The smell of whiskey and stale tobacco clung to my father’s jacket as he shoved me toward the waiting car. His hands trembled, not from guilt but desperation, the way a man shakes when he knows he’s already been damned.

“Lena,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes, “you’ll be better off with him than with the men I owe.”

I wanted to scream. Better off? Better off being sold like livestock to the Devil himself?

The man by the car didn’t bother to look at me. He was one of the Devil’s guards, sharp suit, colder eyes. He opened the door with mechanical precision, like this was a routine delivery. Because to Damien Blackwood, it probably was. Women came and went like debts—collected, used, discarded.

The seat swallowed me whole. Black leather, scent of expensive cologne and iron. My father didn’t follow. He shut the door, and in that one motion, he ended every illusion I had about being his daughter. To him, I was currency.

The car pulled away from the curb in silence. My pulse hammered. I pressed my palms against my skirt, willing myself not to cry. Not in front of them.

The ride stretched into forever. The city blurred past, then the outskirts, then the looming silhouette of a mansion built like a fortress. Black gates opened with a hiss. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as we rolled into a world I had no place in.

When the door opened, cold night air rushed in. Two guards escorted me inside, their hands close enough to restrain if I bolted.

The house was a cathedral of shadows—polished marble floors, chandeliers dripping light, portraits of people whose eyes followed you as if judging your worth. My heels echoed, the sound far too loud in the cavernous silence.

And then he appeared.

Damien Blackwood.

Tall. Sharp lines of a tailored suit molded to a body built for command. Hair dark as midnight, eyes a shade colder than winter steel. He leaned against the banister of the grand staircase as though the entire house bent to his posture.

He didn’t speak at first. He studied me. Devoured me with a gaze that was both assessment and claim.

“So,” he drawled at last, voice deep and smooth, the kind of voice that could promise sin with a single syllable, “this is what your father thought you were worth.”

My stomach dropped.

“I’m not a debt,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

His lips curved—not into a smile but something darker, a predator amused that his prey had teeth. He descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, echoing.

“You are whatever I decide you are.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that his cologne wrapped around me. Dark spice and smoke. His hand tilted my chin up with a force both gentle and inescapable. “And I decide you’re mine.”

Heat crawled up my neck, shame and fury colliding. I jerked my chin free. “I’m not your anything.”

His laughter was low, wicked. “Oh, you’ll learn, Elena.” The way he said my name was a promise of ruin. “They all do.”

He motioned to the guards. “Take her to the east wing. Lock the door.”

“No!” My protest ripped from me. “You can’t just—”

But they could. And they did.

I was dragged through corridors lined with velvet drapes and silence heavy enough to smother. When the door slammed shut behind me, I was alone in a gilded cage. A bedroom, too beautiful, too suffocating. A bed large enough to swallow me whole.

I pressed my back to the door, breathing hard. He couldn’t just keep me here. I wasn’t his possession. I wasn’t.

But the echo of his voice slithered through me: You are whatever I decide you are.

Hours blurred. I paced until my legs ached, tried the windows only to find them locked tight. I refused to lie down, refused to let exhaustion claim me.

A sound cut through the stillness—the slow creak of the door opening.

My heart leapt into my throat.

Damien stepped inside. Alone this time. No guards. Just him and the suffocating gravity he carried. He shut the door with a click that sealed my fate.

He shed his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the chair. The crisp white shirt beneath stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins coiled along his hands as he undid his cufflinks with methodical ease.

Every movement screamed control. Power. Ownership.

“What do you want from me?” My voice was sharper than I felt.

He crossed the room, unhurried, until the bed separated us. His eyes never left mine. “Want? That implies choice, Elena. This isn’t about what I want.” His gaze dipped, traced me like a brand. “It’s about what you’ll give. Willingly or not.”

Rage flared hot and useless. “You’re a monster.”

“Perhaps.” His smirk was pure sin. “But I’m your monster now.”

He circled the bed, closing in, and I backed away until my legs hit the mattress. His hand shot out, pinning mine against the bedpost. His other brushed a strand of hair from my face, deceptively tender.

The world shrank to the heat of his body, the iron grip on my wrist, the danger simmering between us.

He leaned in, lips grazing my ear. “You’ll learn, Lena. Tonight, you’ll dream of me. And soon, you won’t want to wake.”

The door banged open.

I froze.

Another man stood there. Same dark hair, same sharp jawline. But his eyes—God, his eyes were different. Warmer. Playful where Damien’s were ice.

And he smiled, slow and wicked, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Well, brother,” the stranger drawled, gaze flicking to me with open hunger, “you didn’t tell me our new toy was this pretty.”

Damien’s grip on me tightened.

“Leave, Adrian.” His voice was deadly calm.

But Adrian only stepped further in, eyes locked on mine. “Why would I, when you’re having all the fun?”

My pulse thundered. Twins. Two of them. One already a devil, the other something far more dangerous.

I was trapped between hell and its reflection.

And for the first time that night, true fear shivered down my spine—not because one wanted to own me… but because both did.