IN THE PALM OF HIS HANDS

The fluorescent light in the tiny living room flickered like a dying heartbeat.

Aria sat on the threadbare couch, textbooks spread across her lap, trying to focus on her upcoming exams. At twenty-one, she was in her third year of college, studying business management by day and working night shifts at a small café just to keep the lights on. The dark circles under her brown eyes spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry. Her long, dark hair hung in tangled waves around her face, unwashed for days because hot water was a luxury she couldn't afford.

The apartment was cold. November had brought a biting chill, and the building's heating had been broken for two weeks. Aria wore her mother's old sweatshirt-faded grey with the word "HOPE" peeling off the front-over three other layers. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

Her father, Victor, paced the room like a caged animal. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. His gaunt face was pale, almost grey, and his eyes-bloodshot and darting-had the wild look of a man who hadn't slept in days. He had been like this for weeks. Jumpy. Paranoid. Breaking down.

"Aria," he muttered, stopping suddenly. "We need to talk."

She looked up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Dad, if it's about money again, I already gave you my last paycheck. I have $47 in my bank account. There's nothing left."

Victor wouldn't meet her eyes. He stared at the cracked laminate floor instead, at a dark stain near the kitchen that had been there for years.

"This is bigger than that," he whispered. "I... I made a mistake."

Before Aria could respond, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment.

Not normal knocks. These were precise. Measured. Deadly.

Victor froze. His face turned ghostly pale. His hands began to shake.

"They're here," he breathed.

The door burst open without waiting for an answer. The lock splintered, sending shards of wood across the floor. Two large men in black suits stepped inside-both built like refrigerators, both with blank, empty faces. One was bald with a thick neck. The other had a scar through his left eyebrow. They moved like men who had done this a thousand times.

Then the third man entered.

And the room seemed to shrink.

He was tall-well over six feet-with broad shoulders that barely cleared the doorframe. His black hair was perfectly styled, swept back from a sharp jawline shadowed with dark stubble. He wore an expensive black suit that probably cost more than Aria's entire apartment, a white dress shirt crisp enough to look ironed on, and black leather gloves that creaked softly when he moved.

But it was his eyes that terrified her most.

They were silver-grey, cold and unnatural, seeming to glow faintly in the dim light. They held no warmth, no mercy, no humanity.

Damon Voss.

The ruthless mafia king. The most dangerous man in the city.

"You have twenty seconds to explain why my money isn't in my account, Victor," Damon said. His voice was low and smooth-velvet wrapped around a blade. He didn't raise it. He didn't need to.

Victor dropped to his knees. The sound of bone hitting laminate cracked through the silence.

"Please, Mr. Voss," he begged, hands clasped in front of him. "I swear I'll get it. Just give me more time-"

"I gave you time." Damon took a step forward, his Oxford shoes clicking against the floor. "Three months. You borrowed two million dollars. You gambled it away on a horse named Lucky Strike. And now you think you can hide from me?"

Aria's blood ran cold.

Two million dollars.

She had been giving him her last paychecks-$347 at a time-and he owed two million dollars to the most dangerous man in the city. Her legs felt weak. She grabbed the back of the couch to steady herself.

Damon's silver gaze shifted to her.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face. His eyes dragged slowly over her figure-her tangled hair, her tear-streaked face (when had she started crying?), her mother's old sweatshirt, her bare feet on the cold floor. Then the mask slammed back down, harder than before.

"I did some digging," Damon continued, turning back to Victor. "You have a daughter. Beautiful. College student. No criminal record. Clean."

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

"Here's my final offer, Victor. Sign this debt transfer agreement. Give her to me as payment... and your debt is cleared. Refuse, and you'll spend the rest of your pathetic life in a cell so deep even your screams won't reach the surface."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"Or worse."

Victor stared at the paper. His hands shook violently. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor.

"Dad," Aria said, her voice small and terrified. "Dad, no. You can't."

She stepped toward him, her bare feet slipping on the cold laminate. She dropped to her knees beside him and grabbed his arm with both hands.

"Please," she begged. "Please don't do this. I'm your daughter. I'll work. I'll drop out of school. I'll get a second job. I'll find the money. Just please-please-don't sell me."

Tears poured down her cheeks. Hot. Fast. Uncontrollable.

"I'm all you have left, Dad. Mom is gone. It's just us. Please don't abandon me too."

Victor finally turned to look at her.

And Aria saw something in his eyes that made her heart shatter.

Nothing.

There was nothing there. No love. No guilt. No shame. Just the hollow, empty stare of a man who had already made his choice.

"I'm sorry, Aria," he said flatly. "I have no choice."

"You always have a choice!" she screamed.

But he had already taken the pen from his pocket. He signed the paper with a scratch that sounded louder than a gunshot.

Victor Emmanuel Vasquez.

"No!"

Aria lunged for the paper, but two massive hands grabbed her from behind. The bald henchman had crossed the room silently. His fingers wrapped around her bicep like iron bands, cutting off her circulation.

"Let go of me!" She thrashed wildly, kicking backward, biting at his arm. He didn't even flinch. He just held her while she screamed.

"Dad! Dad, please! Don't let them take me! I begged Mom not to leave me with you... and now you're abandoning me too!"

Victor turned his face away. He couldn't watch. He wouldn't watch. He just sat there on his knees, staring at the wall, while his daughter was dragged toward the door.

Aria fought like an animal. She clawed at the henchman's face, leaving red scratches down his cheek. She kicked the doorframe. She grabbed the edge of the door with her free hand and held on with everything she had.

Her fingernails-bitten to the quick-scraped against the wood.

"Dad!"

The henchman pried her fingers off one by one.

Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky.

Her grip failed.

She was pulled through the doorway into the dark hallway. The door swung shut behind her. The last thing she saw was her father's back-still turned away, shoulders shaking once with a silent sob-and then he was gone.

---

In the hallway, Aria stopped fighting.

Not because she had given up. Because she was saving her strength. Her mind raced, looking for an exit, a weapon, anything.

Then Damon Voss stepped out of the apartment.

He walked toward her with the grace of a predator. His silver eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that made her stomach clench. He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could smell sandalwood and something darker-smoke and leather and danger.

He raised one gloved hand.

Aria flinched, expecting a blow.

Instead, he lifted her chin.

His touch was surprisingly gentle. The soft leather brushed against her jaw, tilting her face up toward his. His thumb rested just below her lower lip.

"Stop fighting, little one," he said quietly.

His voice was different now. Still low. Still smooth. But underneath it, there was something else-something that might have been kindness or might have been cruelty or might have been something in between.

"The deal is done. You belong to me now."

You belong to me now.

The words should have filled her with rage. They should have made her fight harder.

Instead, she felt something strange.

Under the fear and the tears and the trembling, in some deep part of her she didn't want to acknowledge, there was a flicker of something else.

Safety.

She had been alone for so long. Fighting for so long. Scraping and struggling and surviving on her own since her mother left. And now, in this impossible moment, being held by a monster who had just bought her like livestock, she felt something she hadn't felt in years.

She felt like someone else was in charge.

And that terrified her more than anything.

Damon's silver eyes searched her face, reading her, cataloging her, seeing things she didn't want him to see. Then he released her chin and stepped back.

"Take her to the car," he said to his men. "Gently."

The last word was an order. The henchmen exchanged a surprised glance, then nodded.

The one with the scar loosened his grip. He didn't carry her. He walked beside her, one hand on her elbow, guiding her toward the stairs.

Aria looked back one last time.

The door to her apartment was still open. She could see the flickering light inside, the edge of the threadbare couch, the water stain on the ceiling shaped like Texas.

She could see her father's shadow on the wall.

Motionless.

Alone.

She turned away.

Damon Voss walked behind her, his footsteps steady and sure. As they reached the stairwell, he spoke again-so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

"You're going to be okay," he said. "I protect what's mine."

Aria didn't answer.

She didn't know what to say.

Because she had just been sold to a monster. A beast who wore the skin of a mafia king. A man with silver eyes and gloved hands and a voice like velvet wrapped around a blade.

And somewhere, in the darkest part of her heart, she wasn't sure if she wanted to run.

The stairwell door closed behind them with a soft click.

The fluorescent light in the tiny apartment flickered one last time.

Then it went dark.

Chapter 2: The Other Woman

The black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through the iron gates of Voss Estate like a shadow slipping into darkness.

Aria sat rigid in the back seat, her wrists bound loosely with a silk tie-Damon had used it after she tried to jump out of the moving car. The fabric was dark charcoal grey, soft as water against her skin but unbreakable as chains. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the rims red and raw, her cheeks stained with dried tears. But no more tears came now. Only a hollow, numb silence that felt heavier than grief.

She stared out the tinted window as the estate unfolded before her.

It was massive-a sprawling modern mansion that looked less like a home and more like a fortress. Sharp geometric angles of glass and steel rose against the night sky. The windows were floor-to-ceiling, dark and reflective, impossible to see into. Landscaped gardens stretched in every direction, manicured hedges and bare winter trees standing like silent sentinels. Floodlights bathed the grounds in cold white illumination, leaving no shadows for intruders to hide in.

She counted six armed guards patrolling the perimeter as the car approached. Each wore a black suit and an earpiece. Each carried a gun holstered at his ribs. They moved in pairs, their paths overlapping in a pattern that left no gap uncovered.

This was not a home.

This was a cage.

Damon sat beside her, scrolling through his phone as if he hadn't just destroyed her life an hour ago. His posture was relaxed, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, his silver eyes scanning the screen with mild disinterest. The soft glow of the phone illuminated his sharp jawline, the perfect arch of his brows.

He smelled of sandalwood and something darker-smoke and leather and the faint metallic tang of expensive cologne. His presence filled the car, oppressive and inescapable. Every breath Aria took was flavored with him.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance.

Damon pocketed his phone and stepped out without a word. He didn't look back to see if she was following. He didn't need to. His men would make sure she did.

Aria was pulled from the car by the bald henchman-the one whose face she had scratched. Four red lines still marked his cheek, raw and angry. He didn't seem to notice them. His grip on her arm was firm but not brutal, exactly, as he guided her toward the massive double doors.

She stumbled on the marble steps. Her bare feet-she still hadn't been given shoes-were cold against the stone. But she caught herself. She straightened her spine. She lifted her chin.

She would not show weakness in front of this monster.

The doors swung open into a grand foyer that took her breath away despite herself.

The floor was white marble veined with grey, so polished that she could see her own reflection staring back at her-a disheveled, tear-stained ghost in an oversized sweatshirt and frayed leggings. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling three stories above, thousands of teardrops of glass catching the light and scattering rainbows across the walls. A sweeping curved staircase led to the upper floors, its banister made of dark wrought iron and polished wood.

Everything was expensive. Everything was cold. Everything screamed power and money and I can crush anyone who crosses me.

Then she heard the sound of high heels.

Click. Click. Click.

Sharp. Deliberate. Angry.

Aria looked up.

A woman was descending the curved staircase, and she was stunning in a way that made Aria feel instantly small and shabby.

The woman had fiery red hair-not the orange-red of dye, but a deep, burning crimson that fell in loose waves past her shoulders. Her face was beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way: high cheekbones, full lips painted the color of fresh blood, eyes the shade of emeralds that were currently narrowed with suspicion and fury. Her body was curved and voluptuous, poured into a tight black dress that left very little to the imagination-thin straps, a neckline that plunged almost to her navel, a hem that ended mid-thigh.

She wore diamond earrings that caught the chandelier light. A thin gold chain circled her right ankle, visible above her black stiletto heels. Her fingernails were long and painted crimson to match her lips.

This was Valentina.

And she looked like a woman who was used to getting exactly what she wanted.

"Damon, baby," she purred at first, her red lips curving into a seductive smile as her eyes found him. Her voice was low, smoky, intimate-the voice of a woman who had whispered dirty things in the dark. "You've been gone all night. I was waiting for you."

She descended the last few steps, one hand trailing along the wrought iron banister. Then she noticed Aria.

The smile died.

Her green eyes swept over Aria from head to toe-taking in the tangled dark hair, the swollen eyes, the oversized "HOPE" sweatshirt, the bare feet, the silk tie still binding her wrists. The redhead's nostrils flared. Her jaw tightened.

"Who the hell is this?" Valentina's voice had lost its purr. It was sharp now. Accusing.

Damon didn't even look at her.

He shrugged off his black suit coat and handed it to a waiting servant-a middle-aged woman in a grey uniform who appeared from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly. He loosened his tie with one hand, the movement casual, unconcerned.

"Her name is Aria," he said flatly, still not looking at Valentina. "She's going to be my wife."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the armed guards seemed to hold their breath.

Then Valentina laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound. It was sharp and bitter and hysterical, echoing off the marble floors and crystal chandelier like broken glass.

"Your what?" She stormed down the remaining steps, her stilettos hammering against the marble. Her face was flushed with fury, her green eyes blazing. "Are you fucking kidding me, Damon?"

She crossed the foyer in six furious strides and got in his face, jabbing a manicured finger at his chest.

"For eight months, Damon. Eight months. I've been here whenever you called. I've warmed your bed. I've kept my mouth shut about your little... habits. I've let you do things to me that would make most women scream for the police." Her voice cracked. "And now you bring this-this college bitch into your house and tell me you're marrying her? Her?"

She whipped around to face Aria, her eyes raking over her with contempt.

"Look at her! Look at this... this nobody. She looks like a scared little rat." Valentina laughed again, the sound dripping with disdain. "What is she, twenty? Twenty-one? Still in school, I bet. Probably studies something useless like art history. She's wearing sweatpants, Damon. And is that blood on her face?"

Aria's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Despite her fear-despite the exhaustion and the horror and the crushing weight of everything that had happened-anger flared hot in her chest.

"I didn't ask for this," she said, her voice cold and steady. "I was sold. Like cattle. By my own father. So don't stand there in your thousand-dollar heels and act like I'm the villain of this story."

Valentina's eyes widened slightly, surprised by the defiance. Then her lips curled into a sneer.

"Sold?" She turned back to Damon, pressing her body against his arm, her curves molding against his side. Her voice dropped back into that low, intimate purr. "Baby, tell me this is a joke. A sick, twisted joke. We have something real. You know we do." She reached up and touched his face, her crimson nails grazing his stubbled jaw. "I love you, Damon. I've given you everything. My body. My silence. My heart. You can't just throw me away for some-some gambling debt whore."

Damon finally looked at her.

His silver-grey eyes were cold. Not angry. Not cruel. Just... empty. Like he was looking at a piece of furniture he had decided to throw out.

"What we had was sex, Valentina," he said quietly. "Good sex. Nothing more. I never promised you a future. I never promised you love. I never promised you anything except expensive gifts and a warm body when I wanted one."

Valentina flinched like he had slapped her.

"You bastard," she whispered.

"I told you from the beginning not to catch feelings." Damon's voice didn't change. Still soft. Still smooth. Still utterly indifferent. "You chose to ignore that."

Tears welled in Valentina's eyes-real tears, not the performative kind. They spilled down her cheeks, cutting tracks through her foundation.

"After everything," she said, her voice breaking. "After I let you do whatever you wanted to me. After I kept my mouth shut about your... your other side. The things I've seen you do, Damon. The things you become when the moon-"

A low growl rumbled deep in Damon's chest.

It was not a human sound.

It was something primal. Something ancient. Something that made the hairs on Aria's arms stand straight up and her heart slam against her ribs. The sound vibrated through the marble floor, through the crystal chandelier, through the very bones of the house.

For a split second, Damon's silver eyes flashed brighter-almost glowing, a pale luminous white that had no place in a human face.

"Careful," he warned, his voice deadly soft. "You're forgetting your place."

Valentina went pale beneath her makeup. She took a step back, then another, her stilettos wobbling on the marble. Her hands trembled at her sides.

"So you're really going to marry this nobody?" she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "You're going to make her your wife? Your queen?"

"She is now mine."

Damon's hand shot out and gripped Valentina's jaw-firm enough to hold her still, not hard enough to bruise. His thumb pressed against her chin, tilting her face up toward his.

"You have until morning to pack up the things you keep here. Clothes. Jewelry. Whatever trinkets I bought you. Take them and leave."

He released her and stepped back.

"Everything I bought you stays behind," he added. "Consider it payment for the good times."

Valentina stood frozen in the middle of the foyer, mascara running down her cheeks, her beautiful face twisted with rage and heartbreak and humiliation. She looked at Damon. Then at Aria. Then back at Damon.

"I hope she destroys you," she spat. "I hope that sweet little girl you bought turns out to be the monster that finally eats you alive."

She turned and fled up the stairs, her sobs echoing through the grand foyer.

A few things became clear to Aria in that moment.

Valentina did not live here. The estate was enormous-dozens of bedrooms, probably-but the redhead only kept some of her things here. A drawer in Damon's room. A few dresses in a spare closet. A toothbrush by his sink. She came when he called. She left when he dismissed her. She was a convenience. A plaything. A warm body.

She was never a resident.

Aria watched Valentina disappear up the staircase, heard a door slam somewhere above, and felt... nothing.

No satisfaction. No triumph. Just a deeper, colder dread.

If this was how Damon treated a woman who had warmed his bed for eight months-a woman who claimed to love him-what would he do to her? A woman who had been sold against her will. A woman who would never love him. A woman who might try to run.

Damon turned to Aria, his silver eyes unreadable. He placed a possessive hand on the small of her back, his gloved fingers pressing against the fabric of her sweatshirt.

"Come," he said. "I'll show you to your room."

He guided her up the sweeping staircase, past Valentina's sobs echoing from behind a closed door, past armed guards who stared straight ahead and saw nothing. The hallway on the second floor was long and wide, lined with doors and expensive artwork-oil paintings in gilded frames, abstract sculptures on pedestals.

Damon stopped in front of a large door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open.

The bedroom was enormous-easily three times the size of Aria's entire apartment. A king-sized bed dominated the center, draped in white linens and grey velvet pillows. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the dark gardens. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting warm orange light across the space. There was a walk-in closet, a marble bathroom visible through an open door, and a small sitting area with a velvet chaise lounge.

"You'll sleep here tonight," Damon said, stepping back into the hallway. "Tomorrow we'll discuss the wedding."

He reached for the door to close it.

Aria spun around, her eyes defiant even through her exhaustion. Her wrists were still bound. Her feet were still bare. Her heart was still pounding.

"I will never marry you," she said, her voice low and fierce. "I'd rather die."

Damon paused.

Then he stepped close-so close that she felt the heat radiating from his body, smelled the sandalwood and smoke, saw the faint glow in those impossible silver eyes. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath warm on her skin.

"You'll marry me, little wolf," he whispered. "And one day soon... you might even beg me to keep you."

He pulled back, looked at her face one last time, and stepped out.

The door closed behind him.

The lock clicked.

And Aria was alone.

Aria paced the luxurious bedroom like a caged animal.

The room was enormous-easily four times the size of her entire apartment back home. Her bare feet sank into a thick cream-colored carpet that felt like walking on clouds. The walls were painted a deep charcoal grey, accented with gold trim that caught the firelight. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling-not crystal like the one in the foyer, but wrought iron and black metal, dripping with candles that flickered with real flames, not electric bulbs.

The bed dominated the center of the room. It was king-sized, maybe larger, with a towering headboard upholstered in dark velvet. The sheets were black silk, cool and slippery to the touch, arranged with precision that spoke of professional housekeeping. Four velvet pillows in shades of grey and burgundy were stacked against the headboard, plump and untouched. A cream-colored throw blanket was folded at the foot of the bed, monogrammed with a gold "V" that caught the firelight.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, overlooking the vast estate grounds. The glass was tinted dark, turning the night outside into something even deeper and more mysterious. Beyond the glass, Aria could see the manicured gardens she had glimpsed upon arrival-bare winter trees reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, hedges trimmed into sharp geometric shapes, and in the distance, the iron gates that had closed behind her, trapping her inside.

A marble bathroom was visible through an open door to her left-white and gold, with a freestanding tub large enough for two people, a walk-in shower with multiple showerheads, and a vanity covered in expensive-looking bottles she couldn't identify. She hadn't dared enter it yet. It felt too intimate, too permanent.

In the corner, a walk-in closet stood with its door slightly ajar. Through the crack, she could see rows of clothes already hanging inside-dresses, blouses, coats, all in dark colors, all clearly purchased for her. Someone had prepared this room for her arrival. Someone had known she was coming.

The thought made her skin crawl.

She tried the door again.

Locked.

Of course it was locked. The knob didn't even turn. She pressed her ear against the wood and heard nothing-no footsteps, no voices, just the heavy silence of a house that swallowed sound whole.

She moved to the windows next, running her fingers along the frames. The glass was thick-reinforced, she realized. Bulletproof, probably. She found a small latch and pushed. The window opened about two inches, letting in a cold draft that smelled of winter earth and pine, but no farther. There was a mechanism preventing it from opening more. Childproof, she thought bitterly. Or prisoner-proof.

She looked down. The drop was two stories onto stone patio. Even if she could somehow break the reinforced glass-which she couldn't-she would break her legs on impact. And even if she survived that, armed guards patrolled below. She could see them now, three men in black coats walking in slow circles, flashlights sweeping across the grounds.

Dogs too. Massive beasts-German shepherds or something larger, their dark shapes moving alongside the guards. One of them looked up at the window and growled, a low rumble that reached her even through the glass.

Aria stepped back.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Her hands were shaking. Her wrists were still raw from where the silk tie had bound them-Damon had removed it before leaving her here, but the phantom sensation remained.

"Think, Aria. Think," she whispered to herself, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her.

Seven days until the wedding. Seven days to find a way out.

But how? She was trapped in a fortress. No phone. No computer. No shoes. No money. No friends who even knew where she was. Her father had sold her and walked away. Her mother has long abandoned her. Her coworkers at the café would assume she had simply stopped showing up, like so many broke college students before her.

No one was coming to save her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. She sank onto the velvet chaise lounge near the window, her legs suddenly unable to hold her weight.

Her mind kept replaying the scene in the foyer.

Valentina's hatred. The way the redhead's tears had cut through her expensive makeup. The desperation in her voice when she said I love you, Damon. And Damon's response-cold, dismissive, final. Like discarding a worn-out shirt.

What we had was sex, Valentina. Good sex. Nothing more.

Eight months of intimacy, and he had ended it in thirty seconds without a flicker of remorse.

And that growl.

Aria closed her eyes, remembering the sound. It had come from deep in his chest, rumbling like distant thunder. Not human. Not even close to human. It had vibrated through the marble floor, through the walls, through her own bones. And his eyes-for just a split second, they had glowed. A pale, luminous white that had no place in a human face.

The things I become when the moon-

Valentina hadn't finished that sentence. Damon had silenced her with a look, with that growl, with that inhuman glow. But Aria had heard enough.

When the moon.

She looked out the window at the night sky. The moon hung low and heavy, nearly full, casting silver light across the estate grounds. It was beautiful and cold and somehow threatening.

What happened when the moon was full?

What was Damon Voss?

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Aria spun around, heart hammering against her ribs. She stood up quickly, her bare feet sinking into the carpet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

The door opened.

A middle-aged woman entered carrying a silver tray. She was short and plump, with grey-streaked brown hair pulled into a severe bun and a face that had learned long ago to show nothing. She wore a crisp black uniform-a knee-length dress, white apron, sensible flats. A small name tag pinned to her chest read Mrs. Harlow.

She didn't meet Aria's eyes.

"Master Damon says you must eat," the woman said quietly, her voice flat and professional. She walked to a small table near the window-a round marble surface with two velvet chairs-and set the tray down with careful precision.

Aria looked at the tray. There was grilled salmon drizzled with some kind of lemon sauce, roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, a small bowl of wild rice, a basket of warm bread rolls, and a glass of deep red wine. A silver pitcher of water sat beside it, condensation beading on its surface.

The smell made her stomach clench with hunger. She hadn't eaten since breakfast-a single piece of toast and half a banana, scarfed down between study sessions.

"I'm not eating anything he gives me," Aria snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn't soften them. "Tell him to let me go. Tell him I want to go home."

Mrs. Harlow finally looked at her.

There was pity in the woman's eyes-deep, sad, knowing pity. The kind of look that said I've seen this before. I've seen girls like you before. I know how this ends.

"It's better if you don't fight him, miss," she said quietly. "No one wins against Master Voss. I've worked in this house for twelve years. I've seen strong people come through those doors. Angry people. Desperate people." She shook her head slowly. "None of them left the way they came in."

She bowed slightly-a small, deferential motion-and walked toward the door.

"Mrs. Harlow," Aria called out before the woman could leave.

She paused but didn't turn around.

"Please," Aria said, hating how small her voice sounded. "Is there anyone who can help me? Anyone at all?"

Mrs. Harlow was silent for a long moment. Then she said, very softly, "There is no help here, miss. Only survival."

She left, and the lock clicked behind her.

Aria stared at the food.

Her stomach growled again, loud in the silence. She hated herself for it-hated that her body still wanted things, still needed things, still refused to give up even when her mind was screaming in despair.

She sat down on the velvet chair and picked up the fork.

The salmon melted on her tongue. The vegetables were perfectly roasted, caramelized at the edges. The rice was fluffy and seasoned with something herbal and fragrant. She ate everything. Every bite. She drank the water in three long gulps and stared at the wine before pushing it aside.

She wouldn't drink his wine. That felt like acceptance.

But she ate his food.

And she hated herself for that too.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Aria lost track of time.

She had moved to the bed, sitting on the edge of the black silk sheets, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She was waiting. She didn't know for what, exactly-for the sun to rise? For a miracle? For the nightmare to end?

The lock clicked.

Aria's whole body went rigid.

Damon stepped inside.

He had changed out of his suit. Now he wore a simple black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing powerful forearms corded with muscle and dark ink. Tattoos covered his left arm from wrist to elbow-intricate patterns she couldn't decipher in the low light, whorls and lines and symbols that seemed to move when she blinked. His feet were bare, she noticed with surprise. Large, with well-defined arches and clean nails. Even his feet looked dangerous, somehow.

His black hair was slightly damp, as if he had just showered. A single drop of water clung to his temple, catching the firelight before sliding down his jaw.

His silver-grey eyes scanned her from head to toe-taking in her tear-stained face, her clenched hands, her rigid posture.

"You ate," he noted. His voice was soft, almost pleased.

"I was hungry," Aria replied coldly. "That doesn't mean I've accepted any of this."

Damon closed the door behind him and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, and Aria looked away, refusing to notice.

"You will," he said. "In time."

"Why me?" The question burst out of her before she could stop it. She stood up, her hands shaking at her sides. "You could have taken the money another way. You could have done something else. Why force me into marriage? I'm nobody. I have nothing. I'm a broke college student who works at a café and lives in a slum. What could you possibly want with someone like me?"

Damon pushed off the door and walked toward her.

Each step was slow. Deliberate. Predatory. His bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet, but his presence filled the room, pressing against her from all sides.

She wanted to retreat. Every instinct screamed at her to back away, to put distance between them. But she forced herself to stand her ground, her chin lifted, her eyes meeting his.

He stopped inches away. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of blue in his silver irises. Close enough that she could smell him-sandalwood and smoke and something wilder underneath, like forests after rain.

"Because I saw your picture," he said quietly. "In the file my men brought me. And something... called to me."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm-surprisingly warm-and he wasn't wearing his gloves. She saw his hands for the first time. They were large, with long fingers and clean nails, but scarred-small white lines crossing his knuckles, a larger mark across his palm.

"Your father doesn't have the money he owes me," Damon continued. "But he does have something valuable."

"People aren't property," Aria hissed.

"You are now." His thumb brushed her cheekbone, feather-light. "You're mine, Aria. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

She jerked her face away from his touch. "I won't be your wife. I won't warm your bed like Valentina or whoever else you've used and thrown away. I don't care how much you threaten me. I won't-"

A dark smile tugged at Damon's lips. It wasn't amused. It was hungry.

"Valentina was a distraction," he said. "A warm body. Nothing more. You..." He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm on her lips. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, as if scenting her. "You're different."

Aria shoved at his chest with both hands.

It was like pushing against a brick wall. He didn't move. Didn't even sway. Her hands pressed against the warm fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath, and he simply stood there, watching her with those glowing silver eyes.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice shaking.

Damon caught her wrists-gently, but firmly. His fingers wrapped around her thin bones, holding her hands against his chest.

"Careful, little wolf," he murmured. "My patience has limits."

Little wolf.

The name again.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" she whispered.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Something ancient and primal. Something that wasn't entirely human. His grip on her wrists tightened slightly, and she saw his pupils dilate, expanding until his silver irises were nearly swallowed by black.

Then he released her.

He stepped back, turned away, and walked toward the window. He stood with his back to her, staring out at the night sky, at the moon hanging low and heavy.

"You'll find out soon enough," he murmured. "The wedding will be in seven days. The dress designers will come tomorrow. Pick whatever you want."

"I'm not marrying you in seven days," Aria said through gritted teeth.

Damon turned back to her.

The softness was gone. The flicker of humanity was gone. In its place was the cold, ruthless mafia king who had burst through her apartment door and destroyed her life.

"You will," he said. "Or I'll have your father delivered to you in pieces. A finger a day, starting with the one he used to sign you away. Your choice, Aria."

She went pale. Her stomach turned to ice.

"You're a monster," she breathed.

Damon walked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, his back still to her.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I am."

He left.

The lock clicked.

And Aria was alone.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands.

Seven days.

She had one week to find a way out of this nightmare.

But deep down, as the fire crackled and the moon rose higher and the guards' flashlights swept across the grounds below, a terrifying thought crept into her mind.

What if there was no escape from Damon Voss?

And worse-what kind of monster was he really hiding beneath that beautiful, ruthless face?

She looked out the window at the nearly full moon.

And shivered.