The old man wanted him to go inside his godforsaken home again. Aidan hesitated. Everything in him screamed NO. He had sworn to himself that he would never go near that demon again, that he would keep his distance, that he would pretend none of this had ever happened. But then—the ring.
Mr. Albu had spent thirty years making that ring, and Aidan had lost it in less than an hour. The guilt alone forced his feet forward.
So, against all his better instincts, he followed.
The moment they stepped inside, Mr. Albu shut the door and turned to face him, arms crossed over his chest.
"You shouldn't have broken the rules," he said, his tone filled with disapproval. "Now he's had a taste of you, and it's going to be difficult to get him under control."
Aidan froze, the words sinking into his brain like slow-moving poison.
"My taste?" He repeated, standing right in front of the threshold to Mr. Albu's home.
"Yeah," Mr. Albu said impatiently, "Didn't I tell you that Incubi soak in sexual energy? Seeing how much stronger he's become, I'd bet my life it's not from food but from feeding off of you."
Aidan's stomach dropped.
His mind raced back to all the times he had looked directly into Damon's eyes, despite Mr. Albu's strict warnings.
Not only that—he had been near him so many times. He had fed him meals, even outside of Mr. Albu's carefully measured portions. And worst of all, he had touched him.
Aidan's blood turned ice cold.
He had accidentally stumbled into the circle, and Damon had caught him. Held him. Pressed him against the floor, their bodies flush against each other.
Aidan sucked in a sharp breath.
He hadn't realized it at the time, but it all made sense now—the strange warmth that had spread through his body, the way his skin had tingled under Damon's touch, the sudden, unexplained rush of arousal at the worst moments.
Damon had been feeding off of him this entire time.
A shudder wracked through Aidan's body, a mix of revulsion and sheer, paralyzing fear.
He had messed up.
Badly.
And judging by the grim look on Mr. Albu's face, Aidan didn't even know the full extent of how much.
"You're lucky he didn't kill you," Mr. Albu muttered darkly.
Aidan remained silent as he trailed behind Mr. Albu, his mind a chaotic swirl of thoughts.
Damon could have killed him.
That should have terrified him more than anything—but it didn't. Because the reality was, Damon hadn't. He had the opportunity, the power, and probably every reason to do it. And yet, Aidan was still breathing.
That had to mean something.
Maybe Damon wasn't a killer. Maybe he wasn't as dangerous as Mr. Albu made him seem.
Still, Aidan was the one who had left him alone for three days.
If Mr. Albu's words were true, Damon had gone that entire time without food. Without energy. He very well could have starved to death.
Aidan swallowed down his guilt as they entered the kitchen.
Mr. Albu moved swiftly, slicing a small piece of raw chicken. He muttered something under his breath, his voice low and rhythmic, almost like a chant. Then, with a sharp exhale, he slapped it onto a plate.
"Here. Take this to him. And for God's sake—don't look into his eyes."
Aidan barely had time to process that before Mr. Albu was already shoving something else toward him—a ring.
It was made of copper wire, with a small ruby embedded at the top. Not nearly as fancy or intricate as the previous one, but the craftsmanship was undeniable.
"I made one that fits you this time," Mr. Albu said gruffly. "It's not as strong as the last one, but it'll do for now."
Aidan turned the ring over in his hand before slipping it onto his finger.
"This isn't enough food," he pointed out, eyeing the plate with a frown.
It barely covered the bottom of the dish. A tiny meal for any creature, let alone a powerful demon.
Mr. Albu gave him a flat look. "I'm being generous."
Aidan scoffed. "Generous? You're giving him scraps."
"Demons don't need human food," Mr. Albu shot back. "They have the ability to absorb human energy—sexual energy, in his case. And thanks to you, he's consumed enough to last him a few weeks."
Aidan's face burned at the implication. He did not need to be reminded of that.
Mr. Albu gestured toward the plate. "But I don't want him starving. I'm not a monster like my brother."
Mr. Albu sighed, rubbing his forehead as if suddenly exhausted. "I wouldn't normally entertain his demands, but I also don't want an angry, hungry demon in my house when my only real protection has been lost." His gaze flickered to Aidan's hand, where the new ring sat. "Moreover, I'm already under too much stress."
Aidan watched as Mr. Albu seemed to sink into his thoughts, his face lined with something that almost resembled worry.
Aidan took a deep breath, gripping the plate a little tighter. This was a bad idea.
"If I don't come back, tell Jared to let my parents know I loved them," he said, half-joking, half-serious.
Mr. Albu scoffed, his expression exasperated. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, clearly unimpressed.
Aidan swallowed down his nerves and stepped into the basement.
The air was heavy, thick with something unnatural, and the dim lighting only made it worse. His footsteps echoed against the cold stone walls as he walked toward the center of the room, where Damon sat, unmoving, in the farthest corner.
The demon looked thinner than before, but not nearly as emaciated as when Aidan had first seen him. His posture was tense, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he stared at the wall, completely ignoring Aidan's presence.
Aidan hesitated before carefully placing the plate of food within the circle.
He waited.
Nothing.
Damon didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge the food.
Aidan's stomach clenched with unease.
"He's not eating," he said, turning toward Mr. Albu, who stood by the basement stairs, watching intently. "I should go."
"No."
The word boomed through the basement like a growl from the depths of something dark and primal.
Aidan flinched, his pulse spiking as Damon finally turned toward him.
His grey eyes glowed in the dim light, filled with something dangerous—something hungry.
"Don't leave," Damon said, his voice quieter now but no less commanding.
Aidan barely resisted the urge to step back.
Damon was bigger than before—still gaunt, but his body had regained some of the muscle it had lost. His skin, though still unnaturally pale, had a faint warmth to it that hadn't been there before.
Something had changed.
Then, in a voice that sent a strange, shivering heat down Aidan's spine, Damon said:
"Feed me."
The way he said it—so deep, so smooth, so wrongfully sensual—made Aidan's stomach tighten with an unfamiliar sensation.
He shouldn't feel like this.
His skin tingled, his breath hitched, and worst of all—his body responded.
No. No, no, no.
His cock stirred, half-hard from just Damon's voice.
This wasn't normal.
"Stop that, Damon!" Mr. Albu's sharp warning cut through the air like a knife. "He is innocent!"
Aidan almost snorted. Not as innocent as you think, old man. But he wisely kept that thought to himself.
Damon's expression darkened as he turned his full attention toward Mr. Albu. He stood to his full height, stretching his lean frame before folding his arms over his chest, scowling.
"I'm not doing anything to him," he said, voice like a slow burn. "If I wanted to hurt him, I would have done it already. I had more than enough opportunities when you were gone."
"Lies." Mr. Albu's voice was filled with distrust. "Then why are you mesmerizing him? Why are you feeding off him?"
Aidan's breath caught.
Mesmerizing?
That's what this was?
It made sense—the way Damon's voice wrapped around his senses, the way his body betrayed him whenever he was near.
Damon scoffed, his eyes flashing. **"I am just trying to survive, wizard. I am dying—or can't you tell?" His voice dropped lower, filled with frustration. "I would have died the day you brought me here if not for this boy."
Aidan stiffened.
"What?" Mr Albu frowned.
"Every time he looked at me through your window, I fed off your energy," he said, each word deliberate. "That's the only thing that has kept me alive all this time."
Mr. Albu stood frozen for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Aidan, too, was at a loss for words.
Then, the old man inhaled sharply through his nose, straightening his shoulders as he finally spoke. "He will not be one of your victims, Damon." His voice was firm, but there was a thread of unease laced within it.
Damon exhaled, his silver eyes unwavering. "He is not my victim. I do not want to hurt him," he said, his voice solemn. "I give you my word."
Mr. Albu studied him, his aged face lined with suspicion. He was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing the risks.
Aidan, still reeling from the revelation that Damon had been feeding off him all this time, felt the urge to speak up. "I think he's telling the truth," he said quickly.
"Your opinion doesn't count, Aidan." Mr. Albu shut him down without hesitation. "Especially when you are under his influence."
Aidan clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to argue. He wasn't stupid—he understood that Damon's abilities could cloud judgment, but something told him that, in this moment, Damon was being genuine.
Just when Aidan thought Mr. Albu would send him back upstairs, the old man let out a long sigh.
"Fine. He can be around you," he finally said. "But you will have to make a blood oath."
Damon's jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring. A wave of something dark flickered across his face—anger, maybe? Frustration? His fingers twitched, curling into fists at his sides.
Silence stretched between them.
Aidan had no idea what a blood oath was, but from the way Damon's expression soured, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Damon exhaled sharply through his nose and said, "Okay."
Mr. Albu gave him a long look before turning and heading back upstairs. Aidan lingered for a moment before following.
When they reached the living room, Mr. Albu walked to his desk, pulling out a piece of parchment and an ink pen. Aidan leaned over slightly, watching as the old man began writing with practiced strokes.
"What is a blood oath?" Aidan asked, curiosity gnawing at him.
Mr. Albu didn't look up as he responded. "A blood oath is a magical contract. Once signed, it prevents anyone from going against their word. This paper states that Damon will never use his Incubus abilities to harm you or anyone else."
Aidan frowned. "And what happens if he breaks it?"
Mr. Albu paused, glancing up at him. "The oath can only be broken when one of the people who made it dies."
Aidan swallowed. Well, that's extreme.
"Why would he agree to that?" he asked, furrowing his brows.
Mr. Albu finished writing and finally turned to face him. "Because he wants you."
Aidan felt his face heat up instantly.
"For energy, I suppose," he muttered, trying to downplay it.
Mr. Albu shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know his exact reasons, but whatever they are, this will keep him in line."
Without another word, Mr. Albu grabbed the parchment and headed back toward the basement. Aidan hesitated for a moment before following, stopping at the top of the stairs while Mr. Albu descended.
From his position, Aidan watched as Mr. Albu stepped into the dimly lit basement, walking directly to Damon and holding out the parchment.
Damon took it, his eyes scanning the words before his lips curled downward.
"I will not hurt the boy," Damon said, his voice slow and deliberate. "But I can't promise not to hurt anyone else."
Mr. Albu's expression darkened. "That's not going to work."
Damon's eyes flickered dangerously. "Don't challenge me, wizard." His tone was low, almost a growl. "You know you can't stop me if I truly wanted to do something. Without the ring, you're helpless."
For a fraction of a second, Aidan saw something flash across Mr. Albu's face—surprise.
Then his eyes hardened, and his voice dropped to something colder, sharper.
"That boy is innocent to the horrors of your hidden world," he said, voice eerily calm. "The closer you get to him, the more vulnerable he will be."
Aidan's stomach twisted at the words.
Damon's expression remained unreadable for a moment before he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "I understand," he said. "As I promised, I will not hurt him."
"Then sign the paper with your blood."
Damon exhaled sharply, then looked down at the parchment again.
"Cut out the 'anyone else' part."
Mr. Albu's lips pressed into a thin line.
With an irritated huff, he snatched the paper from Damon's hands, crossed out a portion of the text, then shoved it back toward him.
Damon smirked, the expression sharp—almost sinister. His canines flashed, gleaming in the dim light.
Bringing his thumb to his lips, he bit down. A drop of dark red blood beaded against the skin before he pressed it against the parchment, leaving a crimson smear across the page.
"Is the drama finished? Can I go home now?" Aidan asked, forcing a light tone despite the tension lingering in the air. His heart was still racing, his hands slightly clammy. He needed to get out of here before his thoughts spiraled any further.
Damon, however, had other plans. His gaze remained fixed on Aidan, intense and unwavering. "You still need to feed me." His voice was low, almost a purr, and it sent an involuntary shiver down Aidan's spine.
Aidan cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. "Fine. Open your mouth, and I'll aim it in."
Damon's lips stretched into a slow, devastatingly beautiful smile—one that knocked the breath straight out of Aidan's lungs. It was dazzling, wicked, and entirely too powerful. Was this an Incubus thing? Or was it just Damon? Either way, Aidan was dangerously intrigued.
"Whatever you say, darling."
Then—he winked.
Aidan's brain short-circuited.
NO. No, he did not just wink!
Damon parted his lips, and Aidan instantly regretted looking.
His mouth was... distractingly sensual, the curve of his lips unfairly perfect. But it was what lay inside that made Aidan's stomach flip. His tongue was longer than expected, sleek and unnervingly dexterous, and his canines—sharp, lethal—flashed under the dim basement light. The combination should have been terrifying, but instead... Aidan felt an odd pulse of heat settle low in his belly.
No. No. Nope. We are NOT going there.
Determined to break the spell, he quickly tossed the piece of raw chicken toward Damon's mouth before he did something stupid—like stare any longer.
He missed. Horribly.
But Damon was fast. In a blur of movement, he caught the piece effortlessly, his sharp teeth sinking into the meat with deliberate slowness.
"Thank you," Damon murmured, his voice velvet smooth as he chewed, his gaze never leaving Aidan's.
Aidan spun on his heel and fled.
Nope. Absolutely not. He was not going to overthink this. Not today.
***
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