Chapter 3 Caged Fire

Tobias' POV

Later, when I'm alone and the world is quiet-when it doesn't feel fuzzy and dark-I'll replay three days ago in my mind, trying to remember how I felt before my life was upended.

I'll recall coming home to my apartment from my shitty job, collapsing on my queen-size bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling.

The same apartment I shared with my uncle-since we were evicted from the last one for unpaid rent.

The car ride is silent. My questions hang in the air, unanswered, ignored by the two men who had dragged me out of that room and shoved me into this car.

I sit frozen. My wrists still ache, tingling from where the rough rope once bit into my skin. The silence is deafening, broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing.

My mind races like a frantic animal trapped in a cage. My heart pounds against my ribcage, too fast, too loud.

Benjamin Shaai.

The name alone feels like a heavy stone on my chest. A ruthless mafia boss. The king of New York's ugly underbelly. And now... my owner.

Everyone in New York knows the name Benjamin Shaai. Rumors say no one has seen his real face. The only people who have are his men and close associates. He rules with an iron fist, kills for the slightest mistake.

That's why they call him The Devil.

And here I am... bought by the devil himself.

The man who paid a million dollars for my body.

For my supposed "untouched" soul.

His words echo in my ears-cold and possessive.

"You belong to me, Tobias."

The name sounded alien on his tongue. It hadn't been spoken with such menace since my mother died.

Lost in thought, I didn't notice the car had stopped. I only noticed when the door opened and a voice snapped:

"Out."

I looked up.

"What the fuck are you looking at? Get out. Or do you want me to drag you out again?" one of the men growled, voice sharp with warning.

I climbed out slowly, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.

The devil has a castle.

The estate is a fortress-five stories of glass, stone, and steel, set against pine trees and cliffs. Security cameras blink like unblinking eyes. Floodlights sweep the grounds. Armed guards patrol like soldiers.

Everyone here carries a gun. Escape is a fantasy. If I run, I'll be gunned down-or ripped apart by those patrol dogs. Reality crashes down.

This is my life now. Thanks a lot, Uncle.

"Follow," the man snaps.

Inside, the house smells like leather and power. Every piece of furniture screams money. The art is bold and dangerous.

"This isn't a museum. Move. I don't have all day," the man barks again. I quicken my pace. We stop at a large door, guarded by a faceless man.

I'm shoved inside. The door locks behind me.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" I bang on the door. "Why did you lock me in?! I'm not a fucking animal! Open the damn door!"

Silence.

No one responds.

I slump against the door and slide down to the floor.

"Fuck," I whisper.

The room is large. A king-size bed, a dresser. No windows-only two doors. I try the first: a bathroom with a navy-blue interior. The second? Locked.

Some time passes. Then a knock. The door opens. An older woman in a navy-blue gown enters, carrying folded clothes. She sets them on the bed.

"These are for you. The boss said you should freshen up and change. He wants you ready for him when he returns," she says softly, her eyes almost kind. Then she leaves.

She reminds me of my mother.

But her memory is fading. The details blur, and what scares me the most... is waking up one day and not remembering her face at all.

I look at the clothes with a flare of anger. That bastard wants to sample what he bought. Like I'm a fucking product. I snatch the clothes and walk into the bathroom. I'm not doing this for him. I stink. We weren't even given soap or water at the auction house.

The hot water hits my skin like fire and I breathe again. I scrub until I feel raw. I don't stop until the water turns cold. Then I dress in the fresh clothes.

For the first time in days, I feel like myself again. But when I walk out, I'm not alone.

Benjamin.

He's sitting on the bed, legs crossed. His presence shifts the air-heavy with control, laced with something darker.

He studies me. His eyes roam from my face to my bare feet. My muscles tighten.

"Hmm... You cleaned up nicely," he purrs. "Good boy." A surge of desire rushed through me as he called me a good boy.

"I didn't clean up for you," I bite. "I did it for myself."

I held his gaze, my jaw clenched. I know I'm playing with fire. But I won't submit. Not to him.

He stands and walks toward me. I take a step back, but not in fear-in defiance.

We play this game of power until my back hits the wall. He's inches away. I can feel his breath.

"It seems you've forgotten my rules," he whispers. "You need a reminder of what I'm capable of."

His hand slams against my throat. Tightens.

I choke, struggling, gasping-tapping his wrist-until he finally lets go. I fall to my knees, coughing.

He returns to the bed. Calm. As if nothing just happened. Then he starts to undress. First his suit. Then his tie.

"What are you doing?" I ask, panic rising.

No answer.

He begins unbuttoning his shirt. "What are you trying to do?" I asked again "What does it look like?" he finally says, his eyes dark.

"To the bed. All fours. Face down. Ass up."

"No." I spit it out, shaking. "If you think I'm going to let you touch me, you're dead wrong."

"No?" he repeats, like a challenge.

He walks toward me again. My heart pounds.

Too fast. Too loud.

"Stop," I say, wanting to put space between us.

Then a stupid idea hit me. I blurted it out before I could stop myself. "Let me go," I said, voice shaking. "I promise, I'll pay you back."

"Pay me back?" he mocks. "A million dollars? How?"

"I have a job. If you let me go, I'll pay you in installments."

"That shitty job of yours?" he scoffs. "You don't even make rent. You think you'll pay off a million?"

"Fine. You'll work for me."

"What's the job?" I said

He meets my eyes. "You'll be my personal whore."

A pause. Then that cold, satisfied smile.

I stood there frozen, the air around me thick with humiliation and rage.

My fists clenched. My throat burned.