The Devil's Whispers
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The Devil's Whispers
Prologue — Two Years Ago
Before everything fell apart, they kissed in a chapel no one was supposed to enter.
It was the kind of place left behind by time—old wood pews, cracked stained glass, and melted wax stuck to stone. No prayers lived here anymore. Just dust and secrets.
Emory Vale had come to be alone. It was the night of the Vale family gala—another cold, expensive lie she had to smile through. But instead of staying for toasts and photos, she slipped away in heels that clicked like guilt down the hallway of the east wing.
She didn’t expect anyone to follow her.
But someone did.
Skye Thorne.
She should’ve known. Skye never followed rules, only people who tried to escape him.
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He stood near the altar when she turned and saw him—dressed in all black, his hands in his coat pockets like he wasn’t in a sacred place but somewhere made for sinners. His expression wasn’t teasing. It was unreadable. Too quiet for someone like him.
“What do you want?” she asked, trying not to let her voice shake.
“You left the party early,” he said.
“So?”
“So I came to see if you were running again.”
She laughed bitterly. “From what? My family? Or you?”
He didn’t answer right away.
And that silence spoke louder than anything.
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Everyone at Braxton knew Emory Vale and Skye Thorne had history—
but no one knew how deep it ran.
They weren’t lovers.
Not really.
They were fire and ice. Curse and craving. A thousand almosts wrapped in silence.
That night, two years ago, was the first time Emory let him see her cry. It was the first time he touched her without making a joke.
The first time she realized he wasn’t just dangerous.
He was dangerous for her.
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“You don’t know me,” she said as he stepped closer.
“I do,” he said. “Better than he does.”
Emory flinched. He was talking about Ezra—the boy her mother approved of. The safe one. The boring one.
The wrong one.
“He’s good for me,” she said, half-whisper.
Skye tilted his head. “Then why do you always look for me in every room he walks into?”
Her heart thudded.
And then he stepped even closer. Just one breath away.
“If you want me to leave, say it,” he said.
But she didn’t.
Because she couldn’t.
And when she finally kissed him—when their mouths collided like two storms—it wasn’t soft.
It was desperate.
Dangerous.
And unforgettable.
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That night changed everything.
But no one ever found out.
Not about the kiss.
Not about the lie she told the next morning.
Not about how she left him bleeding in the dark for something she couldn’t explain.
Not about how he never forgave her.
Not even now.
Not even two years later, as the story begins again.
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End of Prologue
