Chapter 3: The Devil’s Price

At 4:00 AM the next day, Manhattan was still asleep. Only the wind off the Hudson River, carrying the scent of salt and brine, scraped through the empty streets.

Ava stood in front of the private elevator on the 88th floor of the Voss Tower. Her black trench coat was wrapped tight, her hair still dripping. She had no appointment, no assistant. Just a thin checkbook and the resolve of someone marching to their execution.

The elevator doors slid open silently. The security system had already received Landon's command.

Stepping onto the top floor, she was hit by a wave of cold air mixed with cedar and tobacco.

The office was absurdly large. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked New York City like a floating throne. Behind a central black ebony desk, Landon Voss sat with his back to her. His suit jacket was draped over his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing cold, hard muscle. He didn't turn around. He simply raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Half the lights went out.

"Miss Rosier," his voice was low, raspy with sleep or disuse. "I heard you would come crawling."

Ava undid the buttons of her trench coat, one by one. The movement was slow, deliberate—a provocation. The coat hit the floor, revealing the black silk dress ruined by wine. The dried stains left dark, map-like blotches, resembling bruised skin.

She walked toward him, heels clicking on the marble. Every step felt like she was stepping on her own heart.

"I don't crawl, Mr. Voss." She stopped ten paces from him, her voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "I bite."

Landon finally turned.

Thirty-one years old. In person, he was far more dangerous than in photos. Deep brow bones, deep-set eyes, lips thin and sharp as if they could cut a throat. His eyes held the red veins of insomnia, yet he smiled like a gentleman.

"38% of the floating shares are already on my hunting list." His finger tapped the desk, a rhythm like a death march. "I could rename Rosier Holdings to Voss Holdings today. What do you have to negotiate with?"

Ava raised her hand and placed the controlling rights transfer agreement she had signed last night gently in front of him.

"Ninety days. You pause the acquisition and give me a two hundred million dollar bridge loan. In exchange..."

She reached down, her fingertips hooking the invisible zipper at the side of her dress, slowly pulling it down.

The metallic zip was quiet but distinct, like a ceremony.

"In exchange, you get me. Tonight. Once. No limits. No questions."

The zipper hit the bottom. The dress slid down her thighs to her ankles. She stepped out of the fabric in her heels, leaving her in nothing but a set of rain-drenched black lace lingerie. It cut into her skin, tight enough that the rise and fall of her chest hurt.

The office was warm, yet goosebumps rose on her skin.

Landon’s gaze traveled from her collarbone down, pausing on the surgical scar under her left breast from three years ago. He suddenly smiled—the smile of a wolf that had finally cornered its prey.

"Take it off." Just three words, his voice low and husky.

Ava reached behind her back. The clasp snapped open. The fabric fell. Then the final thin strip of lace; she didn't hesitate, sliding it down and kicking it away.

Standing naked before him, she looked like a pearl shucked from its shell—cold, glowing, and carrying sharp thorns.

Landon stood. At six-foot-four, his shadow completely engulfed her. He reached out, lifting her chin with a finger, his thumb rubbing roughly over her bottom lip, the pressure heavy enough to bruise.

"Do you know what I like to play?"

Ava met his gaze, word for word:

"I know you like to push people until they break, then watch them beg." "But I won't beg you, Landon Voss. I will only make you addicted."

She stood on tiptoes and bit his lower lip. Hard. Until she tasted copper.

The taste of blood exploded between them.

In the next second, Landon gripped the back of her neck and slammed her onto the cold desk. Papers went flying, scattering across the floor. He loomed over her, teeth sinking into her collarbone, traveling down, leaving deep red marks. Ava’s nails raked down his back, drawing blood, as if she wanted to tear him apart and consume him.

The belt buckle clicked open. The zipper of his trousers was pulled down roughly.

He gave her no buffer, gripping her waist and entering her. Ava’s fingers dug into his shoulders, nails piercing skin, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out. The pain rose like a tide, carrying with it a twisted pleasure. Her body went taut, only to be shattered by his deep, relentless thrusts.

Landon held her hips, his rhythm ruthless, punishing. Every movement was so deep her vision blackened. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected their entangled silhouettes, the lights of New York burning behind them like a silent auto-da-fé.

At the height of the madness, Ava suddenly bit his shoulder, leaving a clear, purple bruise. Landon growled, grabbed her neck, flipped her over, and pressed her against the cold glass window, entering her from behind.

The shock of hot and cold finally broke her. She sobbed, a broken sound that he smothered with his palm. His hand was scalding, calloused. As it pressed against her mouth, she instinctively bit the base of his finger, tasting iron again.

"Cry," he whispered against her ear, his voice toxic. "The louder you cry, the harder I get."

Ava’s nails screeched against the glass, but her body rose to meet him again and again. The pleasure of being torn open and filled was an addiction, making her lose control. She hated him, and she hated herself, but she hated herself most for finding sweetness in this hatred.

The climax came fast and brutal. Spasms racked her body; her legs were so weak she could barely stand. Landon didn't stop. He held her waist in a vice grip, only withdrawing at the very last second with a low roar, the hot fluid splashing against her lower back and thighs, a barbaric mark of ownership.

Afterward, Ava collapsed onto the sofa. She was covered in bruises and bite marks, her breath trembling. Landon lit a cigarette. Smoke curled between them. He reached out, dipping a finger in the sweat on her collarbone, and brought it to his lips.

"Two hundred million. In your account by midnight." "Ninety days. I won't touch Rosier Holdings."

Ava propped up her aching body. She picked up his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, misaligning two buttons. She didn't care. Her voice was so hoarse it was barely audible, but she was smiling.

"Deal."

She walked toward the elevator. Between her legs, the evidence of his possession remained, making every step agony. But the pain made the corners of her mouth lift.

Before the doors closed, she looked back at him. The shirt hem couldn't hide the red marks on her thighs, blooming like poppies.

"By the way, Mr. Voss. Next time, prepare some throat lozenges. My throat hurts."

Landon stared at the elevator doors for a long time. The cigarette burned down to his fingers before he snapped out of it.

He looked down at the bloody crescent mark on his hand where she had bitten him and let out a low laugh.

"Maniac." "I am completely fucked."