Chapter 4: The Education Begins

November 14, 2024 | 10:00 PM | The Seraphim Club

Eighteen hours.

Ava's wrists bore the evidence of her desperation. Red marks from testing every door handle. Raw patches where she'd clawed at window latches that wouldn't budge.

Her stomach sat heavy with food she hadn't tasted. Gourmet meals delivered by silent staff who avoided eye contact.

Her skin felt too clean from a shower that couldn't wash away the violation of waking in someone else's clothes.

The electronic lock chirped.

Damian entered like he owned the air itself. Charcoal suit tailored to lethal perfection. The jacket hung open, revealing a crisp white shirt that emphasized the broad expanse of his chest. Not a hair out of place in his midnight-dark styling, the overhead lights catching the sharp angles of his jaw.

God help her, he was devastating. Every line of him designed to command attention and obedience.

His grey eyes catalogued her in seconds. The bruises on her palms from pounding bulletproof glass. The shadows beneath her eyes from refusing sleep. The way she'd positioned herself with her back to the wall.

"You tried to escape."

Not a question. An observation tinged with something that might have been amusement on a normal person. On him, it was darker. Pleased.

"Seventeen times, according to my security feeds."

Heat flooded her face. Of course he'd watched. Watched her test every possible exit like a caged animal. Watched her finally curl in the corner when exhaustion won.

"Get dressed."

He gestured to the bed where a black cocktail dress lay like an oil spill against white sheets.

"We're going out."

"I'm not your doll to dress up."

The words scraped past her raw throat. She'd screamed herself hoarse in the first hours, calling for help that never came.

His smile was a weapon unsheathed.

"You can wear the dress, or I can have Mikhail dress you." A pause, deliberate. "Your choice, Doctor."

The threat hung between them. Not of violence. Of something worse—the complete removal of even this small autonomy.

She snatched the dress.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged transformed. The silk fit like it had been sewn directly onto her body. Every curve considered. Every line calculated to his specifications.

The dress was a weapon aimed at her own defenses. Plunging neckline. Open back. A slit that revealed her thigh with each step. She felt exposed. Displayed.

Desired.

Damian rose from his chair, and something flickered in those grey depths. Raw hunger, quickly leashed.

He circled her slowly. A buyer examining his purchase.

"Turn."

The command was soft. She obeyed, hating herself for it.

"Exquisite."

He stopped behind her. His breath stirred the hair at her nape, sending unwanted shivers down her spine.

"You clean up beautifully, Doctor."

His hands settled on her waist, pulling her back against him. The heat of his chest burned through silk. She could feel his heartbeat, steady where hers raced.

"Too beautifully."

One hand slid up. Slow. Deliberate. Cupping her breast through the silk with possessive certainty.

Air stopped in her lungs. Heat pooled low in her belly, unwanted and undeniable.

"Perhaps I should keep you here instead." His thumb brushed over silk, finding her body's response. "All to myself."

She forced herself to stay still. To not lean back into his touch or pull away. Either would be surrender.

"But no." His hand dropped, leaving her aching and furious. "The city needs to see what belongs to me."

Her reflection in the elevator walls showed a stranger. Perfect makeup she hadn't applied—some silent servant had painted her face while she dressed. Her wild waves tamed into an elegant updo that left her neck exposed.

Vulnerable.

The elevator descended in silence thick enough to choke on. His cologne filled the space—something French and expensive that probably cost more than her monthly rent. It mixed with leather and that underlying scent of gun oil that clung to him like a second skin.

"Consider tonight your orientation."

His voice stayed low, intimate in the enclosed space. Each word carefully measured.

"Time you understood the world you've entered."

The Seraphim Club hid behind respectability. An art gallery facade displaying millions in legitimate beauty while the real business happened behind biometric scanners and soundproof walls.

Damian's palm burned against her lower back as he guided her through the gallery. The heat of it seeped through silk, claiming her as surely as any brand.

Inside, luxury swallowed them whole.

Dark velvet absorbed sound until conversations became whispers. Crystal chandeliers threw shadows that danced across faces she recognized. A senator from the morning news. A judge whose campaign posters still littered the city.

Every head turned when Damian entered.

Conversations died mid-syllable. The senator nearly dropped his whiskey. Everyone in this room knew exactly who held the real power in Las Vegas. The man who could destroy careers with a phone call. End lives with a nod.

But tonight was different.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like disturbed water.

"Is that...?"

"Volkov brought a woman?"

"I've never seen him with anyone..."

The whispers followed them across the room. Women who'd tried to catch his attention stared with naked envy. Men reassessed the power dynamics, wondering what kind of woman had snared the unsuitable Pakhan.

Damian's hand tightened on her back, proprietary. He wanted them to look. To wonder. To know she was his.

"They're staring," she murmured.

"Good." His lips brushed her ear. "Let them see what they'll never touch."

He guided her to a private booth overlooking the main floor. The leather was soft as sin, designed for bodies to sink into darkness. He sat too close, his thigh a line of heat against hers.

Unnecessary contact. Deliberate possession.

"See that judge?"

He didn't point. Didn't need to. His presence alone directed her attention to a silver-haired man nursing bourbon at the bar.

"Tomorrow he decides a case worth thirty million to my operations."

A woman approached the judge. Red silk poured over curves that belonged in a museum. She laughed at something he whispered, her hand trailing down his chest. Every movement calculated. Every touch designed to lower defenses.

"By morning, she'll know his every weakness."

Damian's breath warmed her ear. She fought not to shiver.

"His debts. His vices. His son's drug problem he's desperate to hide."

The woman in red led the judge toward a curtained alcove. His wedding ring caught the light as his hand found her waist.

"Information is the real currency here."

Ava's stomach turned. These women weren't just escorts. They were weapons in designer heels, trading flesh for secrets that destroyed lives.

"Disgusted?"

His thumb found her wrist, tracing the pulse that hammered there.

"Or fascinated?"

"You're destroying lives."

She kept her voice steady despite his touch sending unwanted heat up her arm. Her body's betrayal of her mind's revulsion.

"I'm providing choices."

He turned her wrist over, studying the pale skin like it held answers.

"The judge chose to come here. Chose to cheat on his wife. I simply profit from human nature."

"That's bullshit rationalization and you know it."

His laugh was dark velvet.

"Such language from a doctor's mouth. I'm starting to think there's more to you than medical degrees."

A commotion erupted near the bar.

A young woman in silver sequins swayed, hand clutching her throat. Her eyes rolled back. She dropped like a marionette with cut strings.

Her companion—a man in an expensive suit—backed away, hands raised. He fled toward the exit, abandoning her to whatever fate awaited.

The crowd parted but offered nothing more. A circle of apathy formed around the convulsing woman.

Ava started to rise.

Damian's hand caught her wrist, holding her in place.

"Interesting dilemma, Doctor."

The woman's lips were already turning blue. Foam gathered at the corners of her mouth. Classic overdose symptoms.

"Your oath says help."

His grey eyes studied her, cold and curious.

"But helping means getting involved in my business. What's it going to be?"

Every second mattered. The woman's convulsions weakened. Her body's desperate fight for oxygen it couldn't process.

Ava's hands ached to help. Her training screamed against inaction.

"She's dying."

"People die every day." His grip didn't loosen. "The question is whether you're willing to dirty your hands in my world to save her."

The woman went still.

Too still.

Ava ripped her wrist from his grip.

"Get me naloxone. Now."

She dropped to her knees beside the woman. The sequined dress scraped against her legs as she checked airways. No breath. Weak, thready pulse.

She started rescue breathing without hesitation.

Someone produced the overdose reversal drug—of course they kept it on hand in a place like this. She grabbed the injector, found the muscle through sequins, and delivered the dose.

One breath. Two. Three.

The woman gasped.

Color flooded back into her lips as her body remembered how to process oxygen. She coughed, eyes focusing with the confused terror of someone pulled back from the edge.

Discrete security materialized. Two men in black suits who moved with the efficiency of practice. They helped the woman to her feet, murmuring soothing lies about food poisoning as they guided her toward a back exit.

No police. No questions. Just brutal efficiency.

Damian helped Ava stand. His hands lingered on her arms, steadying her.

"Excellent choice."

The approval in his voice made her skin crawl. Like she'd passed some twisted test.

"I couldn't let her die."

"No. You couldn't."

He brushed a strand of hair that had escaped her updo. The gesture was tender. Possessive. Terrifying in its intimacy.

"You just saved someone in my establishment. With my resources."

Understanding hit like ice water.

"That makes you complicit, Doctor."

He'd planned this. Brought her here knowing something like this would happen. Knowing she couldn't watch someone die.

"You bastard."

"Such language." His thumb traced her jaw. "I'm starting to truly enjoy what emerges when you're pressed."

The crowd had already returned to their sins. The overdose forgotten like spilled champagne. Business as usual in Damian Volkov's kingdom.

"You trapped me."

"I gave you a choice." He guided her back toward their booth. "You made it. Now you live with the consequences."

The leather felt colder when she sank into it. The club's darkness pressed closer.

"You've just taken your first step into my world."

His smile held the satisfaction of a chess player watching pieces fall exactly where planned.

"There's no going back now."

The words settled into her bones with the weight of prophecy. She'd saved a life with dirty money in a den of corruption.

Her hands—the same hands that had taken an oath to do no harm—were stained with more than just the woman's lipstick.

She was his now. Not just in body, but in deed.

And the worst part?

Some dark corner of her mind whispered that maybe she'd wanted to be caught.