an option, but understanding him—understanding who he is and what keeps him in the shadows— is something I can chase with a vengeance. It is a distraction, at least, from the ache I refuse to name.

Despite myself, I unlock my phone as I wait for my coffee. My fingers hover over the text box for a few seconds before I give in and type the message.

Ara: I’m fully capable of going out on a walk, myself.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Mr Devlin: Bodyguard

Ara: Glad to know that you’re alive.

I want to kick myself as soon as I hit send. But I wait.

Mr Devlin: Miss me, little siren?

Despite myself, a blush coats my cheeks. And it takes more effort than needed to squash the smile that comes alive under his teasing.

Ara: Not even a little, Mr Devlin.

Mr Devlin: So the only time you say my name is when I make you cum? Interesting.

I think I turn crimson at his crass words. My finger fly on the keyboard, the stupid smile not leaving my foolish face. I brush off the heart-palpitating words.

Ara: You don’t need to trouble Yuri with trivial nonsense. I’m sure he must have bigger things to do than babysit me all day.

Mr Devlin: Ok.

Ara: This changes nothing, right?

Mr Devlin: Smart

I roll my eyes.

Ara: I didn’t peg you as an annoying, commandeering prick!

Mr Devlin: Live they haven’t been given smiles from strangers or treated as humans. Even while we both walk on the street back to my house, I see many pedestrians give him a wide berth and silently judge him. Just because he has tattoos, walks a certain way, and looks big and strong.

I shake my head at them and stretch the second cup toward him. He looks down at it and then at me with an obvious question.

“It’s coffee. For you. I made a safe guess that you’d like it black, but if you don’t, I want to get you another one.”

He looks down at it for a second longer, but he accepts it. “Black is fine, Ms. Ara.”

Ivy wanted to cook for me. I’m not sure how many ways one can torment an already-dead chicken, but I’m pretty confident I’ll have a detailed report by the time we get home. Cas wanted in on the chaos, too, and the pair of them kicked me out of my own house. Apparently, I can’t just sit quietly and enjoy being pampered without micromanaging their every move. Forgive me for loving my kitchen and wanting to keep it intact.

Still, stepping out isn’t the worst idea. My head feels tangled lately. It’s like I’ve grown too comfortable—fearing less and hoping more. I don’t glance over my shoulder as much when I walk down the street, and those anxious, disjointed moments where I lose myself seem fewer and farther between.

Most people would call this progress. Psychologists would probably call it ‘healing.’ Me? I call it a red flag. Comfort is a luxury I cannot afford. The moment I let my guard down, I might make a mistake—one that could cost me the people I care about.

And then there’s Zagan. I can’t quite place him in the ever-spinning chaos of my life, but I know he’s more than just a passing storm. He’s an anomaly—a man who slithered into my world without warning and declared—not so subtly—that he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. I can’t stay blind to who he is. Not when he already knows too much about me. I can’t justify...whatever it is we’ve been doing or accept being labelled as ‘his’ without understanding the man behind the curtain.

The streets grow quieter as we veer into the neighbourhood’s less-crowded corners. Yuri, walking beside me like the silent sentinel he is, tosses his empty coffee cup into a passing bin without breaking stride. His eyes are everywhere, sharp and unrelenting, even if he plays it subtle. He doesn’t let anyone so much as brush against me, even in a crowd.

“Yuri, can I ask you something, and you promise to give me an answer?”

He gives me a side-eyed look, suspicious but not outright dismissive.

“I’ll try my best,” he replies cautiously.

Fair enough.

“How did Zagan become part of The Dark Accord ?”

I watch his face closely. There’s a flicker of shock—quick and sharp—before he locks it down. He takes a moment, likely debating how much to tell me, while I sip my butterscotch latte and keep my expression neutral. Reading people is half about paying attention and half about staying quiet long enough to let them trip over their thoughts.

“He killed the presiding asshole and took the seat,” Yuri finally says, his voice laced with disdain.

Whoever this ‘asshole’ was, he clearly wasn’t on Yuri’s Christmas card list.

I tuck that nugget away for later and tilt my head thoughtfully. “I knew that. What I meant was, aren’t the members supposed to protect each other? Help when someone’s under attack?”

In Ivy's words, I knew shit. But I pieced together a pretty logical guess after Yuri let it slip that Zagan was, without a doubt, part of this mysterious group. An alliance that has survived for decades—especially those involving powerful crime lords—must come with perks. It's not rocket science to figure out that protecting each other when things go south would be high on the list of rules. Right up there with the no-double-crossing clause.

Here’s the thing about fishing for information: it’s all about framing. You can’t come off as clueless. You have to sound like you already know things—dangerous, half-truthful things. Enough to make the other person think you’re in the loop. It makes them more likely to fill in the gaps.

From the way Yuri’s expression shifted—like he’d bought into the idea that I already knew more than I was letting on—it was clear my little act had paid off. Bluff successful.

“Not when the party refuses the help.”

“Who refuses help when they’re losing?” I frown, unable to mask my disbelief.

“Pietro was given a choice right before the war broke out. One can only accept or refuse before any disruption starts. After you make your choice, you cannot take it back. That’s an absolute rule.”

It sounds absurdly rigid, but what do I know about the unwritten codes of this world? We’re talking about war, violence, death, and the destruction of properties worth millions—all of it happening right under our noses while we remain blissfully unaware. We tell ourselves we live in a democratic world, that we have rights, choices, and power as a collective mob. We’re allowed to believe that because they let us. This isn’t a democracy.

It never has been. It’s a plutocracy, and most of us are just happy enough not to ask the hard questions.

And honestly, it’s a good thing we don’t. I did. I poked and prodded, asked question after question, made myself a thorn in the side of every authority figure I could find, and even went so far as to investigate the root of the problem myself. How did that turn out?

Months of torture. Witnessing unspeakable horrors. Losing myself piece by piece until I became someone unrecognisable.

A murderer.

Now? I barely flinch at the prospect of death or violence. Yes, the sight of gore still turns my stomach, but I’ve stopped rejecting violence. That part of me has long since been eroded. I condone it. In fact, I’ve come to believe it’s an efficient tool. It sends a clear message. If I have to hurt someone—or worse—to protect myself or the people I care about, so be it. I carry a gun everywhere I go, for crying out loud.

Fat a lot of good that did the last time.

I ignore the voice. It’s turning out to sound more and more like Iblis’s jeering insolence, and it is only spurring to vex me further.

A burst of laughter from a group of kids nearby snaps me out of my spiralling thoughts. The sound is so innocent, so oblivious to the kind of world we’re discussing, that it feels almost surreal. I shake it off and return to the conversation at hand.

“So, the moment someone overthrows the presiding person in power, they automatically get to occupy the seat he or she vacated?” I muse aloud, testing the waters.

“No,” Yuri answers smoothly. “One must be worthy enough. Crescenzo had to wait years, forge countless deals, and handle a lot of their dirty work before he was accepted into it.”

I glance at him, my eyebrows lifting in surprise. “And Zagan was accepted? Just like that?”

Yuri turns to me, his eyes glinting with a sharp pride that only comes from absolute loyalty. “They figured they’d be better off with him as an ally than as an enemy.”

I nod slowly, processing that. Zagan has always carried an aura of power—it practically seeps out of him—but even so, I’ve never fully grasped the depths of his influence. Not really. Even now, I’m certain there’s so much more to him than I understand. That thought should scare me. It would, under normal circumstances. Yet, strangely, it doesn’t.

“Did he always plan to become who he is now?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Yuri’s lips curl into a dark chuckle, and his gaze hardens, narrowing at something—or someone—that isn’t here. “No. Boss never wanted anything to do with this shit.”

“What?” I blink, startled. That isn’t the answer I was expecting.

He nods, taking the empty coffee cup from my hands and tossing it into a nearby trash bin. I pause at the edge of the street walk, choosing an empty bench and sitting down. Yuri, of course, remains standing, his posture rigid, hands clasped neatly behind his back like the ever-watchful guard he is. I roll my eyes and scoot over, patting the space next to me.

“Sit down, Yuri. I’m trying to be your friend, not your boss.”

“If I may, Ms. Ara, I’m good like this.” His response is polite but firm, leaving no room for argument.

I shake my head slightly, resigned, and turn to face him instead. He might not be willing to give me full answers to the questions spinning in my head, but his expressions will give away far more than he intends. And for now, that’ll have to do.

“What did you mean when you said he never wanted anything to do with this?” I press, keeping my tone as light as I can manage while still letting my curiosity edge through.

Yuri grits his teeth, clearly debating whether to answer. His silence stretches for long minutes, the tension between us thickening. So, I give him another nudge, this time a calculated one.

“Did he only want to remain a hit-man?” I ask, letting the question hang in the air, seemingly casual but carefully designed to provoke a response.

It’s a guess—a bold one, admittedly—but not without some basis.

I know Pietro Crescenzo wielded power through a shadowy army of hitmen, each one deadly, skilled, and under his command. They were his secret weapon, the reason he could rake in obscene amounts of money by accepting high-stakes contracts that others wouldn’t dare touch. They were also the reason people whispered his name with a mix of reverence and fear, a reputation that allowed him to ascend to his throne with terrifying ease after he ceased it from the last one.

The hitmen operated in the shadows, unseen, unheard, and, for the most part, unspoken of. They lived in Roarfort, confined to its underbelly, forbidden from stepping foot into the city proper. They were Crescenzo’s dark underdogs, the invisible hand that enforced his reign.

And then there was the legend. The conspiracy theories about one man among them who was unlike the rest. A ghost. A beast. A hunter so skilled, so ruthless, that even Pietro Crescenzo tread carefully around him.

It could have been anyone. But deep down, my instincts whispered one name: Zagan Devlin.

I’ve learned to trust my gut—it’s kept me alive so far. And right now, it’s telling me that Zagan isn’t just anyone in this tangled web of shadows and blood.

My question seems to crack Yuri’s resolve, just slightly. He exhales a short, sharp sigh, his shoulders shifting as he finally looks at me. His eyes narrow with a mix of suspicion and something else I can’t quite place—maybe resignation or reluctant respect.

“You can trust me, Yuri,” I say softly, leaning forward just enough to let him see the sincerity in my expression. “I just want to know him better.”

It’s not a lie. And he sees it. For all the things he has done, I sense that he is much more than what this world paints him to be. He is much more than just a boss. I sense that he is a deeply misunderstood individual who gave up on this world ever accepting him. I want to see the real him. The version no one knows.

Yuri leans against the lamppost, crossing his arms as he regards me. His dark eyes glint with something between reluctance and resolve.

Yuri takes a deep breath, his gaze distant as if watching memories replay in his mind. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, before he finally speaks.

“You really want to know about him?”

My heart thuds, uneasy yet curious. There’s something ominous in his tone, but I nod.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think he might refuse. But then he begins, his voice low and steady.

“It’s lonely to be him, you know. It always has been. People see power and think it comes with loyalty or admiration, but most of the time, it just breeds fear. And fear? That’s a damn lousy substitute for companionship.”

His words hit harder than I expected. I stay silent, letting him decide how much to share.

“You asked earlier if he always planned to be who he is. The answer is no.” Yuri’s voice dips lower. “When the boss first came to Roarfort, he was just a kid. Quiet, angry. No one really knows the full story—not even me. But he had a Ma, and she was gone. Dead. How? Only he and Iblis know.”

I feel a pang of something sharp and aching in my chest. I want to ask more, but the way Yuri’s voice trembles slightly stops me. I don’t want to push him too far.

“He didn’t talk much back then. Just to Iko, the man who took us in. Iko wasn’t warm, but he gave us something no one else would—a purpose. You’ve got to understand, kids in Roarfort weren’t given much to begin with. The world saw us as troublemakers, slum rats. No jobs, no trust, no chances. School? A joke. Most of us got suspended or stopped going altogether because no one cared enough to keep us there.”

Yuri’s jaw tightens, his fists curling at his sides.

“Iko cared, in his own way. He took us in when no one else would and trained us to survive, even thrive, in the only way Roarfort knew how. He turned us into Archers—Pietro Crescenzo’s hitmen. Skilled killers. We weren’t kids anymore; we were weapons. And our boss? He was the best of us. Even then, there was something about him. A relentless fury and sheer dedication to be the best.”

My throat tightens as I picture it, the anger and loss that must have driven him. I stay quiet, absorbing every word.

“Pietro treated us like animals,” Yuri continues, his voice hardening. “We weren’t people to him, just tools. If one of us died, he didn’t blink. Just sent someone else in their place. And we kept going because what else was there for us? Iko tried to fight for us, to demand better pay or safer missions, but Pietro never listened. So, the boss started taking on the deadliest missions himself. Over and over, he put himself on the line, not because Pietro deserved it, but because we deserved to come back alive.”

Yuri pauses, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white. The anger in his voice is almost palpable.

“Boss demanded more pay when some of us started our own families. Pietro agreed to pay us more, or so we thought. But his son, Amos, didn’t like the boss. And Pietro, for all his wariness, never had the guts to stand up to him. What happened next…” Yuri’s voice falters, his eyes clouding with pain.

My pulse quickens. “What happened?”

“Iko found someone,” Yuri says softly. “A woman. Rosie. She was everything he wasn’t—warm, kind, full of life. She was pregnant with their child. She cooked for all of us. The boss used to walk her to the market, carry her groceries, and stay close so nothing would happen to her. For a moment, it felt like we had something more than the blood and violence. Like we could be… normal.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I hold them back, sensing this story is far from over.

“Pietro’s men saw her one day,” Yuri says, his voice shaking with controlled fury. “Thought she was Boss’s woman and not Iko’s. Thought she was his weakness, so they killed her. And Iko. And all our men who weren’t out on a mission.”

My hand flies to my mouth, and the tears I’ve been holding back spill over. I can’t stop them.

“When the boss came back…” Yuri exhales sharply, as if trying to expel the memory. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He turned into the monster they called him. Even sent warnings to The Dark Accord brothers to stay out of his way. Shut down Pietro’s entire operation—casinos, trafficking, assassinations. Everything. Pietro had no money left to hire mercenaries to protect him. And then the boss went after him. Not just him—his whole empire. The Archers didn’t even hesitate. We followed him because we knew he was right. He killed every last one of them who was responsible for our people’s deaths.”

My chest feels like it’s caving in. “And then?”

“When Pietro was gone, and Amos somehow escaped, we needed a leader. The boss didn’t want it. Tried to give it to Iblis, but we all knew there was no one else who could do it. He didn’t take the throne for himself. He took it for us, for the promise of a better future.”

Yuri’s gaze finally meets mine, piercing and intense.

“He’s not a good man, Ms. Ara. But he’s loyal. And he’s given us more than anyone else ever has. We’re not slum rats anymore. Our kids go to private schools now—schools we built for us. He pays us well. He’s turned us into something no one thought we could be.”

My heart races as I listen, a mix of awe and something deeper swelling in my chest. I blink back tears as Yuri looks at me again, his expression softer now but still heavy with emotion.

“You’re the only thing he’s ever asked me to protect outside of the Archers, Ms. Ara. The boss... he doesn’t ask for much. Orders? Sure. That’s duty. But this?” Yuri pauses, his gaze steady and unflinching.

“It’s different. I’m honoured to be here, guarding you, because it’s finally a chance to do something for the man who’s done everything for us.”

My chest tightens, my heartbeat quickening at his words.

“Why me?” I manage to whisper, my voice shaky.

“Because you mean something to him,” Yuri says simply. “And that means something to us.”

The weight of his words settles over me, leaving me stunned and breathless.

* * *

I sniff again, the tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. My chest tightens with each breath, a physical ache matching the turmoil in my heart. Yuri watches me with concern etched across his face, his earlier confidence in sharing the story now replaced by what looks like regret. But I’m grateful he doesn’t push me to speak—I couldn’t string two coherent words together right now if I tried.

Later, when I find the strength, I’ll thank him. Because without him, I might never have known this side of the man who stirs such confusing, relentless feelings inside me. A part of me always suspected there was more to Zagan than his cold, unyielding exterior. How could there not be, when he saved me time and time again, without any obligation? But suspicion is one thing—acknowledgement is another. And until now, I’d chosen to ignore it.

Zagan isn’t a good man. He’s far from it. But Harley was right—so much depends on perspective. No one should have to endure what Zagan or his people did. Yuri spared me the worst of the details, I’m sure, but even the fragments I’ve heard are enough to twist my stomach into knots. There’s more to know, more to understand, but I can’t bear it right now.

The world isn’t fair. I know that. But every time I see its cruelty laid bare, it feels like a new wound, raw and bleeding. How many children were turned into killers, not because they wanted to be, but because no one was there to show them another way? I may not know who Iko truly was, but from the reverence in Yuri’s voice, I respect him already. He gave those children what he could: a semblance of purpose, a means to survive. You can’t teach love and compassion if you’ve never known them yourself.

Suddenly, Zagan’s aloofness makes sense. Losing his mother, Iko, and Rosie—it’s enough to break anyone. If Zagan was already a killer before, then losing the people he loved must have shattered what was left of his humanity. He’s become something else. A lonely god, too afraid to let anyone close, lest he lose them too.

Or… maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he feels nothing at all. Perhaps he shed his humanity long ago and now exists only as an angry, unfeeling and unrelenting tyrant. But I don’t think so. From what I’ve heard, he deserves the benefit of the doubt. He deserves… a chance—a chance at something normal.

And I hate how much I want to be the one to give that to him.

No. No. NO. My mind revolts, even as my heart betrays me. This path only leads to pain—soul-crushing, devastating pain. I can’t let myself fall for a man like him. I can’t.

But before I can dwell on it further, a figure up ahead pulls me from my spiralling thoughts. My lips curve into an involuntary smile.

“Fancy seeing you here, Har,” I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.

Harley pauses mid-step, turning from where she is about to disappear into a narrow street. Her eyes widen briefly in surprise before a warm smile spreads across her face.

“Ara!”

I smile back, though the heaviness in my chest remains. We’d taken the long route home—partly to let me compose myself before facing Cas, and partly to wrestle my thoughts into something manageable. Harley’s presence here is unexpected; she lives on the other side of the city. Her gaze flicks briefly to the man beside me, and Yuri, for reasons I can’t fathom, steps in front of me as though shielding me from her. My friend .

“Seriously?” I mutter, pushing him aside with a sharp look. “She’s my friend.”

Yuri doesn’t reply, but the tension in his stance is palpable, his eyes narrowing on Harley with unrelenting caution. To my dismay, she seems to mirror his unease, her shoulders stiffening under his scrutiny.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence.

Harley’s gaze shifts from Yuri back to me, though her posture doesn’t relax. “I’m here to see a doctor,” she says, her tone clipped.

I nod, unwilling to probe further in Yuri’s presence. Harley’s eyes flick back to him, her brow lifting slightly as though questioning his presence.

“Asking for help comes with terms and conditions,” I say, glancing pointedly at Yuri. “This is one of them.”

Harley chuckles, but it’s strained, the sound thin and brittle. Her gaze keeps darting to Yuri, and for the first time since knowing her, I catch a flicker of something I can’t quite place. Anger? Suspicion? I shake the thought off—Harley, angry? That’s not the woman I’ve come to know.

“I’ll see you on Saturday?” she asks, her voice softening.

“Sure,” I reply with a smile.

She returns the smile briefly before stepping into the street. My eyes linger on her retreating form, the safe bustle of the neighbourhood reassuring me. People walk in and out of the same street, and yet… a shadow shifts at its mouth. I blink, but it’s gone.

I turn back toward home, only to be stopped by Yuri’s voice, low and cold.

“She isn’t your friend.”

I spin around, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“She lied to you.”

“How?”

“There are no doctors anywhere in this area. No clinics. No in-home practices.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. There’s no need to ask how he knows; Yuri knows everything .

“So? Some people value their privacy, especially about personal matters,” I reply.

“Even with friends?” His brow arches, scepticism dripping from his words.

“Yes,” I snap. “And let’s be honest—no one’s going to open up about their life with an angry man glaring at them.”

Yuri’s gaze doesn’t falter. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ara, but when I reviewed your file, there was no mention of her. Anywhere.”

His words hit like a cold slap. My jaw slackens, more at his admission than the implication. That he’s read my file—a file containing my most personal details, including the people I trust—is infuriating. But I’m relieved Harley wasn’t in it.

“Thank God for that!” I snap. “That woman has been through enough. Leave her alone.”

Without waiting for a response, I march away. Yet something gnaws at me as I throw one last glance at the street Harley disappeared into. A figure stands at its mouth, hooded, their silhouette melting into the shadows before I can take another look.

I know Harley has her secrets—secrets she won’t share, just as I haven’t shared mine. But how dangerous could they possibly be?

Surely not more dangerous than mine.