Anya stared at her reflection, a stranger looking back at her. Her black dress, a daring choice for her, clung to her curves, and a splash of bright lipstick gave her a confidence she didn't feel. Her friend, Zara, had convinced her to go to the club. "You need to live a little, Anya!" Zara had said, pulling Anya's hand as they walked out of their small apartment. "It's our last year of university. We'll be buried in work soon. Let's just have one night."
Zara's idea of "one night" was a sensory overload of booming music, flashing lights, and the heavy smell of alcohol and perfume. Anya was a creature of habit and quiet study halls, not a crowded dance floor. Her past was a locked box she didn't want to open, a place filled with bad memories of her family's constant fights and poverty. Her university scholarship was her only way out, her only hope for a future that wasn't defined by her painful past. Tonight, however, Zara had insisted. She'd said a night out was the best way to forget.
Anya watched Zara, a whirlwind of energy in a red dress, disappear into a crowd of dancers. Anya felt a familiar pang of loneliness. She found a quiet corner near the bar and ordered a soda, trying to make herself small, invisible. The loud music vibrated through her, and she closed her eyes, trying to block it all out.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm. Her eyes snapped open. A large, menacing man in a dark suit was pulling her toward a back exit.
"What are you doing?" Anya stammered, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked around for Zara, but her friend was nowhere in sight. The man was too big, too strong. His grip was like steel, and he was dragging her away from the noise and light, into a dark hallway. Panic set in. She tried to pull away, but he didn't even flinch.
"Stop!" she yelled, her voice lost in the pounding rhythm of the club.
He didn't respond. He just kept walking, a silent, powerful force. He shoved her into a small, windowless room. The door shut with a heavy click.
Inside, a man was lying on a large leather couch. He was impeccably dressed, but his clothes were disheveled, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was beautiful, in a dangerous, sharp way. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, dark hair. But his eyes were not focused. He was clearly not well. He groaned, and his body tensed.
The man who'd brought her in, the bodyguard, spoke for the first time. His voice was low and rough. "He needs intimacy. He was poisoned with a drug that has to be cured this way."
Anya's mind reeled. Intimacy? Cured? What was he talking about? Her panic turned to cold fear. She backed away, hitting the wall. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I can't."
The bodyguard took a step toward her. "He's the boss. He gets what he needs."
The man on the couch, the "boss," let out a choked sound. He was struggling, his hands gripping the cushions of the couch. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, finally found hers. They were filled with a desperate, wild look. He wasn't in control. He wasn't himself. He was a powerful animal caught in a trap.
Anya's body froze. She was a simple student. She had no power, no defense against these men. She thought of her family, her father's rage, the years of feeling small and helpless. She had worked so hard to escape that feeling. Now, it was back, a cold hand on her heart.
The bodyguard reached for her. Anya screamed, a raw, piercing sound that cut through the silent room. "Please!" she begged, tears streaming down her face. "Don't do this!"
The bodyguard seemed unmoved. "You will not resist. You are here to help."
Anya's world collapsed. She knew there was no escape. She was a lamb being led to the slaughter, a victim once again of a world that didn't care about her. She looked at the man on the couch, the powerful CEO who was now a helpless prisoner in his own body. His stormy eyes met hers again, and for a fleeting second, she saw not just desperation, but a kind of apology, a silent acknowledgment of the terrible wrong being done. But the next moment, it was gone, replaced by the fog of the drug.
The bodyguard pushed her forward, and she stumbled, falling onto the couch next to the man. His body was hot, radiating fever. He moved toward her, not with conscious thought, but with the raw, brutal instinct of someone in pain. His large hands, rough and calloused, found her hair and pulled her face close. He wasn't kissing her so much as devouring her, his mouth hot and demanding on hers. Anya's gasp was swallowed by his lips. She could taste the expensive liquor on his breath, and a strange, minty flavor. His kiss was not sweet; it was a desperate, hard claim, a brutal exploration of her mouth.
His hands moved from her hair, tracing a path down her neck, over her collarbone, to the fabric of her dress. He tore at it, a sound of ripping cloth that echoed her own silent screams. The material gave way easily, and his fingers were on her skin, searing and rough. He cupped her breast, his thumb circling her nipple through her thin bra, sending a shock of something terrible and strange through her body. He moved with a feverish urgency, not with grace, but with the brutal efficiency of a predator.
He rolled them so she was beneath him. The weight of his body was heavy, crushing. She felt a cold sense of being owned, of having her body taken over. His lips left her mouth, trailing a line of fire down her neck, to her breasts. He sucked and bit, a brutal kind of possession. Anya closed her eyes, trying to escape into her mind, to pretend this wasn't happening. But she couldn't. His scent, a mix of expensive cologne, sweat, and something darkly masculine, filled her lungs.
He shifted, his knee forcing her legs apart. He was already hard, a demanding presence against her. He entered her with a single, hard thrust. She cried out, a sound of pain and violation, and her body seized up. He groaned, a deep, primal sound, and began to move. He was rough, fast, and completely unconcerned with her. His thrusts were not for pleasure, but for release, to cure the poison in his veins. He was a force of nature, a storm, and she was caught in his rain.
Her mind detached from her body, soaring away to a place where she was safe, a place where this wasn't happening. But even in her mind, she could not escape the feeling of a crimson stain, a deep, lasting mark on her soul.
When it was over, she lay there, a broken doll. The man on the couch was finally still. He was breathing easier, the tension gone from his body. His eyes were closed, his face at peace. He looked like a normal man, not the monster who had just taken her.
The bodyguard handed her a large sum of money. "Don't say a word. Don't tell anyone."
Anya stared at the money, then at the man on the couch. Her gaze landed on a small scar above his left eyebrow, a tiny detail she would never forget. She grabbed her clothes, her hands shaking, and ran out of the room, out of the club, out into the cold night air. The city lights blurred through her tears. She ran and ran, not knowing where she was going, only knowing she had to get away.
The next day, she woke up in her own bed, Zara sleeping soundly in the bed across the room. Anya looked at her hands, still trembling. The memory of the night before was a sharp, painful echo. She looked at the money on her nightstand. The cold, crisp bills felt like a brand, a permanent reminder of her bad decision to go to the club, of the night her life had been stolen. She closed her eyes and the face of the powerful, beautiful stranger appeared in her mind, his stormy eyes haunted by desperation. A storm was coming, and Anya, a simple girl who just wanted to live a quiet life, was caught right in the middle of it.