Chapter 3

(Lana POV)

I froze, half: naked, Adrian's shirt sliding down my arms. My heart began to pound. For a second, neither of us moved.

Then Adrian positioned himself in front of me, protecting me with that same quiet violence that seemed like a second skin to him. "Stay here," he said in a low, measured voice. "Don't move. Not an inch."

I opened my mouth, but he was already crossing the room. Calm. Focused. As if he was expecting it.

Another knock. Harder this time. "Open this fucking door, Adrian!" A male voice, hoarse and all too familiar. I couldn't recognize it, but my stomach clenched.

Adrian rummaged in the drawer next to the bed and pulled out a shirt. Black. Buttoned up to the neck. He glanced at me. "Put this on." He tossed one of his crisp white shirts toward the bed. "And stay out of sight."

He slipped something into the back of his belt. A gun? A knife? I didn't want to know.

I picked up the shirt with trembling fingers. My clothes were scattered on the floor, abandoned in our almost: moment. I pulled the fabric over my head, trying to calm my breathing.

The door closed behind him with a click.

Then silence.

I sat there, knees drawn up to my chest, straining to listen. The room was too clean. Too quiet. I no longer felt safe. I felt like I was in a trap covered in silk sheets and scented with fine cologne.

Curiosity got the better of me. I slipped out of bed and approached his drawer. The first one contained watches. Ties. Sunglasses.

Second drawer: a pistol.

My breath caught in my throat.

I touched it. Cold metal. Heavy. Real.

I didn't know if I would use it. Against him? Against the one outside? Against myself, if necessary?

A scream ripped through the apartment. Then a crash. Glass shattering.

I jumped.

Then... gunshots.

Two knocks. A scream.

Then... silence.

I collapsed to the floor, my hands over my ears. My whole body was trembling. The beating of my heart was louder than anything else.

When the door reopened, I screamed.

Adrian stood in the doorway, a red splatter staining the front of his shirt near the collar. It wasn't his. His gaze swept the room until it settled on me.

He closed the door with a soft click.

"He's gone," he said.

I stared at the red stain on his shirt. "What did you do?"

He tilted his head, as if my question troubled him. "Nobody touches what belongs to me."

I didn't move. I couldn't.

He took a slow step towards me. Then another. His eyes were dark and endless.

"You were undressing," he murmured. "Done."

I shook my head, breathless.

He smiled, dark and deadly. "Come on, kitten."

He was still wearing the bloodstained shirt when he approached me, each step deliberate. I should have been afraid. I should have run away. But I couldn't move, not with the way his eyes pinned me to the bed like an order.

"Take it off," Adrian repeated. More softly this time. A whisper made of smoke and menace.

I stood up, my hands trembling, and unbuttoned the shirt he had given me. The cotton slipped off my shoulders and fell to the floor. I wasn't cold anymore. I was burning.

Adrian didn't rush. He hadn't even touched me yet. He simply watched me, as if he wanted to memorize every square inch of my skin. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but he said nothing. Instead, he took the pistol from his belt and gently placed it on the bedside table.

Then he approached me.

His hands slid into my hair, holding me still as his mouth crashed against mine. Without gentleness. Without hesitation. Just raw, unfiltered need. He kissed like he fought: possessive, ruthless, dangerous. And I let him.

I moaned when he bit my lower lip, hard enough to hurt. My legs gave way, but he caught me, lifted me as if I weighed nothing, and laid me on the bed.

Then he got on top of me.

His mouth left a trail of fire on my throat, then on my chest. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them apart to settle between them.

"You can't pretend you didn't want this," he said against my skin, his voice hoarse. "You begged him."

"I don't have..."

He slipped two fingers between my legs and I choked as I finished my sentence.

"You're so wet for me," he snarled. "Even now. After what you heard. What I did."

"I should hate you," I murmured.

"You should," he agreed, slipping his fingers into his mouth. "But you don't."

His tongue followed the path of his fingers, slow and devastating. I gasped, arching against him, my fingers tangled in his hair. He devoured me mercilessly. He licked, sucked, circled with terrifying precision until I writhed, trembled, begged...

“Adrian…please…”

He withdrew just when I thought I was going to break down. I sobbed, clutching the sheets.

He crawled on top of me, sliding the tip of his penis along my slit, without yet penetrating me. "Say it," he murmured. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I whispered, overcome with shame. "I hate you, but I'm yours."

He sank in all at once.

I cried out, half in pain, half in ecstasy. He didn't give me time to adjust, simply penetrating me deeply and violently, stretching me to the very edge of reason. I clung to him, clawing at his back as he thrust into me again and again, his eyes locked on mine.

"You can't run away," he growled, gripping my jaw. "You wanted a demon, kitten. You got one."

And I broke down for him.

There, beneath the man who may have just killed someone in my name.

The sheets are cold where he left me.

I pull the blanket up to my chest, but the pain between my thighs doesn't subside. It's not just the burning. It's the way he looked at me just before, as if I already belonged to him. As if I had long before I'd even signed anything.

My name appears on a contract.

My body is in his bed.

But I feel like I'm worthless.

On the other side of the room, Adrian buttons his wrists as if it were just another Tuesday. As if he hadn't just stripped me of everything I had left.

I can't speak. I don't know how. My voice wouldn't come out, even if I tried.

The door closes behind him. And I can finally breathe.

Not because I'm doing well.

But because I'm alone.

The sheets feel unfamiliar, cold, and luxurious. I don't belong here. My body still suffers from what he did to me, from the way he used me—and from the way he said it:

"You belong to me now."

I take the contract out of the bedside table. My signature stares back at me, permanent and stupid. My chest tightens.

This isn't a wedding. It's a sale.

And I am the product.

My phone vibrates faintly on the floor. A bar. A message.

Dad: I hope you're settling in well. Don't embarrass me.

I call him.

He picks up the phone, laughing. "Is he already done with you?"

My stomach churned. "You really did it. You sold me out."

"To a man richer than God," he replied. "You should be grateful. Some girls pay to live in a house like that."

"I'm not just any girl, I'm your daughter."

"Not anymore."

Silence.

"You've been nothing but a talkative burden since your mother died. You cost me more than you're worth. Adrian offered me a solution. I accepted it."

"You sold me like a damn object!"

"No, Lana. I traded you in like a man."

And there you have it.

All this time, I thought he was mad at me. But it's worse than that. He's never even seen me. Just a price tag.

I try to speak, but no sound comes out.

"You signed the papers," he said coldly. "Which means you now belong to him. So make yourself useful."

He hangs up.

I stare at the wall. It's elegant. Cream and gold. Velvet curtains, marble floor.

A magnificent cage.

My throat burns, but I'm not crying.

I lie there, numb, raw, married to a man who didn't buy me to love me.

He bought me to possess me.