CHAPTER 2 – THE DEVIL RETURNS TO BOSTON
The marble floor felt like ice against Maren’s skin.
She couldn’t tell if the pain in her body was worse than the panic in her chest. Her vision flickered at the edges, and every breath dragged like broken glass through her ribs.
Around her, the ballroom had turned into silence carved from stone.
Then—
The doors exploded inward.
Not opened. Not pushed.
Exploded.
Black-clad men poured in first, forming a wall of suits, weapons hidden but unmistakable in their posture. The chandeliers above trembled as if afraid to stay attached to the ceiling.
And then he walked in.
Damien Rowe.
For a moment, no one moved.
Not the students. Not the teachers. Not even Chloe Ashford, whose mouth opened slightly as if her brain refused to accept what her eyes were seeing.
Because Damien Rowe was supposed to be dead.
But death had clearly made a mistake.
His eyes swept the room once—fast, controlled, lethal.
And then he saw her.
Maren.
On the floor.
Bleeding.
Pregnant.
Broken.
Something in his expression didn’t just change—it collapsed inward, like a building losing its foundation.
The entire room seemed to feel it.
“Who did this?” Damien asked quietly.
No one answered.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
Each step was slower than the last, like he was holding back something violent enough to level the building.
He knelt beside her.
“Don’t,” Maren whispered, barely conscious. “Don’t be real.”
His hand hovered over her stomach before touching her carefully, like she was made of glass and regret.
“Baby,” he said hoarsely. “Is it—”
“I don’t know,” she gasped. “I fell…”
A muscle in his jaw tightened so hard it looked painful.
Then he lifted his head.
And the room finally understood what kind of man had walked in.
Because the softness disappeared.
“What did you do to her?” Damien asked again.
Chloe finally found her voice. “She stole—she’s just the janitor—she fell, it’s not—”
Damien stood.
The temperature in the room dropped with him.
“You touched her,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a sentence.
Two of his men moved instantly. Chloe’s phone was ripped from her hand. Paige screamed. Sloane tried to run but was stopped before she even took a step.
Headmaster Ellison stammered, “Mr. Rowe, this is a school—”
Damien turned his head slightly.
“A school?” he repeated softly. “No. This is a room full of witnesses.”
He looked down at Maren again.
Then he spoke into his earpiece.
“Get me medical extraction. Now.”
A pause.
Then: “And bring me Vincent Hale.”
At that name, Maren’s eyes flickered.
“Vincent…” she whispered. “He told me you were dead…”
Damien went still.
For the first time since entering, something almost human cracked in his face.
“He told you I was dead?” Damien said slowly.
Maren’s lips trembled. “There was an attack… Chicago… I thought—”
A sound escaped Damien’s throat—low, sharp, dangerous.
Not anger.
Recognition.
Betrayal.
A helicopter thundered overhead outside.
And Damien Rowe, the man the city thought had vanished into war and blood, looked down at the woman he had spent seven months believing was gone from the world.
“I didn’t die,” he said quietly.
“I was buried.”
May you like
Then his eyes hardened.
“And someone is going to wish they had finished the job.”
