The letter and the virgin

“Deeper, Damien!” The black-haired girl screamed, her voice shattered across the room as her body arched against the edge of the billiard table. Her nails raked the green felt while her fifth climax tore through her in violent waves.

She was loud. They often were. Damien Kael didn’t care for noise, but she had been limber and eager—and tonight, he’d needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions.

She would come running, like they all did.

His women came when he called. They always came. Not for love. Not even lust. But for the thrill. For the power he radiated. It wasn’t connection. It was routine.

He didn’t finish with her. Not yet.

Sliding free, Damien gripped the carved edge of the table and stared out across the balcony. The city sprawled beyond, blinking like a restless beast beneath the ink-stained sky. Moonlight kissed the ridges of his bare chest, highlighting the angry red crescents her nails had carved into his back.

The woman moaned softly behind him, crawling toward him like a stray searching for scraps.

Damien didn’t turn.

He didn’t need another climax. He needed silence. Control.

And control had been slipping. Inch by inch. Night by night.

Ever since the letter arrived from the convent. The letter offering him something new. Something pure. Something untouched.

His jaw tightened like a vice.

“Get dressed,” he said.

A pause. Then: “What?”

He turned his head, giving her a single cold look that sliced through the dim light.

“Leave.”

Her lips parted in disbelief, a half-laugh bubbling up. “Are you serious?”

Damien said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The weight of his stare was enough to crush her pride. She scrambled to gather her clothes, muttering under her breath, her perfume clinging to the air like cheap desperation.

By the time she slipped out the door, Damien was already pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He didn’t watch her leave. She was nothing.

Nothing compared to what was arriving tomorrow.

She was nineteen.

The letter had been neat. Official. Stamped with the seal of God and guilt. Her name: Elara Vale.

The convent called it an external placement program. An act of gratitude for his generous donations. But Damien knew the truth. It was a transaction. And it intrigued him far more than he’d like to admit.

A virgin.

A girl who had never been touched, never spoken to a man without a prayer on her lips. A girl who would blush at bare ankles, tremble at coarse language, and bow her head when addressed.

She would be his maid.

Damien wasn’t a man of faith. But he had rituals of his own. And breaking this one would be deliberate. Exquisite.

He glanced at the letter once more, lying like a sin on his desk:

We trust Mr. Kael will find her service respectful, quiet, and obedient.

His mouth curved in a slow, dangerous smile.

We’ll see.

The next morning, Elara Vale stood before the wrought-iron gates of Kael Manor, her breath fogging in the chill dawn air. Her hands shook as the driver swung open the rear door.

The estate loomed before her like something out of a dream she wasn’t meant to have—vast, severe, silent. Its sharp peaks and shadowed windows watched her like human eyes.

She stepped out, clutching her small suitcase like a shield. Her modest gray dress was pressed to perfection, her hair braided neatly, her faith the only thing holding her upright. She whispered prayers the entire ride here, lips forming the familiar words even as the driver stole glances at her through the mirror.

Don’t be afraid. This is your duty. You’re here to serve. To provide.

But no prayer could prepare her for what waited beyond those doors.

The butler, tall and austere as a marble statue, met her at the entrance.

“Miss Vale. This way.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer warmth. The heavy doors closed behind her with a hushed finality.

Her footsteps echoed softly on polished stone, her heart pounding far too loudly in her chest. The air smelled of leather and firewood—and something she couldn’t name. Something dark. Something she hadn’t imagined before.

She had never smelled cologne before.

She wasn’t supposed to like it.

And then… he appeared.

Descending the grand staircase in a charcoal shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms dusted with ink-dark hair, Damien Kael moved like gravity obeyed him. Barefoot. Controlled. Dangerous.

The kind of man whispered about in sermons—the kind with teeth behind his smile.

His gaze collided with hers. And the world felt like it stopped.

Elara froze. Her lips parted, breath stalling in her throat. His eyes—black as a midnight sin—dragged over her like a slow blade, stripping her without a touch.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice was low, smooth as whiskey.

“I… the driver arrived ahead of schedule.”

He tilted his head, assessing her like property. “No makeup. No polish. No perfume. Just so natural and simple”.

“I wasn’t allowed,” she whispered.

The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t out of kindness. “Good. That won’t be a problem.”

He closed the distance between them—silent, predatory, a hunter circling his prey.

“I don’t tolerate noise in this house, Elara,” he said. “You speak only when spoken to. You will follow the dress code I provide. And you will never step into the west wing. Understand?”

Her throat tightened. Heat crawled up her neck. “Yes, Mr. Kael.”

He stopped in front of her. Close enough for her to catch the smoky whisper of his scent. Her pulse stumbled. His shirt hung open just enough to reveal the ridge of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

“No,” he said softly. “When you speak to me, you say Yes, Damien. You’re not in the convent anymore.”

Her breath snagged. “…Yes, Damien.”

He stared at her lips for a moment that lasted far too long. Then turned away without another word, leaving her trembling in the marble silence.

And in that first hour of her new life, Elara Vale realized something far more dangerous than fear:

She wasn’t afraid of Damien Kael.

She was curious.

And curiosity… was how sins began.