Chapter 5 In the Devil's Territory

The first sensation that reached me when I woke was softness.

For several long seconds, I lay still, unable to understand why my body no longer felt the punishing coldness of steel and chains. Something smooth brushed against my skin, warm and expensive, and when I finally forced my heavy eyelids open, a flood of sunlight struck my vision. I squinted against the brightness and slowly pushed myself up, my limbs still weak but no longer as numb as they had been before.

I found myself lying on an enormous bed dressed in white cotton sheets so soft that they almost felt unreal beneath my fingertips. The room surrounding me was far removed from the underground horror I last remembered. Golden curtains framed towering glass doors to my left, swaying gently as sea wind drifted through the slight opening. Beyond the glass stretched an endless view of blue water shimmering beneath the daylight, its restless reflection dancing over the polished marble floor. The entire suite looked lavish to the point of absurdity, from the cream-colored walls and expensive furnishings to the heavy silence that wrapped around everything.

For one disoriented moment, the room felt detached from reality, as though I had been dropped into the wrong world.

Then memory returned with brutal clarity.

The auction hall.

The chains cutting into my wrists.

Masked men bidding over my body.

And him.

I pushed myself farther upright, my breathing turning shallow as panic slowly settled back into my chest. My body still felt drained, but my mind was now clear enough to understand that this was no rescue. I had not been taken from one nightmare and placed into safety. I had merely been moved from one cage to another, only this one was lined with silk and sunlight.

"Where am I?" I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else.

"At my turf."

The deep baritone voice came from the far side of the room, and the sound of it made my entire body tense.

I turned sharply to my right.

He was leaning against the wall near the door with the relaxed posture of a man who had nowhere else to be. He was no longer dressed in the black tuxedo from the auction, but the change of clothes did nothing to lessen the severity of his presence. A loose white polo shirt hung over black slacks, the top button undone, and his dark hair looked slightly disordered, as though he had run a hand through it more than once. Without the silver mask concealing half his face, there was nothing left to interrupt the full force of his features.

I stared before I could stop myself.

He was exactly the man I remembered from the fragmented moments before I lost consciousness, only clearer now, more sharply carved, more disturbingly real. I remembered his hand crushing Cain's throat. I remembered the room of criminals falling silent when he entered. I remembered being lifted into his arms as if I weighed nothing at all.

Most of all, I remembered that I had been sold.

Sold to him.

The realization made my fingers curl tightly into the bedsheet.

Staying in this room with him could only mean one thing. The auction had ended, the money had changed hands, and whatever legal or moral meaning the word freedom once held no longer applied to me. I belonged, by the twisted rules of that monstrous world, to the man now watching me in silence.

I instinctively shifted backward.

His eyes followed the movement.

"Judging from that expression," he said calmly, "your memory is functioning well enough."

My throat tightened. I wanted to answer, but my voice seemed to have abandoned me.

He pushed himself off the wall and began walking toward the bed.

There was no rush in his movements, no outward aggression, and yet I felt my heartbeat growing louder with every step he took. Something about the measured confidence in him was more terrifying than anger. Angry men could be predicted. Men this calm felt far more dangerous because they acted as though every possible outcome already favored them.

By the time he reached the bedside, I had backed myself as far as the headboard would allow.

I kept my eyes on the ocean outside the glass doors, pretending that the sunlight and the moving waves were more interesting than the man standing over me. It was a childish attempt to avoid his attention, but looking directly at him made me far too aware that we were alone.

Completely alone.

No guards.

No Maze.

No witnesses.

Just me and the man who had spent a trillion to own me.

A warm hand suddenly closed around my chin.

I flinched.

His grip was not brutal, but it was firm enough that resistance became pointless. He turned my face toward him with one controlled motion, forcing me to abandon the safety of looking elsewhere.

I lowered my gaze immediately.

"Look at me."

His voice remained low, but the command in it was unmistakable.

I swallowed and slowly lifted my eyes.

The first thing that struck me was how unnatural his eyes looked up close. They were blue, but not the gentle kind of blue that reminded one of calm skies or clear oceans. There was something colder in them, sharper, as though frost had learned how to stare back. Combined with the hard symmetry of his face, the straight nose, the severe jawline, and the lips that looked deceptively composed, his appearance carried the kind of beauty that did not comfort. It unsettled.

I hated myself for noticing.

Worse, I hated that I had been staring long enough for him to notice too.

A faint amusement passed over his face.

"Done inspecting me?"

Heat rushed to my cheeks.

I blinked rapidly and tried to recover what little dignity I had left. "Inspecting?" I let out a dry laugh that sounded far more confident than I felt. "You flatter yourself."

His brows lifted slightly, though whether in amusement or disbelief, I could not tell.

I should have stopped there.

I should have shut my mouth and remembered basic survival.

Unfortunately, my tongue had always enjoyed making enemies before my brain could intervene.

"You think I would spend my time admiring the man who bought me like livestock?"

The words slipped out before I could pull them back.

Silence followed.

An ugly, suffocating silence.

My own heartbeat became deafening.

Inside, I was already planning my funeral.

He said nothing at first. He merely looked at me, and the longer that gaze lingered, the more I regretted every reckless syllable that had left my mouth. There was no visible anger in his face, but there was something darker than anger in the way his eyes sharpened, something that made me feel as though I had stepped too close to the edge of a cliff without realizing it.

I lowered my gaze again, this time because holding his stare felt impossible.

When he finally spoke, his tone was cool enough to send another shiver through me.

"It seems the drugs have worn off."

I frowned, confused by the statement, but before I could ask what he meant, his hand slid down from my chin and wrapped around my wrist.

He pulled.

The movement was so sudden that I barely had time to gasp before I was dragged off the bed. My bare feet hit the marble floor awkwardly, my knees still unsteady enough that I nearly stumbled into him, but he did not slow down.

"Wait," I protested, trying to pull back. "Where are you taking me?"

He kept walking, his grip firm as iron while he led me toward the door.

Only when his fingers tightened around my wrist did he glance at me over his shoulder, and the cold composure in his face made my protest die halfway up my throat.

"To begin your education," he said.