Chapter 6: The Devil’s Lessons

His fingers remained locked around my wrist as he pulled me away from the bed with such unbothered force that I nearly lost my footing the moment my bare feet touched the marble floor. The weakness left by the drugs had not entirely disappeared from my body, and my knees still felt unreliable beneath me, but he neither slowed his pace nor loosened his hold. I was dragged forward as though my balance, comfort, and willingness had no relevance in whatever plan was already formed inside his head.

I wanted to protest. The words gathered several times at the back of my throat, but each time I remembered the terrifying ease with which those same hands had nearly crushed Cain’s windpipe, the protest dissolved into silence. There was something far more disturbing than brute violence in a man who carried that kind of danger beneath a calm exterior. He did not need to shout to make fear settle in a room. His quietness did the work for him.

The double doors opened before us, and he led me into a corridor so extravagant that it almost looked unreal beneath the afternoon light. The walls were paneled in muted gold, interrupted by tall mirrors and crystal fixtures that reflected pale glimmers across the polished marble. Every inch of the place whispered old money, the sort of wealth that had long grown bored with proving itself. Yet the grandeur did nothing to soften the fact that I was walking through it as a captive.

The thought struck me with renewed bitterness.

I had not agreed to any of this.

Someone had abducted me from my ordinary life, drugged me, stripped me, chained me, and displayed me in front of a room full of masked predators. Somewhere in the middle of that nightmare, this man had stepped in, thrown numbers around that sounded less like currency and more like a nation’s budget, and carried me away. None of it erased the reality that I was still here against my will, and no amount of silk sheets or luxurious hallways could make forced possession resemble rescue.

My wrist began to ache under the pressure of his grip.

By the time we reached the middle of the corridor, the discomfort had sharpened enough that irritation overcame caution. I pulled my hand back with more force than wisdom.

He stopped.

The sudden halt made me lift my eyes.

A row of maids stood several feet away, all dressed identically in black with crisp white aprons, their heads bowed so low that their gazes remained fixed on the floor. Not one of them reacted to my movement. Not one of them even twitched. They stood there in complete stillness, as if they had learned long ago that visibility was dangerous in this house.

I ignored them and rubbed my wrist, glaring at the fresh red imprint his fingers had left on my skin. The bruises from the chains were already darkening, and the new marks only deepened my resentment.

“I am beginning to hate your habit of dragging me around as though I am luggage,” I said, unable to keep the anger from sharpening my voice.

He turned toward me fully, and the expression on his face was one of measured displeasure rather than surprise.

“And I am beginning to hate the hostility written all over your face every time you look at me.”

His calmness only inflamed me further.

“Hostility?” I repeated. “You nearly strangled a man in front of me, bought me in an underground auction, and dragged me into a house I did not choose to enter. What exactly were you expecting? Gratitude?”

The maids remained bowed.

The hallway remained silent.

The only sound was my own breathing, which had begun to quicken.

His jaw shifted almost imperceptibly, but his voice came out as controlled as ever. “You are speaking with a confidence that your current position does not support.”

“Then enlighten me,” I snapped before fear could shut me up. “What exactly is my current position? Prisoner? Property? Decorative investment? Because no one has given me the courtesy of an explanation.”

Something changed in his eyes then, not enough to be called anger, but enough to make me regret the volume of my own voice.

He took a step toward me.

I instinctively stepped back.

The corridor suddenly felt much narrower than before.

“You are demanding answers,” he said, his tone lower now, smoother, “while conveniently forgetting that you are alive because I intervened.”

The words struck me, but not enough to weaken my temper.

“I did not ask to be bought.”

“No,” he replied, continuing toward me with that same infuriating calm, “you were simply placed on a stage for men who intended to do far worse.”

I opened my mouth, but no immediate response came. The memory of the auction hall, of masked eyes devouring me while prices climbed higher and higher, flashed unpleasantly through my mind. Still, I refused to let him twist that nightmare into some form of noble salvation.

“So that makes this what?” I asked. “A favor?”

His lips curved, but there was nothing kind in it.

“That depends entirely on how difficult you intend to be.”

My heartbeat gave a hard, uncomfortable thud.

He kept walking.

I kept retreating.

Each backward step I took felt less like movement and more like surrendering space, yet I could not stop. His gaze remained fixed on me with unnerving steadiness, and there was something deeply disarming in the way he never seemed rushed. Menacing people usually announced themselves with loudness. He announced himself with certainty.

“I should know who abducted me,” I said, trying to cling to the questions that mattered more than the fear building in my chest. “I should know why I was there. I should know why you spent that kind of money.”

“You will know what I decide you should know.”

The answer hit me like a slap.

My brows drew together. “You do not get to decide that.”

His brows lifted faintly, as though my defiance amused him more than it offended him.

“Do I not?”

I hated the way the simple question made my pulse race. I hated even more that my body had begun reacting to his nearness before my pride could keep up. Every backward step placed him closer. Every breath brought more of his scent, that maddening mix of expensive cologne and lingering wine. It wrapped around me until I felt as though I was inhaling him against my will.

I took another step back.

He advanced.

Another.

Then another.

The maids were still there at the edge of my vision, unmoving, their lowered heads a silent confirmation that this man ruled every inch of the place with the same ease he ruled this conversation.

My heel caught awkwardly against the marble.

The realization came too late.

A startled gasp escaped me as my balance gave out and my body tilted backward. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the hard collision with the floor, but instead of pain, I felt an arm sweep firmly around my back while another hand slid behind my nape, stopping the fall before it could happen.

My eyes flew open.

He was holding me.

My body bent backward in the cradle of his arm, my face only inches from his.

For a second, neither of us moved.

The proximity was suffocating. I could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, feel the strength in the hand supporting my neck with far too much control for my comfort. My palms landed against his chest on instinct, and the solid heat beneath them sent a disorienting tremor through me.

Embarrassment surged hot beneath my skin, but it was tangled with something far less manageable. My heart was beating with such violence that I was certain he could feel it through the small distance separating us.

His eyes moved over my face slowly, as if he were studying every flicker of panic, every involuntary reaction I failed to hide.

“You tremble too much for someone who insists she is not afraid of me,” he said quietly.

I swallowed, but the movement only made me more aware of how close his face was.

“I am not afraid,” I lied.

A faint, unreadable smile touched his mouth.

His hand at my nape adjusted slightly, tightening just enough to send another pulse of heat through my spine.

“If this is not fear,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower as his breath ghosted across my cheek, “then perhaps I should be more concerned about what else makes your heart react this way.”

My breath caught.

Every nerve in my body turned traitor.

Held there in the circle of his arms, suspended between humiliation, anger, and a closeness I did not know how to process, I realized with growing horror that the most dangerous thing about this man was not the violence everyone feared.

It was how effortlessly he could make fear feel almost indistinguishable from intoxication.