Page 123 of The Devil's Canvas

Owen goes still. The kind of stillness that feels unnatural—like something is calculating behind his eyes. His jaw clenches. “Aunt Selene.”

My mouth goes dry. My body sways, like the floor tilts beneath me. “What?”

“She’s done this before,” he mutters. “Shown up when she shouldn’t be able to. Whispers in the cracks between things. She doesn’t meddle unless she sees something the rest of us can’t.”

“So you believe me?”

He nods, wary now. “I believe something wanted you to find that book. And if Selene had a hand in it... this isn’t just grief. It’s fate. And that terrifies me.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I’m done being scared alone.”

His expression hardens. “And what do you think happens next, Ophelia? You trade whatever’s left of yourself and hope he comes back the same? You think he’d want that?”

“I don’t care what he’d want,” I snap, voice sharp with pain. “I want him. And I’ll give whatever it takes.”

Owen’s jaw clenches. “And if what it takes is you? You think that’s a fair trade? You think he would let you do that?”

“He did do that.”

“That’s not the same—”

“It is!” My voice cracks, rising. “He didn’t ask. He didn’t warn me. He just left. So now I’m making the same choice. The same sacrifice. I learned from the best.”

Owen steps forward, anger sparking. “That’s not learning. That’s falling into the same damn pit. And you think I’m just going to stand here and let you?”

“You don’t get to decide,” I fire back. “You don’t get to stop me.”

“I’m his twin,” Owen growls. “You think this doesn’t kill me too? I saw him fall. I felt it when the bond broke. And now you’re standing in blood summoning me like I’m your shortcut to self-destruction.”

“I’m summoning you,” I breathe, “because no one else would listen.”

He falters for a second. His shoulders drop, but the fury in his eyes stays.

“I am listening,” he says, softer now—but no less intense. “I see you, Ophelia. I see what this has done to you. But this… this is the part where someone’s supposed to pull you back.”

“You can’t pull back someone who’s already gone.”

His silence is deafening. “What are you offering?” he asks, his voice low and edged like a blade barely sheathed.

“Whatever it takes.” I meet his eyes, steady despite the tremor in my chest, even as my fingers dig crescent moons into my palms.

“No,” he snaps, jaw tightening as he takes a step forward. “Be specific.”

“My soul.” The words leave my mouth like a blade pressed to my own throat, quiet but unwavering.

He flinches, just barely—like I struck something raw beneath the surface. His eyes darken, grief and fury flickering in the depths. “You want to trade your soul for his?”

“Yes.” My voice is steady now, cold, certain. I straighten, refusing to look away.

“And what if I say no?” he growls, his arms crossed like a shield he doesn’t know how to lower.

“I’ll find someone else.” My pulse pounds in my ears, but I don’t back down. “In a heartbeat,” I add, chin lifted, the tremble in my limbs no match for the fire in my voice.

Owen studies me for a long moment. There's no more arguing left in him—only a quiet, heavy understanding. He nods once, sharp and solemn, and pulls a scroll from the air.

It doesn’t burn, doesn’t sizzle with magic. It just exists, the parchment thicker than paper, smoother than flesh. A contract waiting for blood.

Owen holds it between us, and with a flick of his hand, the terms appear in ink that looks disturbingly like it was carved from shadow.

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