All Chapters of Purchased for My Sins : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

(Mara’s POV)The revolving doors spit me out into the humid night air of Manhattan, and I don’t stop moving until I’m three blocks away, heels striking concrete like I’m trying to outrun something. My lungs burn, but it’s not from the walk, it’s the way my heart keeps slamming against my ribs every time I replay the elevator ride.Mr. Kane.Ms. Hale.That cold, clipped acknowledgment.The way his eyes slid over me like I was part of the decor.And still I felt it. The fear of being noticed. Not wanted or desired. But noticed as the glitch in his perfect system.I shake my head hard enough to make the loose strands of my bun whip against my cheek. Stupid. He’s Sebastian Kane, the billionaire and womanizer. The kind of man who collects people the way other men collect watches. I’m nothing to him. I’m an accountant who files invoices and reconciles accounts and pretends the numbers don’t make her stomach turn every time she sees how much more Liam needs.The hospital is only a twenty-min

(Sebastian’s POV)Her body tenses against mine the moment my fingers confirm her obedience, bare and vulnerable, with that intoxicating mix of fear and reluctant need. I can feel her pulse racing under my palm, her breath hitching as I linger there, tracing slow circles around her clit without giving her the pressure she craves. Not yet. That's not how this works."Good girl," I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. I withdraw my hand slowly, deliberately, letting her feel the loss. Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine stormy gray, wide with a storm of emotions I plan to unleash one by one. "Follow me," I command, turning without waiting to see if she obeys. She will. The click of her heels on the marble floor confirms it.I led her down the hallway to the private door at the end. The biometric lock yields to my thumb. The room beyond is lit only by low red sconces. Black walls, dim red lighting, a king sized bed with Iron rings bolted into the ceiling beam. Silk ropes coil

(Mara’s POV)I wake to the low, constant hum of the air conditioning and the faint blue glow of my phone screen cutting through the dim room. My body feels leaden, every muscle protesting in dull, insistent waves. The soreness between my thighs is a deep, throbbing reminder that last night wasn’t some fever dream, it was real. The ropes, the blindfold, the way he took me apart piece by piece until I was sobbing his name and begging for the very thing I swore I’d never give.I reach for the phone on the nightstand with trembling fingers. 9:47 a.m. I’ve slept far longer than I thought possible in this place. Liam’s face stares back at me from the lock screen, his gap-toothed grin from last month, snapped on one of his better days when the chemo hadn’t yet stolen his color or his spark. I unlock the phone and scroll straight to the gallery, thumb hovering over the video Nora sent yesterday. I press play before I can talk myself out of it.“Hey, Mommy,” his thin voice says. “I miss you.

(Mara’s POV)I step back into the small room after the afternoon summons, legs unsteady, mouth still tasting him. The space has been cleaned while I was gone, fresh sheets, wardrobe neatly arranged, the used slips and towels replaced with new ones. I step into the shower to clean up and rest like he ordered. I spent minutes in the shower trying to wash off the guilt and shame I felt as a mother. I’m supposed to be doing this for Liam. Not craving the man who owns me. Not getting wet when he calls me “bitch.” Not aching for the next low groan from his throat.This is for Liam.The words used to feel like armor. Now they feel like a chain I wrapped around my own neck.I walk to the nightstand on unsteady legs. My phone's battery is still at 22%. I opened my phone to three unread messages from Nora. The first, sent an hour ago:“He keeps asking when Mommy’s coming.”The second:“Fever spiked again this afternoon. They’re working to stabilize him. Oxygen back up.”The third, minutes old

(Mara’s POV) My body feels like it’s been run through fire and ice, welts throbbing across my back and thighs, nipples still tender from the clamps, clit swollen and hypersensitive, inner thighs sticky from my release. Every step pulls at the soreness between my legs.I turn on the bath. Hot water rushes out, steam rising in thick clouds. I pour in the unscented oil from the shelf, I need heat and I need to drown the ache.I sink into the tub slowly. Water scalds at first, then soothes. I lean back, let it cover my shoulders, close my eyes. The heat seeps into bruised muscles, loosening knots I didn’t know I had. I cup handfuls over my chest, let it run down my stomach, between my thighs. It stings the welts but dulls the deeper ache.I stay until the water cools, skin pink and pruned. When I finally stand, the mirror is fogged. I wipe a streak clear, my reflection looks haunted: red-rimmed eyes, swollen lips, faint marks blooming across my breasts and thighs. I look like someone who