Bought!

Sold.

That was it. That one word.

No applause. No celebration. Just a finality that hit harder than the lights on my face.

“Sold to… Mr. Smiley Face.”

The words rang in my earpiece like a bullet casing hitting concrete. I stood there, blinking through the light, swallowing past the acid burning in the back of my throat.

The curtain shifted behind me.

A hand wrapped around my wrist—cool, elegant, unhurried—and I was pulled back behind the veil like a prop whose scene was over.

My feet stumbled. I was weightless.

Then I was spun gently, and I came face to face with her.

The Fox.

Her mask was off now, hanging from her fingers by a thin silver ribbon. And god—she was even more devastating without it. That black hair like a waterfall, sleek and shining. Black eyes under heavy lids, lashes thick, lazy, ringed with dark eyebags that made her look like she hadn’t slept in centuries. A beauty mark sat right above the left curve of her lip like a painted-on sin.

She looked… mythic.

I swallowed, feeling a low simmer of something ugly in my stomach. Father said not to be jealous of women.

Her gaze dropped to my mouth.

“You poor thing,” she said, and reached out like we were lovers. Her fingers were soft, trailing through my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“Such a fragile little dove,” she murmured. Her voice was thick with an accent I couldn’t place—maybe European, maybe something older. “It’s a shame. You would’ve made a beautiful beloved.”

She leaned closer, her perfume swirling around me like warm velvet. “Not a pet.”

I flinched.

Her smile didn’t waver.

Then she cupped my face with both hands. Her thumbs stroked under my eyes, then one drifted down to trace the place where that man had hit me earlier. It didn’t hurt anymore—but it felt worse with her touching it, somehow.

Her mouth brushed my ear.

“And now…” she whispered, her breath cold against my skin, “you belong to him.”

A shiver crawled down my spine.

She didn’t let me pull away.

“The Devil is one of a kind,” she whispered. “Do you understand what that means?”

I shook my head once. Barely.

She pressed a kiss to my cheek, soft and dry.

“It means remember yourself,” she said, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes again. “So you don’t drown in him.”

The words hit like a prophecy.

Before I could speak—before I could even think of what to say—two men in white approached. Not like the ones from earlier. These ones were tall, in suits, sharp-eyed, and quiet. They bowed slightly toward her and spoke in something that sounded trib. It flowed out of their mouths fast, beautiful and strange, like a song sung underwater.

She nodded once, and without looking at me again, tied her fox mask back on.

Gone. Like a dream I didn’t want to remember.

The handlers didn’t say anything to me. They just turned, expecting me to follow.

I did.

What else could I do?

My legs moved. My heart didn’t.

The hallway they took me down was different than the first. It was quieter. Carpeted. The walls were lined with mirrors, but not the kind that show you yourself.

These mirrors were smoky. Warped. Like they reflected the soul and not the body.

I looked in one.

I didn’t recognize the boy staring back.

We reached a room at the end. Not a cage. Not a cell.

A suite.

The doors were black lacquer, carved with symbols I didn’t understand. The handles were gold. One of the handlers stepped forward, typed something into a keypad, and the door clicked.

It opened into darkness.

No windows. No lamps. Just one single red light glowing overhead like an eye.

One of the men looked at me, finally.

“You wait inside. Sit. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

He said it slowly. Like I might not understand English.

I nodded.

He motioned me forward.

I stepped inside.

The doors shut behind me with a hiss.

Alone now. In the dark. In the heat. In this private room.

The silence was the first thing that choked me.

Not the heat. Not the faint, acrid scent of incense that lingered like something unholy in the air.

It was the silence. Heavy. Breathing. Waiting.

I was standing dead center in the room, right where they’d left me.

The red light above cast a soft glow—dim, but enough to paint the black marble floor in crimson. There was only one piece of furniture. A low, long, black leather chaise stretched against the far wall like it had been waiting for a performance.

And he was already sitting there.

Legs spread.

Back relaxed.

One arm thrown over the edge like this was all routine. Like he’d just come to enjoy the show.

And over his head, that bag.

A brown paper grocery bag. No eye holes. No mouth slit. Just a crude, smiley face painted across the front. The smile was black and wide and grotesque. And it was looking right at me.

I swallowed.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just… watched. Or I felt him watching. I couldn’t know. But every hair on my body was standing up like it could feel his eyes, even if I couldn’t see them.

I cleared my throat.

“…Who are you?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

A pause.

Then he moved.

Just a little. He shifted, leaned back, legs spread wider, one boot tapping the floor with lazy rhythm.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of The Devil,” he said.

His voice was smooth. Deep. Too calm.

It wasn’t the kind of voice that threatened you.

It was the kind that made promises you knew would come true, even if they were the kind to make your skin crawl.

I blinked. “Only the one from the Bible.”

He chuckled. Low. Warm. Wrong.

“Are you religious, Luca?”

He said my name. It sounded like silk being pulled tight against my throat.

“Yes,” I said, instantly.

Another beat of silence.

Then, “Mm. Shame.”

My heart thudded.

He tilted his head slightly, that grotesque smile painted on the bag never changing. Still staring. Still smiling.

“I’m a jealous man,” he said.

The words floated across the space like smoke.

“I don’t share.”

His gloved fingers tapped the arm of the chaise slowly.

“Not with lovers. Not with strangers. Not even…” His head cocked. “With God.”

My mouth went dry.

“You’ll show devotion,” he said, tone still so soft, so patient. “But only to me.”

It sounded like a vow. A warning. A command.

It made something inside me flinch.

But it also…

There was something else there.

Something I didn’t want to look at too closely.

“I…” I tried to speak, but my throat was closing in around the words. “What’s your name?”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he said it.

“Kain,” he replied. “Kain Astor.”

The name sat heavy in the air.

Familiar and strange. Like it came with history I didn’t know I was about to inherit. I glanced at the bag again, couldn’t help it.

I hated it.

I hated not seeing what was under it. That stupid smile. That ugly childish grin. I hated how calm he was. How sure.

“Is there… a reason for the bag?”

A low breath.

Then a smile—not from the painted one. From the man underneath. I heard it in his voice.

“No.”

I felt my cheeks burn.

He leaned forward slightly.

“Do you want to see my face that badly?”

I shook my head fast. “No.”

A laugh this time. Quiet, rough.

“It’s okay if you do,” he murmured. “Curiosity is natural.” He sat back again, more relaxed than ever.

“Come here.” I didn’t move. “Crawl.”

My stomach flipped. “Come take it off yourself.”

The red light above flickered once. Just once.

I froze.