The moment Eden stepped inside her apartment, she slammed the door shut and pressed her back to it like it might hold her together.
It couldn't.
Her lips were still swollen. Her thighs still wet. Her skin still shivered where he'd touched her and where he hadn't..
Let me ruin you, Eden.
So you can finally become someone no one can touch.
"What the fuck," she whispered, dragging a shaky hand through her hair.
Her phone vibrated on the table.
It was sn unknown number:
You're awake. Good.
Don't touch yourself. That's mine now.
Her knees nearly gave out.
She didn't reply. Couldn't. Every inch of her body was still wired from that encounter. But more than that, she felt seen. Like he knew parts of her she didn't even know existed until he unlocked them.
Her mind kept trying to snap back to normal. Work. Sleep. Reality.
But all she could feel was his mouth, his voice, his presence. Like a brand burned into her.
And now he was texting her. Commanding her.
And worse, she liked it.
She curled into her couch, heart pounding.
There was something wrong with her.
There had to be.
Three Days Later,
Eden didn't hear from him again.
No texts. No calls. No secret black cars waiting outside her building. It was like the whole night never happened.
Except her body didn't forget. And neither did her mirror. She looked different. Brighter. Hungrier. Stupidly wrecked in a way makeup couldn't cover.
She'd spent three nights imagining his voice, replaying everything he'd done. And everything he hadn't.
Her boss snapped his fingers in front of her.
"Earth to Eden?"
She blinked. "Sorry. I'm here."
"Clearly." He passed her a clipboard. "Your client's waiting in Gallery 4. He requested you."
Eden froze. "Who?"
Her boss shrugged. "Didn't say."
Her stomach dipped.
No. He wouldn't just show up.
But when she stepped into the gallery room..,
It wasn't Cassian.
It was an older man. Early sixties. Sharp charcoal suit. Navy tie. Expensive watch. Cold gray eyes.
He turned when he saw her.
"Miss Clair," he said. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
She forced a smile. "You asked for me?"
"I did." "He glanced around the gallery, but none of the art held his attention." "I represent a private client. Anonymous. Discreet. He's interested in acquiring a collection."
Eden nodded slowly. "Any pieces in particular?"
The man met her gaze. "Just one. You."
Her body stiffened.
"What?"
"I didn't mean it like that," he said, his smile sharp and empty. "He's interested in the artist. Not just the collection. He's… intrigued."
"I never said I was an artist."
"You didn't have to."
A shiver crept down her spine. "What's your name?"
He extended a hand. "Lawrence Vale."
Her fingers stopped just short of shaking his. "Any relation to..?"
"Cassian is my son."
The floor dropped out.
Lawrence watched her carefully, like he was waiting for a reaction. She gave him none.
"Your son… and I have only spoken briefly," she said carefully.
"Lying doesn't suit you, Miss Clair." He stepped closer. "I know exactly where you were three nights ago. And I know exactly what you let him do to you."
Her breath caught. "Excuse me?"
"You're not the first," he said calmly. "But you are the first he's sent a picture of."
Her chest tightened. "Picture?"
Lawrence pulled something from his coat pocket.
A glossy photo.
Eden. Back pressed to Cassian's desk. Dress hitched. Mouth open. Eyes closed.
She grabbed it from his hand, her heart pounding.
"You son of a.."
"Don't blame me. I'm only here to deliver a message." He paused. "My son is… not well. He attaches himself to broken things. Then breaks them more."
Eden's fingers curled around the photo.
"He doesn't care about your art," Lawrence continued. "He cares about your pain. He's a collector of it."
"Then why are you here?" she asked tightly.
"To warn you." He leaned in. "And to offer you an out before it's too late."
She stared at him. "You think I'm scared of Cassian?"
"I think," he said slowly, "you should be."
He turned and walked out without another word.
Eden stood frozen in the center of the gallery, pulse pounding in her ears.
A photo.
He took a fucking photo.
That night, she didn't sleep.
She sat in bed, the lights off, the photo facedown on her nightstand.
She should be angry. Furious. Violated.
But something deeper sat beneath the rage.
Something darker.
He'd kept a piece of her.
That's what disturbed her most, how intimate it felt. Like she'd been branded with proof of something neither of them said out loud.
Cassian Vale didn't just touch her body.
He marked her.
Her phone vibrated.
It was an unknown number again:
You met my father.
She stared at the message. Her heart beat once. Twice.
Don't believe a word he says. He wants to break what I build.
Do you want the truth, Eden? Or safety? You can't have both.
Her fingers hovered above the screen.
Then she typed:
You took a photo of me.
Why?
The response came fast.
So I wouldn't forget what you looked like when you surrendered.
Her breath hitched.
You used me.
She typed it. But didn't send it.
Instead, she wrote:
Is this a game to you?
There was a pause.
Then:
No. But I warned you. I'm not safe.
She stared at the message for a long time.
Then she typed:
Good. I'm tired of safe.
The dots appeared instantly.
Then meet me. Tomorrow. Midnight.
Where?
Somewhere I can finally touch you the way I need to.
Her stomach flipped.
Text me the address.
The Next Night , Midnight
The driver didn't speak.
The car was black. The windows were tinted. She sat in the back seat, legs crossed, nerves spiking.
She wasn't dressed for a date.
She was dressed like a question.
Tight black dress. No bra. No panties. Just heels and want and heat.
The car pulled up to an old iron gate. It creaked open.
Beyond it, was an estate. Huge. Secluded. Overgrown with vines. Gothic windows. Lanterns lighting the stone steps.
The door opened before she could knock.
Cassian.
Shirt unbuttoned halfway. Slacks. Bare feet. Eyes burning into her.
He didn't speak.
He just held out a hand.
She took it.
Inside, the house was warm. Dark wood. Old books. A fire already lit.
He led her through the hall. Past the living room. Down two steps.
To a black door with a silver lock.
He opened it.
Inside, dim lights. Velvet ropes. Mirrors. A long, dark table. A faint smell of sandalwood and something spiced.
And against the far wall was a single red chair.
"Sit," he said.
She did.
Cassian moved slowly. Carefully. Like every step was choreographed. Like he'd dreamed this.
He kneeled in front of her. Spread her knees.
His mouth hovered just above her center.
"You came here bare," he said. "Good girl."
She whimpered.
He didn't touch her. Not yet.
"I'm going to use you tonight, Eden. Not gently. Not kindly. You'll thank me when you remember what it felt like to be owned."
She tried to breathe.
He stood. Walked behind her.
His hands slid over her shoulders. Down her arms. Back up.
Then he whispered in her ear:
"You're not here to be pleased. You're here to be taken."
She arched.
And then he pulled something from the wall.
A silk blindfold.
She didn't move.
Cassian tied it over her eyes. Tight. Final.
"I want you to forget the world now," he whispered. "It's just me. And you. And the sound you make when I break you open."
Her body shook.
Then she heard him walk away.
One step. Two then a pause.
She heard something click.
Like a camera.
She gasped.
And his voice came low and slow:
"Smile for me, Eden. You're about to learn who you belong to."