Chapter 2 No Mercy in Midnight

🖤 SINNER'S SLAVE

{Obey, Suffer, Survive}

Author's POV

The room was beautiful.

White marble floors. Gold-framed mirrors. A chandelier that sparkled like it belonged to royalty.

And yet-beneath the surface-it felt like a coffin.

She didn't speak when they dragged her in. Didn't look around. She just stood in the center, still wearing that blood-stained dress. Eyes blank. Shoulders tight. Like a doll someone forgot to wind up.

The door slammed behind her, and she was alone.

Hours passed.

She didn't cry.

She sat. Curled into a corner, arms wrapped around herself. Cold. Hungry. Empty. But stubborn. Oh, so stubborn. Because if she cried now... she'd never stop.

When the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, she stirred.

Not from sleep-she hadn't slept-but from instinct.

Someone was coming.

The door opened.

And in walked the devil himself.

Damien.

He looked the same as he had earlier-sharp suit, perfect posture, soulless gaze-but this time, he didn't have an audience. This wasn't a show of power for his men.

This was just for her.

She stood when he entered, unsure why.

Maybe to look strong. Maybe because she didn't want him to see her on the floor.

He didn't say a word at first. He just stared at her like she was some puzzle he hadn't decided how to break yet.

Then, casually, coldly-

"Strip."

The word hung in the air like smoke. Ugly. Heavy.

She blinked.

She must've misheard.

"I said strip," he repeated, slower this time, like she was stupid.

Still, she didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't even breathe.

For a moment, neither did he.

Then something shifted in him.

The patience vanished. The silence turned to thunder. He crossed the space between them in three long strides and grabbed the front of her dress.

One tear. That's all it took.

The fabric shredded in his hands like paper, exposing bare skin beneath. She gasped, trying to cover herself, but it was too late.

She wasn't human to him. Not here. Not now.

Just a ghost of a name he wanted to erase.

Tears slipped from her eyes-not from shame, not from fear-but from the cruel humiliation. The raw helplessness. The silence she was drowning in.

But Damien didn't stop to look at her face.

Didn't comment.

Didn't touch her again.

He turned his back without another word and walked toward the door, jaw clenched tight like something inside him was cracking.

And that was the worst part.

The moment she was stripped bare and shattered-he walked away.

She heard him speak to someone outside the door.

"Tell Lucia and the others to meet me in my suite."

Then he left.

Just like that.

Not to comfort her. Not to punish her.

But to bury whatever pain her face had stirred in someone else's body.

And because whatever ghost of emotion her face stirred in him... he'd rather destroy it in someone else.

She stood there, trembling, half-naked, alone in a room more expensive than any place she'd ever slept-and felt like she was sinking through the floor.

This wasn't captivity.

It was erasure.

And the worst part?

He hadn't even touched her.