Isabella sat in the back of the black car, hands trembling in her lap. The leather seats were soft, expensive, suffocating. She could still feel the weight of his eyes on her, even though he hadn't spoken a word since they left her house.
Drystan Sepher Alphamanio drove in silence, his gloved hands relaxed on the wheel, but his presence filled every inch of the car. It was impossible to breathe, to think, to look away. The world outside blurred into rain-soaked glass. Her world was unraveling with every mile.
She turned toward him, voice a fragile whisper. "Where are you taking me?"
He didn't look at her. "Home."
"I have a home."
He smirked, low and dangerous. "Not anymore."
Her breath caught. "My father—he didn't know what he was doing. I didn't ask for any of this."
"No," he said, finally glancing her way. "You didn't ask. But that doesn't matter anymore."
She stared at him—this stranger who spoke like a king and moved like a predator. The sharp lines of his jaw, the scar trailing from his brow to his cheekbone, the cold perfection of his suit… Every detail screamed power. And violence.
"I don't belong in your world," she said, voice cracking.
"I know," he said softly. "That's why I want you there."
That terrified her more than anything else.
---
When they arrived, the mansion looked like something torn from a gothic nightmare. Tall iron gates, black marble stairs, a dozen faceless men in tailored suits guarding the perimeter.
Drystan opened her door. She didn't move.
"I'm not going to run," she said.
"No," he replied, "you won't. But I want to see what fear looks like in your eyes when you walk through those doors. Innocence like yours… it only lasts so long."
He extended a hand.
She didn't take it.
Instead, she stood on her own—and walked ahead of him. Her legs trembled with every step, but she didn't stop. Not even when the cold wind whipped her dress against her skin like punishment. She didn't stop until the doors opened, and the darkness swallowed her whole.
---
Inside, the house was silent. Too silent. Every footstep echoed off marble floors. Massive oil paintings lined the hall, all of them twisted, haunting. Isabella felt them watching her.
Drystan walked past her like a shadow and opened a black double door.
"This is your room," he said.
She peeked inside.
It was stunning.
White canopy bed. Lace curtains. A single glass chandelier that looked like falling stars. It was too beautiful for a prisoner.
"You're keeping me here?" she asked.
His voice was calm. "You'll eat when I say. Bathe when I say. Sleep when I allow it. Your freedom is mine now, Isabella."
She swallowed. "Why me?"
That smile again. That slow, dark smirk that looked like it had been carved from stone and sin.
"Because I've had everything else," he said. "And none of it made me feel alive."
He stepped closer—too close.
"But you… you're untouched. Untamed. A rare thing in a world made of ash. And I want to be the first man to mark you."
Her breath came in short, shaky gasps. "I'm not yours."
"You will be," he whispered, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. "Every inch."
He turned and walked out, the door locking behind him.
And for the first time in her life, Isabella Price wasn't afraid of dying.
She was afraid of how much she wanted to feel alive in his hands.