Chapter 2 Abyss of the Devil

‎Kane didn't stop to explain. He didn't care for the stares from his men as he ascended the grand staircase with Castelle in his arms. The leather-clad, gun-toting mafia members parted without a word-some in surprise, some with pity, and others with unreadable expressions. Their leader, bringing a woman home? A battered one at that? Unheard of. But Kane Aldrich didn't give a damn.

‎Once inside his room, he took her to the extension-a quiet corner with a plush couch facing the floor-to-ceiling windows-and gently laid her down.

‎Then he turned swiftly and went into the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit.

‎‎He opened it with a snap and froze.

‎‎His jaw clenched. Eyes burned.

‎

Her appearance had been bad enough in the dim light. But now, in his space, under his light, he saw everything.

‎‎Her clothes were torn and filthy. Glass shards still stuck in her skin. Her lip was split, makeup smeared across her cheeks in a conflict of color. Old bruises sat beneath fresh ones showing cruel layers of abuse. Her wrists... rope-burned. Her ankles... swollen.

‎‎He shut his eyes and took a long, slow breath, trying to swallow the fury rising in him like wildfire. This rage... it was not just anger. It was personal. Primal. Possessive.

‎He knelt before her.

‎Took her leg gently in his hand.

‎‎She flinched.

‎‎His tone softened like velvet. "It's okay, kitten. Nothing to be scared of here," he whispered. "You see me do something you don't like, you speak up. Clear?"

‎She looked at him, her eyes glassy and unfocused. But she nodded.

‎‎Good girl.

‎‎He looked up-and his door was open.

‎‎Several of his men stood there, peeking in. Some stared in shock at the sight of their Don on his knees. Others with sympathy at the state of the woman. But none dared enter.

‎‎Kane didn't blink. Didn't stop. Didn't care.

‎‎Let them look.

‎‎Let them wonder.

‎‎He used tweezers to pull out each shard of glass. She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Didn't even tremble.

‎‎And that disturbed him more than anything.

‎‎How used to pain was she?

‎‎A soft voice approached.

‎‎"Kane," Kareen, the house mother, stepped in with a face full of sorrow and arms full of supplies. "Let me help."

‎‎She handed him two painkillers. "Get her to take these. I'll run a bath."

‎‎He nodded stiffly, still battling the storm inside. Kareen moved with maternal precision, turning on the taps and preparing a warm soak in the en-suite bathroom.

‎‎Kane held the pills to Castelle's lips and tilted a bottle of water. "Swallow," he murmured. She obeyed-blankly, silently.‎

‎Kareen helped her up and into the bathroom. Kane excused himself, knowing he was at his breaking point.

‎

‎---

‎‎Downstairs, in his office.‎

‎The shadows were thicker here. The air colder.

‎‎Kane poured himself a glass of whiskey, each clink of the ice against crystal a shaky beat of control.

‎‎He stared into the amber liquid, jaw tight. One call. That's all it would take. One whisper into the right ear and he'd know everything about her-who she was, what happened to her, and who the bastard was that put her in that state.

‎‎But he held back.

‎‎Not out of mercy.

‎‎Out of restraint.

‎‎Because the moment he made that call, there would be blood.

‎‎He didn't want to hurt her more than she already was. Didn't want to destroy what delicate balance she was clinging to.

‎‎But God help the man who had touched her.

‎‎His thoughts spiraled until the soft sound of footsteps broke the silence.

‎‎Kareen entered with red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

‎‎He stood immediately, brows furrowed.

‎‎"Kareen?" he asked, voice low. "What happened?"‎

‎She said nothing, just stepped forward and hugged him. One of the few people who ever could. One of the even fewer he cherished .

‎‎Her body trembled.

‎‎He held her tighter. "You're not okay."

‎‎She shook her head.

‎‎Then she began.

‎‎She told him what she saw. How Castelle had stood there, motionless, even as warm water hit her bruised skin. How she didn't flinch when the soap touched her cuts. How she only moved when given instructions-like a puppet waiting to be told what to do.‎

‎"She's numb," Kareen whispered. "Not just from pain. From life. She's fading, Kane. She has no fight left in her. I scrubbed scars on her back that were old. Faded. Then saw fresh ones layered over them. I've seen pain before, but this... this is soul-deep."

‎‎Kane swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

‎‎"I'm begging you," she said. "Help her. Anything. Do anything to help her."

‎‎But Kane didn't know how to help her.

‎‎He couldn't fix what he didn't understand.

‎‎What he did know, however, was that whoever had broken her... had made it personal.

‎‎Because she was his now.

‎He hadn't claimed her yet, hadn't even kissed her, but the way his blood boiled at her bruises... the way his fists curled at the thought of someone hurting her...

‎‎This wasn't normal.

‎‎This was possessive. Consuming. Dangerous.

‎‎And he hadn't felt this way in years.

‎‎No-never like this.

‎‎Not with this intensity.

‎‎And that terrified him most of all.

‎------

‎

‎Castelle stirred.

‎Her body ached

‎Every part of her.

‎‎Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the warm, golden light filtering through thick velvet curtains. The sheets beneath her were impossibly soft, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if she was dead. If maybe... somehow, she'd slipped away in her sleep.‎

‎But the sharp pain in her ribs reminded her she was very much alive.

‎‎She blinked, turning her head slightly.

‎‎This wasn't her house.

‎‎It was too clean. Too spacious. Too expensive.

‎‎The king-sized bed she lay in was framed by black wood carved with precision and care. There was a fire burning in the hearth across the room. A low hum-like classical music-played faintly in the background. A chandelier sparkled above her, casting delicate shadows that danced across the ceiling.

‎‎Panic started to rise in her throat.

‎‎She sat up-too fast.

‎‎A cry of pain left her lips as her muscles screamed in protest.

‎‎"Easy."

‎‎That voice.

‎‎Smooth. Firm. Familiar.

‎‎She turned her head and saw him.

‎‎Kane.

‎‎He stood at the door, arms folded, eyes unreadable, but his presence was unmistakable-raw power, wrapped in a tailored shirt and black slacks, with that slight, dangerous lean to his posture that said he didn't answer to anyone.

‎‎She shrank back instinctively, even though part of her screamed she was safe. Her mind didn't know the difference yet.

‎‎"Where..." she rasped. "Where am I?"

‎‎"My home," he said simply, stepping inside. "You're safe."

‎‎She didn't relax.

‎‎Of course not.

‎‎Not with the lingering phantom of her husband's fists still etched into her body.

‎‎"You shouldn't have brought me here," she said, voice low and shaky. "I didn't ask you to."

‎‎"You didn't have to," Kane replied, his voice dangerously calm. "I don't need permission to protect what's mine."

‎‎Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide. "I'm not yours."

‎‎The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. Possessive.

‎‎"We'll see about that."

‎‎Silence settled between them like a loaded gun.

‎‎She tried to shift again, but even the movement of her arms sent pain shooting through her shoulder. A low gasp escaped her lips.

‎‎In an instant, he was by her side.

‎‎"Don't," he said firmly, gripping her wrist-not tight, but unyielding. "You're injured. You need rest."

‎‎She pulled away. "I don't need you."

‎‎His eyes flickered, a storm brewing behind them. But he didn't lash out. Didn't raise his voice.

‎‎Instead, he exhaled slowly, as if counting to ten in his mind.

‎‎Restraint. Always restraint.

‎‎"You don't have to like me, Castelle," he said, standing up and walking toward the window, hands tucked into his pockets. "Hell, you can hate me if it helps you breathe. But right now, you need me. And I'm not going anywhere."

‎‎She clenched her jaw. "Why?"

‎‎He turned slightly, only half-facing her.

‎‎"Because I saw you," he murmured. "And something in me snapped. You don't just walk past that kind of pain and pretend it didn't touch you."

‎‎She blinked, staring at him. "You don't even know me."

‎‎His jaw tightened.

‎‎"No," he agreed. "But that doesn't matter."

‎Then, softer-almost like a confession-

‎‎"I don't know what it is about you, kitten... but you're under my skin. And I won't let anyone hurt you again."

‎‎He turned away before she could see too much.

‎Because even he was scared of what he felt.

‎Of how fast, how deeply she had rooted herself in him. Maybe she was a whore like her husband had told her on different occasions.

‎‎And as she lay there, battered and broken, she didn't have the strength to fight him.‎

‎But she also didn't have the strength to believe him.‎

‎Not yet.

‎