Beso del Diablo

The storm didn’t just break over Manila—it erupted. Thunder snarled like it had teeth, and the rain came down in sheets, thick and punishing. Wind howled through the narrow streets of the old district, rattling windows and scattering petals from a forgotten altar outside a corner chapel. Electricity danced in the air. It smelled like something ancient had woken.

Isabella Cruz cursed softly under her breath as she wrestled the heavy shutters of her antique shop closed. Her father had built Cruz Antiquities decades ago, and the creaking wood and rusted hinges were proof. Her raincoat clung to her skin, soaked and useless, as the last latch finally clicked into place. She took one last glance outside—deserted streets, puddles glowing with neon reflections—and locked the door.

Inside, the shop was dim and warm, lit by flickering lamps hanging from old chains. The scent of aged paper and sandalwood clung to every crevice. Rows of books, crucifixes, dusty frames, and forgotten trinkets stood like sentinels around her. It was quiet. Safe. Predictable.

Just how she liked it.

She shook off her jacket and tossed it over the counter, kicking off her boots. Her life was a string of quiet routines—tea at seven, ledgers by eight, and reading until midnight. She hadn’t been kissed in over two years. Hadn’t dated anyone since college. And she was still a virgin, not for lack of interest, but because no one had ever made her want to give it up. No one had burned through her silence.

Until tonight.

A crash shattered the moment.

Glass. Back room.

Isabella’s heart jumped into her throat. She stood frozen, eyes wide as the sound of wet footsteps echoed through the back hallway. Wind whistled through the broken pane.

“Shit,” she whispered, reaching under the counter for her father’s old bolo. She held it with both hands, the weight familiar but awkward. “If you’re a ghost, at least leave a tip.”

The footsteps grew louder. Unsteady. Then he appeared.

A man—tall, soaked, blood trailing from his side. Dressed in black, his clothes clung to a body cut from nightmares and desire. His hair hung in wet strands, obscuring part of his face, but his eyes…

His eyes were obsidian fire.

“Don’t move!” Isabella barked, raising the bolo. “I watch horror movies. I know how this ends.”

He staggered, gripping a bookshelf to steady himself.

“Please,” he rasped. “They’re coming.”

“Who the hell is—”

“I need help,” he said, before his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees.

Instinct warred with reason. He was dangerous. Bleeding. Possibly criminal. But something inside her—something buried deep—responded. She saw not just blood, but brokenness. Desperation. A man haunted.

She lowered the bolo. “Lie down. Don’t die on my rug. It’s Persian.”

He collapsed onto the leather couch in the back room, groaning. Isabella knelt beside him, ripping open his shirt to assess the damage. Her fingers brushed against hard, sculpted muscle as she peeled wet fabric away.

The gash on his side bled steadily, but it wasn’t fatal. She grabbed a towel and antiseptic from the tiny shop first-aid kit. He watched her silently, those dark eyes never leaving her face.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said hoarsely.

“I’m not sure I have the luxury of fear tonight,” she muttered, cleaning the wound. Her hands trembled.

He chuckled, deep and low. “You should be.”

She met his gaze. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m cursed.”

She blinked. “Oh great. Of course you are. Bleeding, mysterious, and now cursed. Are you going to tell me you’re also a lost prince?”

“No,” he said. “Worse.”

His hand shot up, cupping her cheek. She froze.

“Thank you,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across her skin. “For not letting me die.”

And then he kissed her.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

It was an inferno.

Isabella gasped as his mouth claimed hers—hungry, brutal, consuming. His hand gripped her nape, dragging her deeper into the kiss. His tongue invaded hers, demanding and skilled, tasting her like she was the first clean breath he’d had in centuries. She moaned before she could stop herself.

He tasted like heat and blood and danger.

The kiss sparked something violent in her. Something she didn’t understand—images flashing across her mind that didn’t belong to her. Fire. Chains. Screaming. The sound of a name she knew in her bones: De León.

She tore away, gasping.

He slumped against the couch, unconscious.

Her lips were swollen. Her chest heaved. Her body trembled from a kiss that should never have happened.

What the hell just happened?

She looked down at him—the stranger who bled in her shop and kissed her like he’d known her in lifetimes past. Her fingertips grazed her lips. And for the first time in her carefully quiet life, Isabella Cruz was afraid.

Not of him.

Of what he made her feel.

—

She didn’t sleep.

Instead, she cleaned the blood, checked the locks, and made tea she never drank. She sat near the couch, watching him sleep. He murmured in a language she didn’t know, brow furrowed, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

There was a mark on his skin—a tattoo on his left shoulder. A lion and a flame, circled by Latin script. Her heart stuttered.

She’d seen that symbol before.

In her father’s journal.

She ran to the back room, dug through the shelves until she found the battered leather book. She flipped past notes and sketches until—

There it was.

The same seal.

“El Diablo De León. Blood debt. Do not awaken.”

She snapped the book shut, her heart racing.

He wasn’t just a man. He was a legacy. A curse. A prophecy.

And she had just kissed it awake.