Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

A blinding flash of lightning tore through the New York sky.

The harsh white light illuminated the cramped, single bed in the Brooklyn apartment for a fraction of a second.

Elie Joyce shot up from the mattress.

She gasped for air, her chest heaving violently as if invisible hands were crushing her lungs. Cold sweat drenched her forehead, pasting her dark hair to her skin.

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. Her entire body shook. The violent tremors started in her fingertips and radiated all the way to her core. The thunder cracked seconds later, a deafening boom that mirrored the trauma of that stormy night three years ago. The night her life ended.

On the chipped wooden nightstand, her phone vibrated.

The harsh, mechanical buzzing sound cut through the silence of the room. It was a jarring, unnatural noise.

Elie's fingers stiffened. Her breath hitched. She stared at the glowing screen, her hand hovering over it, paralyzed by a heavy, sinking dread in her stomach.

She forced her cold fingers to pick it up.

The text message was from Davin Schmitt. It was short.

Mr. Ewing requires your presence at the Long Island estate. Immediately.

Seeing Ebert's name on the screen made Elie's pupils constrict. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer painfully against her ribs.

She closed her eyes and took a sharp breath in through her nose. She swallowed hard, forcing down the bile and absolute terror rising in her throat.

Elie threw off the thin blanket. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor.

She walked into the tiny, windowless bathroom. She turned the rusted faucet. Freezing tap water poured out. She cupped her hands, collected the icy water, and splashed it directly onto her pale face.

She looked up at the cracked mirror. Her face was entirely devoid of color. Her lips were trembling.

Elie bit down hard on her lower lip. She bit down until the sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded her tongue. The physical pain grounded her.

She turned and walked to her narrow closet. She pulled out a faded grey sweater and a pair of worn-out denim jeans. The fabric felt rough against her cold skin.

She grabbed a black umbrella and her keys from the hook by the door.

Elie pushed open the peeling wooden door of her apartment and stepped into the dimly lit, flickering hallway.

She walked quickly down the narrow stairwell. Her short, heeled boots hit the concrete steps with a dull, heavy thud.

She pushed open the heavy iron door at the bottom of the building. A violent gust of wind, carrying freezing rain, slammed into her face.

She forced the umbrella open and stepped out into the flooded streets of Brooklyn. The rain was torrential. She raised her hand, trying to flag down a cab.

Three yellow taxis flew past her. Their empty lights were on, but they didn't stop. They splashed freezing, filthy puddle water all over her legs. Her jeans were instantly soaked through, clinging heavily to her calves.

A fourth taxi finally screeched to a halt in front of her. Elie collapsed the umbrella and slid into the back seat.

"The Ewing Estate. Long Island," she told the driver. Her voice held a slight, uncontrollable tremor.

The bright, chaotic neon lights of Manhattan blurred past the rain-streaked window. Soon, the city lights faded, replaced by the dark, dense, and oppressive woods of the Long Island wealth enclaves.

The taxi stopped abruptly in front of massive, black wrought-iron gates.

"Private property, lady. I can't go in," the driver said, looking back at her.

Elie handed him the cash. She pushed the door open and stepped back out into the pouring rain, opening her umbrella.

She walked up to the intercom mounted on the stone pillar. She pressed the cold metal button. A heavy, mechanical grinding sound echoed through the storm as the massive gates slowly slid open.

Elie walked onto the long, unlit gravel driveway. The shadows of the ancient trees twisted and stretched in the lightning, looking like monstrous figures waiting to grab her.

Suddenly, a massive figure in a yellow raincoat stepped out from behind a wooden tool shed.

He blocked her path completely.

It was Cletus Pogue, the estate gardener. He held a pair of large, heavy pruning shears in his thick hands. A malicious, mocking smile twisted his face.

Cletus took a heavy step forward, invading her space.

"Look what the rain washed up," Cletus spat, his voice loud over the storm. "You shameless parasite. You monster. You actually have the nerve to show your face here."

Elie's fingers gripped the handle of her umbrella so tightly her knuckles turned stark white.

She did not take a single step back. She kept her spine completely straight.

She slowly raised her head. She looked Cletus dead in the eyes. Her gaze was completely empty. It was a dead, freezing void, devoid of any human emotion.

"Get out of my way," she said. Her voice was flat, carrying no warmth, no fear.

Cletus froze. The absolute deadness in her eyes shocked him for a fraction of a second. His body instinctively shifted to the side.

Elie didn't look at him again. She walked straight past him.

She walked toward the heavy, double oak doors of the main house, where the cold light spilled out from the windows.

Elie stood before the massive oak doors. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the damp, freezing air. She placed both hands flat against the wet wood and pushed hard.

The heavy doors swung open.

The blinding light from the massive crystal chandelier in the grand foyer poured out, stabbing into her eyes. Elie squinted against the sudden brightness.

The foyer was completely empty. The central air conditioning blasted freezing air down on her. Her soaked clothes clung to her skin, and a violent shiver ripped through her spine.

The head butler stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. His face was a mask of pure disdain. He didn't offer a greeting. He didn't offer a towel. He simply raised a gloved hand and pointed a single finger toward the second floor.

Elie placed her dripping umbrella in the brass stand by the door. She stepped onto the thick, hand-woven Persian rug and walked toward the grand sweeping staircase.

She climbed the stairs, her wet boots making a squelching sound with every step. She walked down the long, silent corridor until she reached the end.

She stopped in front of the heavy, black double doors. Ebert's study.

Elie raised her hand. Her knuckles rapped twice against the solid wood. The sound was dull and heavy.

"Get in."

Ebert's voice came through the door. It was low, raspy, and completely devoid of any human warmth.

Elie turned the freezing brass doorknob and pushed the door open. She stepped into the massive, dimly lit study.

The room smelled heavily of expensive aged whiskey and rich cigar smoke. Ebert stood with his back to her, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows.

A flash of lightning illuminated his broad, rigid shoulders. The sheer physical dominance of his presence hit Elie like a physical blow. The air in the room felt instantly thinner.

Ebert slowly turned around. He held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in his right hand. His deep, dark eyes locked onto her. It was the look of a venomous snake staring down a trapped mouse.

His gaze slowly dragged up and down her body, taking in her soaked, cheap grey sweater and her dripping jeans. A cruel, mocking sneer twisted the corner of his mouth.

He slammed the crystal glass down onto the solid mahogany desk.

The loud bang shattered the silence. Elie's shoulders flinched violently.

Ebert walked around the desk. He picked up a sleek, black designer gift box. He threw it hard.

The box hit the floor right at Elie's feet. The lid popped off.

A scrap of bright red silk spilled out onto the carpet. It was an evening gown. It had barely any fabric, designed to expose as much skin as legally possible.

"Put it on," Ebert commanded. His tone was laced with absolute, violent authority.

Elie stared down at the dress. The implication of that tiny piece of red silk made the blood drain entirely from her face. Her hands flew to the hem of her wet sweater, gripping it tightly.

She forced her head up. Her voice shook uncontrollably.

"Where... where are you taking me?" she asked, making one last, desperate attempt to understand.

Ebert closed the distance between them in three long strides. His expensive leather shoes made no sound on the carpet, but the danger radiating from him was deafening.

He reached out and grabbed her jaw. His large hand clamped down hard, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her head up to meet his furious, dark eyes.

"Sinners don't get to ask questions," Ebert ground out through clenched teeth. "You only get to obey."

Elie's eyes burned with unshed tears. She stubbornly refused to let them fall. She jerked her head to the side, trying to break his iron grip.

Her resistance ignited a dark, violent spark in Ebert's eyes.

His free hand shot out. He grabbed the collar of her wet, grey sweater. He yanked downward with brutal force.

The sound of tearing fabric was loud and sharp. The collar of her sweater ripped open, exposing her pale collarbones and the smooth skin of her shoulder.

The freezing air conditioning hit her bare skin. Elie let out a sharp gasp. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, trying to cover herself.

She stumbled backward in pure terror. Her back hit the hard oak door of the study. There was nowhere left to run.

Ebert stood over her, looking down at her trembling form. A twisted sense of satisfaction, mixed with a dark, suppressed fire, swirled in his eyes.

"You have two minutes to put that dress on," Ebert stated coldly. "Or you will face the consequences."

Elie stood pinned against the heavy oak door. Her hands shook violently as she slowly bent down and picked up the red silk dress from the floor.

Ebert let out a cold scoff. He turned his back to her, walking back toward the floor-to-ceiling window. He pulled a cigar from a humidor, clipped it, and lit it. Thick, blue-grey smoke began to fill the air.

Elie clenched her jaw. She turned around to face the door. With stiff, freezing fingers, she peeled off her torn, wet sweater and pushed down her soaked, heavy jeans.

She quickly pulled the red silk dress over her head. The fabric barely reached her mid-thigh, and the front featured a dangerously plunging neckline that left almost nothing to the imagination. The dress had no zipper in the back. It was held together only by a series of thin, delicate straps that crossed over her entirely exposed back.

Elie reached behind her, trying to tie the silk strings, but her fingers were trembling too violently. She kept dropping them.

Ebert must have heard her struggling. He turned around. He stood there, cigar clamped between his teeth, his dark eyes fixed on the large expanse of pale, bare skin on her back.

He walked up behind her.

The intense heat radiating from his large body hit her back. His hot breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape. Elie's entire body went rigid. She stopped breathing.

Ebert's rough fingers brushed against her spine as he gathered the silk straps. A violent shiver wrecked through her. He pulled the strings tight, his movements rough and impatient, and tied them into a knot.

As the straps pulled tight, the red silk molded perfectly to her narrow waist and the curve of her hips. Ebert's eyes darkened.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was like a steel vice. He didn't care that she was barefoot. He dragged her away from the door and out of the study.

They walked down the grand staircase. The maids and servants in the foyer immediately dropped their heads, staring at the floor, not daring to look at the humiliating scene.

Davin stood by the front doors. He held a pair of towering, rhinestone-encrusted high heels and a heavy, black men's overcoat.

Ebert snatched the coat from Davin. He threw it roughly over Elie's shoulders, completely covering the scandalous red dress and her bare skin.

Davin placed the heels at Elie's feet. Elie stepped into them. They were at least a size too large. The hard material made her feet slip dangerously with every step, offering absolutely no stability.

Outside, a black, armored Maybach sat idling in the pouring rain. A bodyguard held a massive black umbrella over the open rear door.

Ebert shoved Elie into the spacious back seat. He slid in right after her. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the storm.

The Maybach pulled away from the estate, gliding smoothly toward the glowing skyline of Manhattan.

The silence inside the car was suffocating. Elie pulled Ebert's coat tighter around herself. The fabric was saturated with his scent-a sharp, cold mix of cedarwood and tobacco. It invaded her lungs with every breath.

She turned her head to look at him. She had to break the silence.

"Who are you taking me to see?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Ebert leaned back against the plush leather seat. He crossed his long legs. He didn't look at her.

"Mortimer Finch," he said, his tone entirely casual.

The blood drained from Elie's face. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Everyone in New York knew Mortimer Finch. He was a venture capital titan, and a notorious, disgusting predator.

She snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with horror.

"Are you making me... escort for him?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic.

Ebert let out a low, cruel laugh. He leaned closer to her. His long fingers reached out and pinched the hem of the coat she was wearing.

"You think too highly of yourself," Ebert mocked. "You aren't an escort. You're just a free gift."

Elie violently slapped his hand away.

"I won't do it. I won't go," she spat. "Let me out."

She reached for the door handle and pulled. It didn't budge. The central locking system was engaged. She was trapped.

Ebert watched her panic with absolute calm. He adjusted his cuffs slowly.

"Your grandmother is currently undergoing an experimental targeted therapy at Manhattan General," Ebert said softly.

Elie froze. Her hand dropped from the door handle.

"And your uncle's H1B visa renewal application," Ebert continued, his voice like ice. "It is currently sitting on the desk of a senior immigration officer. A man who happens to owe me a very large favor."

The two threats hit Elie like physical blows to the chest. They were two sharp knives, instantly severing every single ounce of fight she had left in her.

Because of the US healthcare system, her grandmother's treatment cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Because of the strict immigration laws, her uncle's visa was the only thing keeping their family from being deported and ruined. Ebert controlled it all.

Elie's hand slid off the door. Her entire body went limp. She collapsed back into the leather seat, all the life draining from her eyes.

She closed her eyes. A hollow, broken laugh escaped her lips.

"As you wish, Master," she whispered into the dark car.