The storm should have been the worst part of my night.
Rain soaked through my clothes as I stood outside the house, keys slipping in my trembling fingers. Thunder rolled overhead, sharp and relentless, but it barely registered. What made my pulse spike was the light spilling through the front door.
It was open.
My parents never left doors unlocked. They were paranoid like that—always afraid something would be taken from them.
I stepped inside, my chest tightening as the smell hit me.
Blood.
The living room looked like it had been torn apart by something deliberate and angry. A chair lay overturned. Drawers ripped open. A dark smear streaked the wall, as if someone had been dragged while fighting.
"Mom?" My voice cracked. "Dad?"
No answer.
I barely had time to lift my phone before a hand slammed over my mouth. My scream died in my throat as I was yanked backward, my spine colliding with a solid chest that didn't budge.
A man's voice brushed my ear—low, calm, terrifyingly controlled.
"Don't make a sound," he said. "If you do, this ends badly for you."
I nodded frantically, tears spilling as my phone slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor.
The hand didn't leave my face right away. He waited until my breathing slowed, until my body understood resistance was useless.
"They're gone," he said, releasing me just enough to speak. "Your parents."
My heart stuttered. "Where are they?"
A pause. Then, "They sold what they could and disappeared."
I turned as he spun me around.
And I understood.
He wasn't chaos. He was precision.
Tall, dressed in black, rainwater dripping from his coat like he belonged to the storm. His face was sharp, brutally handsome, his dark eyes assessing me with cold calculation rather than hunger.
"You," he said evenly. "You were their last asset."
My knees weakened. "No. You're lying."
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell rain and smoke. His fingers closed around my chin, forcing my face up, not painfully—just enough to remind me he could.
"They signed the contracts," he said. "Debt. Flesh clauses. Their signatures were very clear."
My voice dropped to a whisper. "Let me go."
His thumb brushed beneath my lower lip, wiping away a tear. The intimacy of the gesture made my breath hitch against my will.
Something dark flickered in his gaze.
"I don't kill what I own," he said quietly. "I decide what survives."
I shook my head. "Then kill me."
For the first time, he hesitated—not out of mercy, but curiosity.
"I was going to sell you," he said. "Highest bidder."
My blood ran cold.
"But now," he continued, eyes never leaving mine, "I've decided to keep you."
Thunder cracked outside as he turned toward the door.
"Get your coat," he ordered. "You're coming with me."
I knew then that being sold would have been mercy.
Because the devil didn't buy me.
He chose me.
*******************************
The car was silent except for the hum of the engine and the pounding of my heart.
I sat rigid in the backseat, wet clothes clinging to my skin. The man beside me—Lucas Dragovich—leaned back as if this were an ordinary drive, as if my life hadn't been dismantled an hour ago.
"You're trying to remember the route," he said calmly.
I stiffened.
"You won't," he added. "I change it every time."
His fingers lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him. His gaze was steady, unblinking, heavy with intent.
"When I speak to you," he said, "you look at me."
"What happens if I don't?" I asked.
His grip tightened slightly. "Then I teach you."
The mansion loomed behind iron gates and armed guards. It wasn't a home—it was a fortress. Stone, steel, and silence wrapped in luxury.
Inside, warmth hit me like a wave. Soft lights. Thick carpets. Everything designed to lull you into forgetting where you were.
"Take her to the shower," he ordered a woman who approached with her head lowered. "Burn the clothes."
I opened my mouth to protest.
His gaze cut to me. "You don't get to argue yet."
The shower was scalding. Steam filled the marble room as I scrubbed my skin raw, trying to wash away fear that clung deeper than blood. When I emerged, a black silk robe waited. Too soft. Too intimate.
Lucas was standing by the window when I returned, city lights sprawled beneath him like a kingdom.
"Come here," he said.
I stopped a few feet away.
He closed the distance, backing me against the wall without touching me. His presence alone was suffocating.
"I don't force obedience," he said quietly. "I cultivate it."
His gaze dropped briefly to the hollow of my throat, the rise and fall of my chest.
"You'll sleep in the east wing. Doors unlocked. Guards posted," he continued. "You'll eat, rest, and stay where you're told."
"And if I don't?" I whispered.
His mouth curved into something almost like a smile. "Then I stop being patient."
He stepped back.
"Tomorrow," he said, "your education begins."
*********************************************
Lucas's POV:
I don't keep people.
People are unpredictable. They lie. They break.
Amara was meant to be currency—nothing more.
Yet hours later, I stood in my study watching her on the security feed. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Awake. Counting exits that didn't exist.
Good.
Fear sharpens intelligence.
The men were already asking questions. Why bring her here? Why not sell her?
Because the moment I decided to keep her, she stopped being property.
She became territory.
And territory is defended.
I had no intention of touching her. Desire clouds judgment, and I don't survive by being careless. What she needed was structure—control disguised as safety.
She would learn the difference.
Punishment vs Protection
Just after a few minutes he noticed that she made it halfway down the east wing. He immediately steps out of the shadows and commands.
"Stop."
She did.
"You said rest," she snapped back, breathlessly.
"I said stay," He corrected.
He took her wrist and pinned it to the wall—not hard, not gentle. Just enough to immobilize her.
"This is protection," He said quietly. "From the men outside these walls who would tear you apart."
Her breathing trembled.
"And this," He continued, tightening my grip just enough for her to feel it, "is punishment for forgetting where safety comes from."
And then he released her abruptly.
"No locks," He said in a cold tone, stepping back. "I keep everyone else out."
She stared at me, confused, shaken, furious.
That was at least good for the start.
By the time she understands the difference between a prison and a fortress, she won't remember how to leave.