Damien Pov-
She thought she got away from me last night.
Cute.
Nova Sinclair walked out of my art room flushed, gasping, confused — and I'd let her go. But I didn't stop watching. Her expression, that wild look in her eyes, was burned into me. And the painting she broke? Also burned into me.
This morning, I didn't go looking for her. I waited. She wandered straight into my reach like moths always do.
Courtyard. Bright sunlight. Sinclair clutching her books like they were body armor, trying to blend in. I cut through the crowd, steps unhurried, until my shadow swallowed her whole.
Her head snapped up. Big eyes, startled. Always startled.
"Sinclair."
She stiffened like a deer about to bolt. "D-Damien."
I tilted my head. "You owe me."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
I let a beat of silence hang there before I leaned down, calm as a knife sliding into flesh. "Last night. My room. You broke something."
Her brows pinched, and then—God help me—she laughed. Nervous. Awkward. A sound meant to cover fear.
"I… wait. You're serious? I didn't break anything! You're just trying to scare me."
My lips curved. Slow. Sharp. "Wrong."
I pulled my phone from my pocket, flicked the screen, and turned it so she could see the photo I'd taken. The painting. Shattered frame, torn canvas.
Her face went pale, then blotchy pink. "Oh my God."
"That," I said, voice low, lethal calm, "was mine."
Her eyes darted between me and the picture. "I—no—it was an accident. I tripped!"
"Intent doesn't change damage," I murmured.
She gaped at me, then stammered, "Okay, okay, fine. I'll pay you back. How much could it possibly—"
"Ten million."
Silence.
Her jaw dropped. Her eyes nearly fell out of her skull. "Ten—WHAT?!"
Heads turned at her outburst. She slapped a hand over her mouth, lowered her voice, and hissed, "Ten million? That's—that's like… a car! Several cars!"
"Or one painting," I said smoothly.
She blinked at me, then groaned into her hands. "Oh my God, I am so screwed. I can't even afford extra guacamole, and you want Ten million?"
The corners of my mouth twitched. Her panic was ridiculous… and oddly charming.
"Ask Daddy," I suggested.
Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Are you insane? I can't tell my parents I broke something on my first week here! They'll bury me alive."
"So not Daddy," I mused.
She threw her hands up. "What am I supposed to do then? Rob a bank? Sell a kidney?!"
I leaned closer, enjoying every shade of her fluster. "No. You'll work for me."
Her entire body froze. "Work. For you?"
"Yes." My voice dropped, velvet and steel. "Until I say the debt is cleared."
Her lips parted. "Like—like your assistant?"
My grin was slow, wicked. "Assistant. Slave. Pet. Whatever word makes you sleep better at night."
Color flared high on her cheeks. "You're insane."
"Maybe." I tilted my head, eyes raking her slowly enough that she shivered. "But you're broke. And right now, Sinclair… you're mine."
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "This is—this is extortion!"
"This is debt," I corrected softly. "And I always collect."
She stared at me, speechless for once, then groaned into her hands again. "I hate you."
"Good," I murmured, brushing past her so close my lips nearly grazed her ear. "It'll make you easier to break."
Her sharp inhale followed me as I walked away, and I let the smirk finally tug at my mouth.
Nova Sinclair thought I wanted money.
But what I really wanted… was to see how far she'd bend before she snapped.
****
Nova pov-
My knees gave out the second he left. I slid to the floor in the middle of the empty courtyard, clutching my face like that could erase what just happened.
Slave.
He'd called me his slave.
I laughed. Hysterical, breathless, the kind of laugh that tipped into panic.
"Oh my God… I'm screwed. I'm literally, cosmically, astronomically screwed."
I pressed my palms to my hot cheeks. How was I supposed to explain this to anyone? Hey, Mom, hey Dad, funny story — remember that world-renowned, terrifying Blackwood heir I swore I'd avoid? Yeah, I broke his priceless painting and now I'm his personal servant. Totally thriving in school, thanks for asking!
No.
I couldn't tell them. Ever.
So what were my options?
Option one: Pay Damien off. Except… broke. My wallet was emptier than my dating life.
Option two: Run. Pack my bags, hop a bus, vanish into the night. Except… mission. The principal had sent me here for a reason — to study the Four Kings. To understand them. And Damien Blackwood just dropped himself into my lap like a devil-shaped puzzle piece.
I groaned and let my head fall back against the wall.
Option three: Be his "slave."
And pray I survived it.
---
Turns out, Damien had a very creative definition of "slave."
"Hold this."
A water bottle shoved into my hands while he sparred shirtless in the training hall, sweat gleaming off every perfect muscle while I stood there like his personal hydration assistant.
"Carry this."
His books, stacked so high I could barely see over them, while he walked two steps ahead — not even bothering to check if I toppled over.
"Stand here."
Pinned against a wall at lunch, so close to his side that anyone walking by would think I was glued to him. He didn't even look at me when people stared — and they stared — he just ate calmly, like he wasn't destroying me with silence and proximity.
Every order was cold, precise, stripped of anything that sounded like desire. But that made it worse. Because when Damien Blackwood looked at you with those flat, glacier-dark eyes and said fetch, you fetched.
And every humiliating task only drew me closer into his orbit, like I was shackled to him by invisible chains.
I hated it.
I hated him.
I hated the way his lethal calm made my skin prickle, the way his presence pressed against me even when he said nothing.
And God help me, I hated how my traitorous body noticed him — every line of his build, the casual power in the way he moved, the heat of his skin brushing mine when he leaned too close.
---
The Assembly
By the time the bell rang for assembly, I was a wreck. My arms ached from carrying his things, my pride was in tatters, and my head was spinning with his voice — cool, unyielding, impossible to ignore.
I slumped into a seat at the back of the hall, ready to disappear into the crowd.
But the principal's voice cut through the chatter like a blade.
"Students of Noctis Dominium," he said, eyes sweeping over us with that severe weight that made the air itself heavy. "In two days' time, you will leave these walls. A mandatory excursion has been arranged. This is no vacation. It is training. A test. You will be stripped of your comforts, your privileges, and forced to prove yourselves outside these halls."
A ripple of tension surged through the room. Whispers. Gasps. A few nervous laughs.
The principal's voice hardened.
"This is where you begin to grasp what it means to be part of Noctis Dominium. The real battle for excellence begins now. Only the strongest will rise."
My stomach twisted. The real battle? As if I hadn't already been through hell.
And then I felt it — that prickle on the back of my neck.
I turned, and there he was. Damien. Standing across the hall, arms folded, gaze locked on me with that unreadable calm that felt like a blade pressed to my throat.
I swallowed hard.
Two days.
Two days until whatever came next.
And somehow, I knew — being Damien Blackwood's "slave" was about to get a whole lot worse.