CHAPTER ONE
ALEXANDRA JONES
HE STOOD THERE.
He stood there the entire night.
I saw him.
Our eyes locked, his piercing through the distance, penetrating the very fabric of my soul. Although his face remained hidden, veiled in an air of mystery, it was the way he looked at me. As if he claimed me.
As if he owned me.
As if I were his.
And only his.
However, fate had a different plan in store for me because I never saw him again. He vanished like a phantom into the depths of the night.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks into months.
Months turned into years.
Two years to be exact.
And yet I still, till this day yearned for his presence, sitting patiently by my window, waiting for a glimpse of him and for a reason that I did not know. Why did I want to see him again?
Maybe it was because I felt something, a connection of some sort that is indescribable. A connection I’ve somewhat felt before…
Yet, as time mercilessly marched on, a haunting realisation settled within me. It seemed as though Diávolos had disappeared from existence, as if he had succumbed to an ethereal fate. No whispered rumours reached my ears, no sightings or murmurs of his name floated through the air nor the newspapers anymore. It was as if the world had swallowed him whole, leaving no trace behind for me to follow.
And so, this makes me question: did I in some way frighten him? No, I couldn’t have, how could I frighten the man in love with death itself? If anything, I should have been frightened. But instead, I smiled.
I fucking smiled.
I remember the way he looked at me.
I liked the way he looked at me.
No one ever looked at me the way he did.
I read about him online, in the newspapers, the inside of my cupboards are filled with ripped papers, extracts about him.
But I guess it was harder than I thought.
He remained unknown. An enigma. An elusive figure devoid of face and identity. He was only simply known as ‘Diávolos’ and nothing more. He thrived in being known to love death. To love blood. This I knew, for on that night I witnessed his act of violence—where he pushed a knife into the man’s heart, extinguishing his life in a breathless gasp.
All whilst we looked into one another’s eyes.
However, it didn’t affect me as much as I thought it would. Not a single nightmare passed through my mind, he probably expected me to hide and run to safety-to lock all my doors and fear him.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t fear him because he intrigued me.
Instead, my gaze was sealed on the necklace around his neck.
Something oddly weird for a man such as himself…a gold butterfly pendent. Though he gave of the sense of a killer, that necklace shatters it all. Its design shimmered with an elegance, an enchanting symbol of fragility. And something about it consumed me, much like my unwavering obsession for art.
However, this time, my obsession rested upon Diávolos.
And it was a bad obsession.
One that should be stopped.
My mother would tell me stories about him, how he preys on the innocence of girls- ruins them. However, I saw her warnings for what they were—mere attempts to keep me sheltered at home, stopping me from going out into the world. But now, at the age of twenty- I sat by the window, engrossed in my artwork.
Painting has always been a personal experience for me, so I preferred to sketch half-naked, wearing only my favourite bra, underwear, and wired headphones. Some may find it weird, but it helps me focus and tap into my creative flow. Plus, there’s something about being partially exposed that enhances my connection to the canvas.
I continued sketching the outside of my window, using dark colours to portray the alleyway. I tie my hair back into a bun, not wanting to ruin it with paint. Lost in my art, I place the paintbrush behind my ear, allowing the paint to trickle into my hair. Opening a fresh can, a few droplets splattered across my chest. Fortunately, being half-naked meant I didn’t have to worry about spoiling any clothing.
With a soft sigh, I push my dark hair behind my ears and turn my gaze back to the alleyway.
And then, it happened—my heart skips a beat.
There he is, those unmistakable green eyes staring directly through my window, piercing through me like daggers.
He returned.
A sight I never thought I would witness.
He watches me with a predatory gaze, that he most likely used to fixate on those he held captive, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. In that moment, I felt more vulnerable than ever before. It had been two long years of anticipation, hoping for his return, and now he stood before me on the very day I chose to draw him on canvas.
Seizing the opportunity, I swiftly grab a pencil, the canvas, and began sketching him.
And still, he remains there, motionless, observing my every stroke.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the canvas, capturing his essence in graphite lines, and then back to him, studying the man who had haunted my thoughts for so long. As he stood there, his eyes secure on me, a chilling sensation gripped my heart. Slowly, he reaches up, his hands encircling his own neck as he delicately slid off a gold necklace adorned with a butterfly pendant.
An intrigued expression formed on my face as I observe his every movement, what is he trying to show me? Why is he showing me this? I turn my attention back to the canvas, grabbing a thinner paintbrush to recreate the necklace’s intricate details.
But when I look up again, he is gone.
Vanished into thin air.
And only half of the butterfly pendent is drawn on my canvas.
I rose from the seat, pushing the window open and leaning out, scanning the silent roads below. Only a blanket of untouched snow, devoid of any trace of his presence. Not a single footprint marked the pristine white landscape. Confused, I slide the window closed and take a small step back. My mind racing with questions: was it a mere figment of my imagination? There was no evidence that he was there? Maybe I was just going crazy.
No, he was there, I know he was there. I saw him with my own eyes and even began sketching him, I have to stop doubting myself. My fingers rush through my hair, maybe I didn’t see him, maybe I’m just hallucinating. I take a couple of steps back, until my body collides into something strong.
I don’t move.
That isn’t my wall.
He’s behind me.
I just know he’s behind me.
I close my eyes feeling his finger dragging up my arm, goosebumps begin to form after his trail, and the hairs on my body begin to shoot up. His touch shifts, his finger trailing across my shoulder before wrapping around my neck with a possessive grip. My breath catches in my throat as he tilts my head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of my neck.
Nothing left my mouth. Not a single word.
I glance up, and there he towers over me. A mask covering his face as his finger brush across my jaw, reaching my lips. He hooks his thumb beneath my bottom lip, pulling it down with a firm yet tender grip. My heart races as he exposes my teeth, his gaze intense and unwavering.
Then he lets go.
“Diávolos,” a hushed whisper escapes my lips. “What do you want?”
Diávolos reaches out and delicately removes the paintbrush from behind my ears. His actions are surprisingly gentle for what I expected from him, I’ll be honest I thought he wanted to kill me. But clearly not.
He then grazes the paintbrush just below my throat, Diávolos begins to use me as his canvas, his intent made clear as he swiftly stabs the actual canvas nearby. In a matter of seconds, he tears it apart, ripping it in half with ease that leaves me flinching in fear. He tucks the paintbrush behind my ears, and steps back. I turn around, now facing him properly. His physique exudes strength and power, evident in the solid build concealed beneath his snug sweatshirt. The outline of his well-defined biceps hints at the muscularity that lies beneath.
He analyses me, memorising every detail of my face.
I did not dare to move, nor did I dare to look away. I mean, who would when they had a complete stranger in their room? He walks around as if he’s been here before, standing in front of desk.
He raises one of the frames of Catherine and I, “I’m not afraid of you.” I speak. “You don’t scare me.”
I fold my arms across my chest, taking a step closer-wanting to see what on earth he is doing.
He turns.
And then, in a subtle shift of energy, I sense a smirk forming beneath the surface. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of my defiance.
He smoothly slips out of my balcony doors, disappearing into the night. I dare not turn to witness his departure. Startled by the realisation that Diávolos had managed to enter my room unnoticed, I instinctively turn my head towards the open balcony door.
The wind blowing the white curtains inside the room.
A surge of adrenaline rushes through me as I hurriedly rush towards it, locking it securely in an attempt to create a barrier between us. If I’m not afraid, why did I lock the doors? No, it isn’t fear, its something else. I just don’t know what that something is.
I turn my attention to the long mirror situated beside the door.
As I face my reflection, I realise that he has marked me.
He marked me.
He marked my body.
An X sat in the middle of my neck, my fingers grazing the wet paint as it smudged into the creases of my fingerprint.
I slowly look back to the window, then back to the mirror in shock. Does that mean I’m next? Does this mean he’s going to kill me? Is it because I noticed him, I studied him?
Or maybe…he felt as if I threatened him.
“Alexandra! Food is ready. Come down and set the table.” I hear my mother’s voice echo through the house.
Sighing, I reluctantly tore my gaze away from the sheet of paper. Slipping on a pair of comfortable joggers and a shirt, I made my way downstairs.
Growing up in a strict Catholic household, my life was a stark contrast to that of my friends and by friends – I meant Catherine. While she embraces new experiences and freedom, I am confined to the narrow path of obedience and study. My parents’ strictness knew no bounds. They feared anything that deviated from their idea of a virtuous life. Piercings, alcohol, parties—those were the activities of so-called ‘rascals’ that were absolutely unacceptable.
And then, there were tattoos.
The mere thought of permanently marking one’s skin was an abomination to them, a stain on our family’s reputation within the Catholic community. I descended the stairs and opened the cupboards, preparing to set the table. As I reached for the plates, a sudden gust of wind brushes against my arms. Startled, I turn to see my mother rushing past me, “Alexandra, close the doors after yourself!” The frigid air brought in by the breeze carried with it a trail of snow footprints, leading to the end of the stairwell. “Get a mop and clean it up.”
That’s how he got in? Through the back door?
But how did he come in unnoticed?
I retrieve a mop from the cupboard and began to clean up the snow tracks. As I wipe away the evidence of an intruder, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease, as if there was more to him than met the eye. Why did he disappear for two years? And why did he come back? It felt as if he wanted to torment me, to make me feel crazy. I’ll give it to him, it’s working.
Once the mess is tidied, I made my way to the dining table. My father’s eyes fell upon me, noticing the paint smudged across my face. He reached out, attempting to wipe it away.
“Got a lot of paint on your face, Alex.” My father chuckles. “And your neck.”
“Yeah, I was doing some work, didn’t really have time to clean up.” I reply, rubbing my face to remove the stubborn paint.
My mother glances at me, “I still don’t understand why you took art as your main subject.” She whispers as she settles down the food onto the table.
“Because it’s the only thing I’m passionate about.” I respond.
“Passion won’t give you a good life, it will not support you.”
“Enough Catalina, if Alexandra likes it, let her do it.” My father chips in, a smile spreads across my face.
My father interrupted my hurry to eat, reminding me to pause and say grace. I drop my fork, closing my eyes as I join in the prayer. The familiar words flowed from my lips; a ritual performed countless times before.
“I was thinking of going to the art museum tomorrow.” I speak, breaking the silence.
“Do you not have work?”
“No, I have a free day-the library doesn’t need me until Tuesday.”
“Then maybe you could clean the house-”
“Catalina, let her go-it’s only the museum.” My father interjects, my mother looks at him and they begin to exchange words with only their eyes.
“Why do you always do that?” My mother settles her fork down onto the table.
“Do what?”
“You always underestimate me in front of her.”
And here we begin, the arguments, nothing new here.
“She just wants to go the museum-”
“And you should understand why-”
“Catalina. Enough.”
“I won’t go.” I attempt to calm the situation down.
“Fine, you can go. Though your father and I have been speaking to Aunt Coraline, she is not feeling well.” My mother shifts in her seat. “We will be visiting her every weekend from now; you will stay at home and look after it. Get yourself a bit of practise for when you get married.”
“Mum, I’m only twenty.” I remind her.
“Old enough, I got married at sixteen and had you.” She points her fork at me.
“It was an arranged marriage, don’t suggest it though.” My father nudges my arms with a smirk.
“Oh, and I have invited the Johnson family to join us for dinner this Friday. They have a son, and he’s a good boy too, I wouldn’t mind letting you both date. His mother is a right charmer too.”
“I’m sure she is darling.” Dad replies, sipping his drink.
My phone vibrates from my pocket, and I slide it out.
Cathy (6:06pm): I’m waiting on the balcony, don’t be long.
“Can I be excused?”
“You have barely touched your food?”
“I’m not that hungry. Thank you.” I stand up, lifting my plate before placing it inside the sink.
With a sense of urgency, I retreated to my room, closing the door behind me. Sliding open the curtains, I unlocked the balcony door and stepped out into the cool evening air. Across the way, Catherine’s balcony beckoned, a sanctuary where we could share our daily chats undisturbed.
“Good to see you made it out of dinner alive,” I smirk, leaning against the banister of the balcony as Catherine joined me. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she tosses me a packet of cigarettes, which I catch effortlessly.
“I’m surprised I did,” I reply with a wry grin, taking one cigarette before tossing the packet back to her. In a fluid motion, she throws me a lighter, and I delicately rest the cigarette between my lips, the tip glowing orange as I attempt to light it. After a small shake, I try again, the flame finally catching and illuminating the night with its flickering glow.
“Did they bring up the Johnson family?” I nod, inhaling the tobacco.
“They sure did.” I whisper, a moment passes by.
“What’s going on?” I glance up at her, hesitating to speak my mind.
“What do you mean?”
“I can tell you’re hiding something.”
“It’s just a weird feeling I’ve been having…” Catherine settles down onto her wooden chair and kicks her feet up.
“Explain.”
“I-I feel like something in my life is missing…I keep having these weird dreams? Maybe it was because of my head injury or something.”
“Alex, I know what’s missing from your life.” Catherine speaks.
“What’s that?”
“You need to have sex.” I roll my eyes, flicking the ashes.
“That’s always on your mind, you know I’m not allowed until I’m married. I am a good Christian woman.”
Catherine gasps and grabs her heart. “And I’m not?”
“Shut up Cathy.” She stands up, leaning her arm against the banister.
“I’m being serious, God will forgive you and I don’t understand why pleasure is considered a sin?”
“It-”
“Actually, I have been meaning to ask if you can come with me to the tattoo shop tomorrow?” I raise a brow, “please Alex! I don’t want to go alone again.”
“You know I can’t be seen there; my parents hate tattoos.”
“Oh, come on, what happened to wanting to experience life? At this point, you might as well rot in your room.” I bite my lips. “Please.” She begs.
“Catherine.”
“I never beg, so please-please come with me.” She presses her hands together. “Don’t make me get on one knee, Alex.”
“Fine. I’ll come.” She claps her hand with excitement, I shake my head from her reaction as I throw the cigarette over the balcony. “I was supposed to go to the museum.”
“Go another day, I am sure they will not miss you.”