SINFUL SALVATION

The rain in this city didn’t wash anything. It just made the gutters smell worse.I was leaning against the brick wall of a condemned building, my arms wrapped around my stomach to stop the growling. It was pathetic. I was twenty-two years old, and I was starving to death in an alley because a pimp named Linda owned my papers.I wasn’t a regular sex worker. I was the freak. The rumor. A man who could get pregnant.Men paid triple for me because of it. They wanted to see if it was real. They wanted to fuck the myth. And I let them, because if I didn’t, Linda would break my legs. Or worse, she’d break my baby-maker—the one thing that kept me alive.Tonight, the hunger was winning. Three days without food. My vision was starting to blur at the edges. I was thinking about jumping in front of a car just to end it all.Just one more, I told myself. Just one more man. Then you can buy a fucking sandwich.That’s when I heard it. A smooth, heavy purr. A black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the mouth

The penthouse was a dream. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a marble kitchen, a king-sized bed with black silk sheets. It smelled like him—ozone, expensive cologne, and something metallic.But it was a cage.I was sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a soft, white robe. I had been showered—he had his men do it, scrubbing the dirt and blood from my skin. I had been fed—a real meal, steak and vegetables, which I had devoured like a starved animal.And now, I was waiting for him.The door opened. He walked in, shrugging off his suit jacket. He was down to a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, revealing his muscular, veiny forearms."Feeling better?" he asked. His voice was flat. Casual."Better than a basement," I whispered, pulling my knees up to my chest. "Look, I… I don't even know your name.""Drake," he said. Just Drake. No last name. "You don't need my full name. You just need to know I'm your owner.""Drake," I repeated. The name felt heavy on my tongue. "Listen, Drake. I'm gratefu

The penthouse was a mausoleum.I had spent the entire day wandering it like a ghost, dragging my aching, bruised body from room to room. I counted the steps from the bedroom to the kitchen (forty-two). I counted the windows in the living room (sixteen). I counted the seconds between the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant wail of police sirens far below.I was losing my mind.I had eaten the lunch the maid left on the marble counter—a perfect filet mignon with roasted vegetables. I had taken my prenatal vitamin. I had showered, scrubbing the dried blood from my skin until the water ran cold.And now, I was sitting on the floor of the living room, my back pressed against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the heavy oak door.He'll be back soon, I thought, my stomach twisting into knots. He'll come through that door, strip me naked, and fuck me raw until I scream.I should have been terrified. I was terrified.But beneath the terror was a sick, crawl

Drake kept his promise.I woke up the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of sliding glass. When I blinked my eyes open, Drake was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding two mugs. He was dressed casually—a fitted black henley and grey sweatpants—and his hair was slightly damp from a shower. The bandage on his bicep was fresh.He looked... peaceful. Almost normal.“Morning,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He set one of the mugs on the nightstand beside me. “Sleep well?”I sat up slowly, wincing at the dull ache in my lower back. The pregnancy was starting to make itself known, my belly growing rounder and heavier by the day. “I slept better than I have in years,” I admitted softly. “You didn’t have nightmares.”He smiled—a real, honest smile that made his grey eyes crinkle at the edges. It was the first time I had seen him truly smile, and it made my heart stop in my chest.“I didn’t have nightmares because you were here,” he said. He didn’t make it sou

The morning light was soft and golden when I woke up.For the first time in months, I didn’t wake up to the smell of fear or the phantom ache of bruises. I woke up to warmth. A heavy arm draped over my waist, a rough palm splayed protectively across the swell of my belly, and the slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat pressed against my back.Drake was still asleep.I turned carefully in his arms, facing him. His face was peaceful, the sharp, predatory angles softened by slumber. The bandage on his forehead was clean, the bruise around his eye fading to a sickly yellow-green. He looked younger. Vulnerable. Human.My heart ached.I reached up, gently tracing the line of his jaw. He stirred, a low hum vibrating in his chest. His eyes fluttered open, the grey quickly sharpening into focus.“Morning,” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.“Morning,” I whispered.He smiled—a lazy, sleepy smile that made my stomach flip. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “You’re staring at me.