The heavy oak door clicks open, and the mirror reflects him—a shark in a midnight suit. Viktor doesn’t looklike the beast who grunted in the hay; he looks like a king who has just finished a casual stroll through his gardens. He stops behind me, his hands landing on my bare, bruised shoulders. I flinch, the movement sharp and jagged, but his grip is iron.
“Exquisite,” he purrs, his eyes roaming over my reflection, lingering on the way the black silk clings to my hips. He slides one hand down, his palm flat against my stomach, pulling my back flush against his chest. I can feel it immediately—the thick, heavy ridge of his cock, already stone-hard against the base of my spine. “You have no idea what you do to me, piccola fiamma. Even now, smelling of my sweat and your own tears, you make me so hard it’s a physical ache. I could hike this silk up right now and finish what I started in the barn.”
I close my eyes, a shudder of pure, unadulterated loathing racking my frame. “Please… just stop.”
“It’s such a shame,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath hot and smelling of expensive bourbon. “It’s such a fucking tragedy that I have to let you go so soon.”
My eyes snap open. My heart stutters, a frantic, hopeful beat that hurts more than the brand. “Let me go?” I rasp, my voice cracking. “You’re… you’re letting me go? Back to Peter?”
Viktor freezes. Then, a low, rumbling vibration starts in his chest. It builds until he’s laughing—a cruel, mocking sound that fills the velvet-lined room and shatters the last of my dignity. He spins me around, his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to look up at his derisive smile.
“Back to Peter?” he mimics, his voice dripping withvenom. “Stupid, pathetic girl. You think after I’ve marked you, after I’ve filled you with my seed and burned my name into your skin, I’d just hand you back to that boy? Don’t be fucking ridiculous. Peter Hale is a ghost. You don’t go back to ghosts.”
“Then where?” I shriek, the panic rising like a tide of acid in my throat. “Where are you taking me?”
“You aren’t going to a home, Wendy. You’re going to a stage,” he says, his eyes dancing with a lethal light. “In an hour, the elite of the underworld will be in my ballroom. You are the star of the evening. I am going to stand you on a stage, let them see every bruise I gave you, let them see the King’s wife in her Sunday best… and I am going to sell you to the highest bidder.”
The world tilts. The air in the room vanishes.
“No,” I whisper, the word dying in my throat. “No! You can’t! You fucking monster! I am not an object! I am not a fucking prize!”
Rage, pure and white-hot, explodes in my chest, overriding the trauma. I scream—a raw, animal sound—and lunge at him. My nails rake down his cheek, drawing four jagged lines of crimson. I kick at his shins with my four-inch heels, trying to puncture his skin, trying to tear him apart. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you, you Italian piece of shit! You can’t sell me! Peter will burn this whole city to the ground!”
“Peter is late, Wendy!” Viktor roars, grabbing both of my wrists in one hand and slamming me back against the vanity. The perfume bottles clatter and shatter, the scent of a thousand lilies drowning the room.
I’m sobbing now, a violent, hacking sound, my chest heaving against the black silk. “Fuck you! Fuck you,Viktor! I’ll scream! I’ll tell everyone what you did! I’ll make sure they know you’re a fucking coward who hides behind women!”
“Shhhhh,” Viktor whispers, his face inches from mine, his expression suddenly, terrifyingly calm.
The door opens again. Two massive men in black tactical gear step into the room, their faces hidden behind ballistic masks. They carry a heavy leather harness and a roll of silver duct tape.
“Don’t waste your breath, mia cara,” Viktor says, stepping back and straightening his tie as the men move toward me. “By the time you hit the stage, you won’t have a voice left to scream with.”
I scramble back, my heels skidding on the marble, but the men are faster. They snare my arms, and the first strip of tape is ripped from the roll with a sound like a gunshot.
The tape isn’t for my mouth. Not yet.
Viktor reaches into the inner pocket of his navy blazer and pulls out a small, velvet-lined case. He opens it with a clinical flick of his thumb, revealing a glass syringe. The liquid inside is amber, thick and honey-slow, catching the light of the chandelier like a trapped sunset.
“No,” I whimper, my body shaking so violently the spaghetti straps of the black slip slide down my arms. “Viktor, please. No needles. No drugs. Just… just take me to the stage. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be a good girl.”
“You were never a good girl, Wendy,” he says, his voice a low, melodic hum. “You were just a well-behaved hostage. But a girl with your fire? You’ll fight the buyer. You’ll make a scene. And I need you… compliant. I need you floating in the clouds while the sharks circle below.”
The two men in masks pin me against the vanity. One of them grabs my arm, his gloved fingers bruising my bicep, forcing my elbow to lock. He turns my arm over, exposing the pale, blue-veined skin of my inner elbow—the most vulnerable part of me left.
“Hold her still,” Viktor commands.
“I’ll kill you!” I scream, the sound tearing at my vocal cords. I thrash, my heels kicking out, shattering the lower mirror of the vanity. Glass shards fly, cutting my ankles, but I don’t feel it. All I see is that glinting silver needle. “I’ll fucking find a way to end you, Viktor! Peter will?—”
“Peter is a memory, piccola fiamma. This is your reality.”
He steps into my space, his thumb flicking the side of the syringe to clear the air bubbles. He doesn’t look like a man anymore; he looks like a scientist performing an experiment on a stray dog. He grabs my forearm, his grip a vice, and presses the needle against my skin.
I feel the sharp, cold bite of the steel. I let out a jagged, broken sob as he slides the needle home.
“There,” he whispers.
He plunges the amber liquid into my vein.
