All Chapters of The Devil’s obsession, forbidden bond: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Damien Wolfe I don’t believe in love. Love is for the weak, for the soft, for the ones who need something to cling to when the world takes everything else away. It is a distraction, a leash around the throat, a reason to crawl instead of kill, and I have no use for it. I don’t need reasons. I don’t need anyone. People call me the Devil. I never asked for the name, but I wear it because names carry weight, and weight is power. If there’s one thing I have always valued above everything else, it is weight, whether it is the weight of gold in my hand, the weight of silence when a man realizes he is about to die, or the weight of fear pressing down on a room the moment I walk in. That night, I didn’t come to the auction to watch and stair at asses and breast I didn’t come here for pussy. I came for information. But then she stepped on stage and turned a thousand heads. She possessed a beauty meant for a goddess or maybe she was one. She stepped in barefoot. Hands

Damien’s POV The knock came at 3:12 p.m. sharp. Not the kind of knock my guards make because they never knock. They enter when I tell them to and they vanish when I dismiss them, so the sound was wrong and it pulled my head up from the surveillance screen like a wire had just been yanked inside my chest. I waited. One second. Two. Long enough to decide if whoever stood on the other side of that door deserved to keep breathing inside my world. Then the handle turned and the door opened, and there she was. Barefoot again, her toes pale against the dark floor, dressed in soft gray loungewear that looked like it belonged to someone else because it slid off her shoulders in one place and clung to her hips in another, and I hated the sight of it because it wasn’t chosen, it was given, and girls like her should never look like hand-me-downs. Her eyes didn’t lift, not once, they stayed locked on the floor, and her hands were clasped tight in front of her like she expected a blow, like

Damien I watch her more than I sleep, more thank I even work and most nights she doesn’t know, but tonight she does, because she’s in the mirror, one bare foot resting on the cold marble tile, one hand braced against the bathroom counter, my shirt sliding off one shoulder, the collar stretched and loose from when I gripped it earlier like I wanted to tear it from her body and mark the skin underneath until she couldn’t forget who she belonged to. She pretends she isn’t looking at the camera in the corner, but I know she’s aware, I know she feels the lens on her the way my hands have, I know she’s giving me the show on purpose, because she’s not the same girl they dragged onto that stage anymore, and she’s learning what it means to have my eyes on her every second. That’s the difference now—she wants me to see her, she wants me to want her, and even though she’s never said it, she doesn’t need to, because I can hear it in the way her breath stutters when I walk into a room, an

Damien I caught her before she could pull the phone from her hands. Her back was to me, shoulders tight, fingers curling around the device like it might save her. She froze when I stepped closer. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. Slowly, she turned. Lips parted. Eyes wide. She didn’t speak. Of course she didn’t. Silence was her weapon. “What are you doing?,” I said, my voice low and sharp. Her grip on the phone faltered. I moved closer, hand sliding around her waist, pressing her hips against mine, the other hand curling around her throat. “I asked you a question,” I murmured near her ear, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Who were you calling?” She didn’t answer. I tightened my hold just enough to make her shiver. “Do you know what happens to liars?” I continued, dragging my fingers along her chest, down to the curve of her breasts, then lower. Inner thigh. Deliberate. Possessive. Her breath hitched. She didn’t speak. Her body betrayed her, pressing against me,

Damien’s POV The boy had been sitting in the chair for two hours, his hands bound tightly behind his back with zip ties that had already begun to cut into his skin, and though his lips were cracked and dried with blood, caked along the dark contours of his chin, he had not yet broken, and I could see the sharp edge of fear flickering in his eyes, raw and hungry. He was tough, not stupid, just scared and scared men, when handled correctly, made either the most useful tools or the most disposable bodies. I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the cement floor, watching it curl through the low, harsh light of the room, twisting in the air like a serpent before it disappeared into the shadows. The walls were bare concrete. The steel table gleamed coldly under the single overhead bulb. One camera had been disabled. There were no windows. This room was built for one purpose people entered hoping to leave intact, and most never did. Others who did left with a missing body part.