🪝 CHAPTER THREE

"Holy shit."

The words slip out before I can stop them as the mansion comes into view, and I immediately clap my hand over my mouth. But Damon just chuckles, the sound warm and rich in the enclosed space of the SUV.

"First time seeing a place like this?"

Through the tinted windows, I watch as we pass through massive iron gates that probably cost more than most people's houses. The driveway stretches on forever, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and trees that look like they were placed by an artist rather than nature.

And then I see it.

The mansion rises before us like something out of a fairy tale, all white stone and towering columns. Windows glitter in the afternoon sun, and I count at least three stories before giving up. It's the kind of place I used to clean the outside of, never dreaming I'd actually step foot inside. This is beyond anything I could have imagined—not even in my wildest dreams did I picture something this grand.

"This is where you live?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.

"Where we live," he corrects gently. "This is your home now, Sasha."

Home. The word feels foreign on my tongue. I haven't had a real home since...well, since I can't remember when.

Marcus opens my door, and I step out onto gravel that crunches expensively under my worn sneakers. The air smells different here—cleaner, like it's been filtered through money.

Damon appears beside me, his hand settling on the small of my back. The touch is possessive but gentle, and that strange electricity from the car sparks between us again.

"Mrs. Chen," he calls out as we reach the front steps.

A small Asian woman appears in the doorway, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun. She's wearing a simple black dress, but somehow she looks more elegant than Madame Celine ever did in her silk robes.

"Sir," she says, her voice carrying a slight accent. Her eyes find mine, and there's kindness there that makes my throat tight. "This must be Sasha." She said, while Damon nodded.

"Mrs. Chen, I need you to prepare the blue guest room. The one overlooking the gardens." Damon's voice carries an authority I've never heard directed at anyone's benefit before. "Draw a bath, find suitable clothes. Make sure she has everything she needs."

"Of course, sir." Mrs. Chen's smile is genuine as she looks at me. "Welcome home, dear."

Dear. Not girl, not brat, not any of the other names I've grown used to. Just dear, said with the kind of warmth that makes my eyes burn.

"I don't understand," I whisper to Damon as Mrs. Chen bustles away. "Why are you being so kind to me? You don't even know me."

His gray eyes search my face, and I feel like he's seeing something I don't even know exists. "I know enough."

The inside of the house is even more overwhelming than the outside. Marble floors stretch in every direction, reflecting light from a chandelier that probably costs more than I'll make in my entire lifetime. Fresh flowers fill crystal vases on polished tables, and everything smells like money and luxury.

"This way, dear." Mrs. Chen's voice draws my attention. "Let's get you settled."

I follow her up a sweeping staircase, my hand trailing along a banister that's smooth as silk under my palm. The hallway we enter is wider than my entire room at Madame Celine's, with paintings that look like they belong in museums hanging on cream-colored walls.

"Here we are." Mrs. Chen opens a door and steps aside.

I freeze in the doorway.

The room is bigger than the entire first floor of the house I just escaped. A massive four-poster bed dominates the center, draped in silk that shimmers blue and silver in the afternoon light. Fresh white roses sit on the nightstand, their scent perfuming the air with something clean and beautiful.

"The bathroom is through there," Mrs. Chen points to another door. "I'll have some clothes brought up shortly. Take your time, dear. You're safe here."

Safe. Another word that feels strange and wonderful on my tongue.

When she leaves, I'm alone with more luxury than I've ever seen in my life. I approach the bed like it might bite me, running my fingers over silk that probably costs more per yard than I made in a month. The thread count has to be in the thousands—it's softer than anything I've ever touched.

The bathroom makes me gasp out loud.

It's bigger than my entire room at Madame Celine's house. The tub could fit three people easily, carved from what looks like marble and deep enough that I could probably drown in it if I wanted to. Gold fixtures gleam in the light from a window that overlooks gardens that stretch to the horizon.

Steam rises from water that's already been drawn, and the scent of lavender fills the air. Someone has set out towels that look thick enough to sleep on, and bottles of things I can't even pronounce line the edge of the tub.

I undress slowly, my hands shaking as I fold my worn clothes and set them aside. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I wince. My body tells the story of my life in scars and bruises that never quite fade. I'm too thin, too sharp in all the wrong places.

The water is perfect—hot enough to melt the tension from my shoulders but not so hot it burns. I sink into it with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my soul, letting the lavender-scented warmth surround me like a hug I never got.

For the first time in three years, I feel clean.

I'm just starting to relax when I hear footsteps in the bedroom. My heart hammers against my ribs as the bathroom door opens, steam swirling between us like a curtain.

Damon stands in the doorway, his gray eyes dark with something that makes my skin tighten in ways I don't understand. He doesn't come in—just leans against the frame like he belongs there.

"I should have knocked," he says, but his voice is rough and he doesn't look away.

I sink deeper into the water, bubbles providing the only shield between us. "What do you want?"

"To make sure you're all right." He takes a step into the room, moving with the same predatory grace I noticed in the car. "You looked overwhelmed downstairs."

"I am overwhelmed." The words come out more honest than I intended. "This is all too much. The house, the room, the..." I gesture helplessly at the luxury surrounding me. "Why?"

Another step closer. "Because you deserve it."

"You don't know what I deserve."

He moves around the tub like he's stalking prey, his eyes never leaving mine. When he reaches the side, he kneels, bringing us to eye level. The marble has to be hard on his knees, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"You're wrong." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I know exactly what you deserve."

His hand reaches out, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. Water droplets cling to my skin where he touches, and that electric current shoots through me again.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

"I'm broken." The words slip out before I can stop them.

"No." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and my whole body responds to the touch. "You're perfect, little mate."

The endearment slips from his lips like a prayer, and something deep inside me responds to it in ways I don't understand.

Before I can argue, his lips are on mine.

The kiss is soft at first, questioning. But when I don't pull away, he deepens it, his hand sliding into my wet hair to hold me steady. I've been kissed before—rough, demanding kisses that took without asking. This is different. This is...worship.

A sound escapes my throat, part moan, part sob. My hands find his shirt, gripping the expensive fabric like it's the only thing keeping me anchored to earth.

But when his other hand moves toward the water, I jerk back with a gasp.

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, panic clawing at my throat. "I can't—I'm not ready for—"

He pulls back immediately, his hands falling away from me like I've burned him. "I'm sorry. I got carried away."

His voice is rougher now, thick with want and regret.

"We have all the time in the world," he continues, his voice gentle despite the hunger I can see in his eyes. "I'll wait until you're ready."

He leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and reverent. Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the scent of his cologne and the taste of him on my lips.

I sink back into the water, my heart racing and my mind spinning. What is happening to me? Three hours ago I was a slave, and now I'm being treated like something precious by a man who looks at me like I hung the stars.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of luxury I can't quite process. Mrs. Chen brings clothes that actually fit—soft jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Dinner is served in a dining room that could seat thirty people, just Damon and me at one end of a table that stretches into the shadows.

He keeps the conversation light, asking about my favorite foods, what I like to read. I find myself relaxing despite everything, drawn in by his easy charm and the way he actually listens to my answers.

By the time I collapse into that impossibly soft bed, I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with physical tiredness. My mind keeps replaying the kiss, the way he looked at me, the promises he made.

Sleep takes me quickly, but it doesn't last.

At midnight exactly, I jolt awake like someone's thrown cold water on me. My heart pounds as images flood my mind—not the usual smoke-filled cage, but something else entirely.

I'm standing in a grand hall, marble floors stretching endlessly beneath my feet. Tapestries hang from towering walls, their colors rich and vibrant in the flickering torchlight. This place feels familiar, like home, but also foreign somehow.

"Mica."

A man's voice, broken and desperate. I turn to see him—tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes that mirror my own. His face is weathered but strong, and tears stream down his cheeks as he reaches for me.

"Mica, you have to remember."

My own tears fall freely as I try to run to him, but my legs won't move. I'm trapped, helpless, watching as shadows close in around us both.

Blood. So much blood pooling on those beautiful marble floors while I scream his name.

Betrayal. The taste of it bitter on my tongue as someone I trusted—someone whose face remains frustratingly blurred—drives a blade between the man's ribs.

Power flowing through me like liquid fire, then being ripped away just as suddenly, leaving me empty and broken.

The memories crash over me like a tidal wave, three years of emptiness suddenly filled with a past I'd forgotten. I sit up gasping, tears streaming down my face as everything falls into place.

The dreams weren't dreams at all. They were memories, trying to break through whatever had been done to suppress them.

"Mica," I whisper into the darkness, my voice breaking on the name just like his had. "My name is Mica.”