HIS 6TH BRIDE FATAL OBSESSION

I knew what I was the moment Killian Thorne's black Mercedes pulled up outside our house.

Collateral.

My father had been sweating through his shirt all morning, pacing the length of our cramped living room like a caged animal.

Mom hadn't said a word. She just sat in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of cold coffee, staring at nothing.

I wanted to shake her, scream at her to do something, say something, but what was the point? We both knew she wouldn't. She never did.

Lila was at school. I'd made sure of that. Told her I had errands to run, kissed her forehead, and promised I'd help her with her math homework later. The lie tasted bitter, but it was kinder than the truth.

I stood at the window and watched him step out of the car.

Killian Thorne didn't look like a monster. That was the first problem.

He was tall, broad shouldered, dark hair swept back like he'd just stepped out of some luxury magazine. His suit probably cost more than our house. He moved with the kind of confidence that came from never being told no, never having to worry about consequences.

Men like him didn't live in the same world as people like us. They existed above it, looking down, deciding who stayed and who drowned.

Today, he'd decided I was worth keeping.

"Cassia." My father's voice cracked. He was trying to sound authoritative. Failing. "Come here."

I didn't move. Not yet. Let him sweat a little longer.

The doorbell rang.

My father lurched toward the door like a desperate dog, but I was faster. I stepped in front of him, met his bloodshot eyes, and smiled. It wasn't a kind smile.

"Let me," I said softly.

He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Good. He should be afraid of me. If I was going down, I'd make sure he remembered what it cost him.

I opened the door.

Killian Thorne stood on our crumbling porch like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His eyes found mine immediately, and I watched something flicker across his face. Interest. Hunger.

Satisfaction.

I'd seen men look at me before. Grocery store clerks, my father's drinking buddies, boys at school who thought they had a chance. But this was different.

Killian looked at me the way a collector looks at a rare piece he's been hunting for years.

Like I was already his.

"Mr. Thorne." I kept my voice steady, tilted my chin up just enough to show I wasn't cowering. "Please, come in."

His lips curved into something that might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes. "Cassia."

He knew my name. Of course he did. He'd probably known everything about me before he ever made the offer to my father.

He stepped inside, and the room suddenly felt smaller. My father practically tripped over himself, gesturing to our sad excuse for a couch, babbling apologies about the state of the house.

Killian ignored him completely. His attention stayed locked on me.

"Leave us," Killian said without looking at my father.

My father froze. "I... I thought we should discuss..."

It wasn't loud. Didn't need to be. My father stumbled backward like he'd been shoved, disappearing into the kitchen where my mother sat like a ghost. The door clicked shut behind him.

We were alone.

Killian moved closer, slow and deliberate, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

I held my ground even though every instinct screamed at me to run.

"You're even more beautiful than I remembered," he said quietly.

I remembered the day he'd come to collect my father's debt three weeks ago. I'd been coming down the stairs, books in hand, heading to the library.

Our eyes had met for maybe five seconds. That was all it took.

Five seconds, and my father's debt became irrelevant.

"You came for your payment," I said. Not a question.

"I came for you."

"There's a difference?" I asked, letting ice creep into my voice.

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. "You're angry."

"I'm realistic." I crossed my arms, and his gaze dropped briefly to the movement before returning to my face.

Point taken. Everything about me interested him. I filed that information away.

"My father made a deal he couldn't keep. You're here to collect. Let's not pretend this is anything else."

"You think I'm here to drag you out by your hair?" He moved closer still, and I could smell his cologne now. Expensive. Suffocating. "That's not how this works, Cassia."

"Then how does it work?"

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document.

Opened it slowly, deliberately, like he was unwrapping a gift. "You sign this. You come with me. You become my wife."

Wife. The word hung in the air between us like poison.

"Your sixth wife," I corrected.

His jaw tightened slightly. So he didn't like that number being thrown around. Interesting.

"The others are irrelevant," he said.

"Are they dead?"

"No."

"Then they're not irrelevant. They're competition."

For the first time, genuine surprise crossed his face. Then that dangerous smile returned, wider this time. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect? Tears? Begging?" I took a step toward him instead of away, watched his pupils dilate slightly. "I know what I am to you, Mr. Thorne. I'm the payment for my father's cowardice. But if you think I'm going to make this easy for you, you're mistaken."

He was silent for a long moment, studying me with an intensity that would have made most people look away. I held his gaze.

"You're right," he finally said. "You are payment. But you're also the most exquisite thing I've ever seen, and I don't share. I don't compromise. And I certainly don't lose." He held out the contract.

"Sign this, Cassia. Or I'll take your sister instead."

The world stopped.

My carefully constructed mask cracked. Just for a second, but he saw it. Of course he saw it.

"You wouldn't," I whispered.

"Lila, isn't it? Fifteen. Sweet girl. I'm sure she'd..."

"Don't." The word came out raw, sharp.

My hands were shaking now and I hated it, hated him, hated my father for putting us here. "Don't you dare say her name."

Killian's expression softened into something almost gentle.

"Then we understand each other."

He knew exactly which button to push. Lila was my weak spot, my only weakness, and he'd found it in under five minutes.

I snatched the contract from his hands. Didn't bother reading it. What did it matter? The terms were simple: my life for hers.

"Pen," I said flatly.

He produced one from his pocket, handed it to me with those long, elegant fingers.

I signed my name in sharp, angry strokes. Cassia Hale. For the last time.

"Good girl," he murmured.

I looked up at him, let him see the rage burning in my eyes. "Don't ever call me that again."

Instead of being angry, he looked pleased. Thrilled, even. Like I'd just confirmed something he'd been hoping for.

"We leave in an hour," he said. "Pack light. Everything you need will be provided."

"I need to say goodbye to my sister."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You'll write her a letter. I'll have it delivered." He tucked the contract back into his jacket, then reached out and caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up.

His touch was surprisingly gentle. "She can't know where you're going, Cassia. It's safer that way. For her."

Another threat wrapped in silk.

I jerked away from his touch.

"You're a monster."

"Yes," he agreed easily. "But I'm your monster now. Get used to it."

He left me alone to pack, but I could hear him downstairs, his voice low and threatening as he spoke to my father.

I couldn't make out the words. Didn't need to. My father's whimpering responses told me everything.

I sat on my bed, the pen Killian had given me still clutched in my hand, staring at a blank piece of paper.

Dear Lila,

What did you say to your fifteen year old sister when you were being sold to a monster? How did you explain that you were leaving and never coming back? That every choice you'd ever made, every time you'd protected her, had led to this moment?

I have to go away for a while.

My hand was shaking so badly the letters came out jagged.

It's not your fault. It was never your fault. You are the best thing in my life, and I need you to be strong now. Study hard. Be smart. Don't trust Dad. Don't end up like me.

Tears blurred my vision. I blinked them back furiously. Crying wouldn't change anything.

I love you more than anything in this world. Remember that.

Cassia

I folded the letter, left it on my pillow where she'd find it, and threw some clothes into a bag. He said I didn't need much. That everything would be provided. Like I was a doll he was dressing up.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. Nineteen years old. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes that had seen too much too soon. Beautiful, everyone said. My father's most valuable asset.

I looked at myself and made a promise.

Killian Thorne thought he'd won. Thought he'd broken me with one threat, bent me to his will with fear for my sister.

He had no idea what he'd just brought into his home.

The Mercedes was even more obscene up close. Black leather interior, tinted windows, the kind of car that cost more than most people made in a year.

A driver stood by the door, expressionless, opening it for me like I was royalty instead of cargo.

I slid inside.

Killian was already there, legs crossed, checking something on his phone.

He didn't look up as I settled into the seat as far from him as possible.

"Your father cried," he said casually. "Begged me to reconsider."

"Did you?"

"No." He glanced at me. "He didn't cry for you, Cassia. He cried because he's afraid of what happens now that he can't use you anymore."

I said nothing. He was right, and we both knew it.

The car pulled away from the only home I'd ever known. I didn't look back. What was the point?

"You'll have your own room," Killian said after a few minutes of silence. "Your own space. I'm not a barbarian."

"Just a man who threatens fifteen year old girls."

His jaw tightened. "I wouldn't have touched her."

"But you would have taken her."

"If necessary." He shifted in his seat, and suddenly he was closer, invading my space. "Let's establish some ground rules, Cassia. I don't tolerate disobedience. I don't tolerate disrespect. And I certainly don't tolerate lies. You belong to me now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

I turned to face him fully, let him see that I wasn't afraid. Even though I was. Even though my heart was racing so fast I thought it might explode.

"Let me establish something too," I said quietly. "You can threaten me. You can lock me up. You can do whatever you want to me. But you will never, ever own me. Not really. I'll play your game, Mr. Thorne. I'll be your perfect little wife. But don't mistake compliance for surrender."

For a moment, I thought he might hit me. His hand twitched, his eyes darkened with something dangerous.

Then he laughed.

Actually laughed, low and rough, like I'd just told the best joke he'd heard in years.

"God," he breathed, leaning back. "You're perfect."

"I'm your worst nightmare," I corrected.

"Same thing." He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't wait to solve, a challenge he'd been craving.

"The others... they broke too easily. Cried, begged, tried to run. Boring. Predictable."

His eyes roamed over my face, hungry and possessive. "But you... you're going to fight me every step of the way, aren't you?"

"Count on it."

"Good." He reached out, and I forced myself not to flinch as his fingers brushed my cheek. "I like a challenge."

The mansion appeared through the trees like something out of a gothic novel.

Massive, sprawling, with tall windows that looked like eyes watching our approach.

The grounds were immaculate, gardens perfectly manicured, a fountain in the circular driveway that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood.

This was going to be my prison.

"Welcome home," Killian said as the car stopped.

Home. The word felt like a slap.

The driver opened my door, and I stepped out onto marble pavers, my cheap shoes looking pathetic against the grandeur.

Staff appeared from nowhere, taking my pathetic bag, bowing slightly to Killian.

And then I saw them.

The other wives.

They stood on the front steps like a receiving line, five women of varying ages and appearances, all watching me with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.

"Ladies," Killian said, his hand possessive on the small of my back. "Meet Cassia. My sixth bride."

The beautiful one in front, dark hair swept up elegantly, eyes sharp as knives, smiled at me.

It was the kind of smile that promised blood.

The mansion smelled like money. Polished wood, fresh flowers, something expensive burning in a fireplace somewhere. It made my stomach turn.

The five women stood perfectly still, like they'd been positioned there. Arranged. I wondered if Killian had called ahead, told them to line up and look pretty for his newest acquisition.

The one in front stepped forward first. She was stunning in that effortless way that came from good genes and better surgeries. Mid thirties maybe, with dark hair that fell in perfect waves and eyes that assessed me like I was something she might buy at an auction.

"Cassia," she said, my name rolling off her tongue with just enough condescension to sting. "How... young you are."

"Isla," Killian's voice held a warning. "Play nice."

So this was Isla. The kind of woman who smiled while planning your destruction.

"I'm always nice," Isla said sweetly, but her eyes stayed cold. "Welcome to the family, darling."

Family. Right.

The second woman was younger, maybe late twenties, with blonde hair cut short and sharp. She looked me up and down with open disdain, then turned to Killian.

"Really?" she said flatly. "Another one?"

"Nessa." Killian's tone was sharp now. Harder.

Nessa. The rebel. I could see it in the way she stood, arms crossed, jaw set. She wasn't afraid of him, or she was too angry to care anymore.

"What?" Nessa challenged. "We're supposed to pretend this is normal? That bringing home a teenager is..."

"I'm nineteen," I cut in. All eyes snapped to me. "And I can speak for myself, thanks."

Nessa's eyebrows shot up. Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. "Oh, I like this one."

"Don't get attached," the third woman said quietly. She was beautiful in a faded sort of way, like a painting left too long in the sun. Thirtyish, with auburn hair and tired eyes. "They never last."

The indifferent one, I realized. The one who'd checked out emotionally.

"Vera," Killian said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. Pity, maybe. "That's enough."

Vera shrugged, already losing interest, staring past us at nothing.

The fourth woman hadn't moved from her position on the steps. She was small, delicate, with dark skin and careful eyes. She watched everything, said nothing, and I recognized the look immediately.

The survivor. Calculator. Schemer.

She met my gaze and smiled slightly, like we were sharing a private joke. I didn't smile back.

The last woman finally stepped forward, and something in her expression was different from the others. Softer. Almost kind.

"I'm Thalia," she said, her voice warm. "I know this must be overwhelming. If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

The ally who shouldn't be trusted.

"How generous of you," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

Thalia's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes. Good. She knew I wasn't buying it.

"Elena will show you to your room," Killian said, gesturing to an older woman in a crisp uniform who'd appeared silently beside us. A housekeeper, I assumed. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."

He started to walk away, then paused, turning back to look at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Oh, and Cassia?" His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the audience. "Wear something beautiful. I want to look at you."

Heat flushed my cheeks. From anger, I told myself. Only anger.

The wives watched him go, then turned back to me with varying expressions of pity, amusement, and calculation.

"Well," Isla said, smoothing her already perfect hair. "This should be entertaining."

Elena led me through a maze of hallways, each more obscenely decorated than the last. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that probably belonged in museums. Every surface gleamed. Every corner was perfect.

It felt like a mausoleum.

"Here," Elena said, opening a door at the end of a long corridor.

I stepped inside and stopped.

The room was enormous. Bigger than my entire house had been. A massive four poster bed dominated the space, draped in silk that probably cost more than a car. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over manicured gardens. There was a sitting area, a desk, a door that led to what I assumed was a bathroom.

And roses. Dozens of white roses in crystal vases, their scent overwhelming.

"Mr. Thorne had these brought in for you," Elena said. "He thought you'd like them."

I walked to the nearest vase, touched a petal. Soft. Perfect. Probably flown in from somewhere exotic.

I hated them.

"Your clothes have been unpacked," Elena continued, gesturing to a walk in closet I hadn't noticed. "Though Mr. Thorne has arranged for a more... suitable wardrobe to be delivered tomorrow."

Of course he had. Can't have his newest prize wearing Target jeans.

"Dinner at eight," Elena reminded me. "The dining room is on the first floor, west wing. Someone will come collect you."

She left, closing the door with a soft click.

I was alone.

I walked to the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass, and finally let myself breathe.

One hour in this place and I already felt like I was suffocating.

The grounds stretched out below me, beautiful and vast and surrounded by walls. High walls. Topped with security cameras.

A prison, I reminded myself. No matter how pretty.

My eyes caught on movement near the gardens. A figure, too far away to make out clearly, but moving with purpose. Young, from the way they walked. Male, I thought.

He looked up suddenly, like he felt me watching, and even from this distance I could tell he was staring right back.

Then he disappeared into the trees.