The sounds started up again just after midnight.

First, a low voice from downstairs Damon. Then a woman's laugh, sharp and bright, slicing through the quiet.

I dragged the pillow over my head. The silk didn't help, not even a little.

My room was huge, all soft grays and pale creams. A designer's idea of comfort, but honestly, it felt like a fancy prison. The window looked out over perfectly trimmed gardens, now just shapes and shadows in the moonlight. The door didn't even have a lock.

Footsteps in the hallway bare feet, not heels, padding across the wood. Then a door creaked open, not Damon's bedroom. Somewhere else.

Isabella laughed again, closer this time. "You're terrible."

"You love it," Damon said, voice low and private.

My stomach twisted. I got up, the floor cold under my feet. I went to the door and pressed my ear to the wood.

Now I could hear everything. They were right across the hall, in the sitting room.

"On the couch," Damon said. Not a suggestion. A command.

"So commanding," Isabella purred.

Then he grabbed her, one hand on her throat and the other under her thigh, he lifted her like she weighed nothing and slammed her on the couch.

A soft thump. Her sharp inhale. Then the slow, steady creak of the couch springs.

My face burned, but I couldn't move. Shame pinned me in place.

He groaned low, rough, possessive. "Quiet."

"Make me," she shot back, her voice all breath and teasing and without wasting time, he spread her legs, fuck!! You are already wet, he said in a low voice.

I watched him pull out his penis and it was huge. He placed it into her vagina, I couldn't bring myself to watch it again, but all I could hear was the rhythm changing. The couch creaked faster, louder. Her breaths turned into high, pleading gasps. "Damon... please..."

"Please what?" His voice was dark, almost gentle. He'd only ever shown me ice.

"Don't stop."

He laughed, low. The sounds sped up frantic, desperate. Her cries broke, sharp and helpless, then tumbled into a long, shuddering moan.

Then nothing. Just their breathing, ragged, filling the hall.

I couldn't breathe. My hands shook.

After a while, I heard him again, his voice flat, almost bored. "Get dressed. Marco will drive you home."

"So soon?" Isabella, still breathless.

"I said now."

Footsteps. A door closed. Silence.

I stumbled back to bed, my heart banging in my chest. I felt sick. Humiliated. And God help me curious. Hot, ugly curiosity curling in my stomach.

Sleep wasn't happening. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting minutes until dawn.

At seven, a soft knock. Alessandra came in with breakfast. She wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Mr. Rossi wants you in the study at nine," she said, gentle as ever.

"Want?" My voice cracked.

She just gave me a sad little smile and left.

I showered and put on one of the plain dresses someone had left in the closet my size, bought for me, like everything else here. Ownership, right down to the hem. At nine, I went downstairs.

The study door was wide open. Damon sat behind his massive desk, typing. White shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed. Rested. In control.

Not like me.

"Close the door," he said, eyes still on his laptop.

I did, but I stayed near it.

He finally looked up, scanning my face, then my hands were still shaking. "Sleep well?"

It landed like a slap.

"Why did you bring her here?" The words just spilled out.

He leaned back, calm as ever. "Because I wanted to."

"To hurt me."

He shrugged. "To remind you. This isn't a marriage. It's an arrangement. You'll see things. Hear things. You'll learn to keep your mouth shut."

Tears stung, but I blinked them away. "What do you want from me?"

"Obedience." He got up, circled the desk, and stood too close. I could smell his soap, his skin. "Nothing else. You're a decoration. A debt paid off. Don't expect my attention. Don't expect my touch."

"You think I want your touch?" I snapped, anger finally breaking through.

Something flickered in his eyes, maybe amusement. "Good. We understand each other."

He reached past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and opened the door. That was it. Dismissed.

"Lucas Thorne called for you this morning," he said, just as I stepped out. I froze. "Your old college friend. He's here in town."

My heart jumped stupid hope. Lucas. Kind, gentle Lucas.

"I told him you weren't available," Damon added, his voice dropping into a warning. "Not ever. Don't contact him. If you do..." He let the threat hang.

He shut the door in my face.

I stood there, shaking. The sounds from last night wouldn't leave me, tangled up with the cold edge in his voice.

Then I heard his phone ringing inside. He answered, voice warm all of a sudden. "Vincenzo. What's wrong?"

Silence. Then his voice turned to ice.

"The warehouse on the docks. When?... How many men?"

Another pause.

"Tell Marco and Antonio. We are going tonight."

The call ended. I heard his fist hit the desk, hard.

I hurried away, mind racing. Warehouse. Men. Tonight.

Something was happening. Something dangerous.

And the man who owned me was walking right into it.

I drifted through the mansion all day, half-invisible, more shadow than person.

Alessandra brought lunch to the library, but I barely touched it. The house creaked and groaned, every sound setting my nerves on edge. I flinched at footsteps, at voices echoing somewhere deep in the halls always bracing for Damon's.

Late afternoon finally snapped the silence.

Heavy boots hammered down the main staircase. Men's voices are sharp, low, and tense. I crept to the library door and peeked out.

Damon stood in the lobby, yanking on a black coat. Marco and Antonio flanked him, both in dark tactical gear. They didn't look at each other, just grim and focused.

"We take three cars," Damon said, not wasting a word. "You two with me. Tell the others to cover the perimeter. No one gets close."

Marco shot a glance up the stairs, right toward me.

"The girl?" he asked.

Damon's eyes tracked the look. For a second, I thought he'd spotted me. "She stays. Lock the east wing. Post Enzo at her door."

Lock me in. Like some animal. Like I was nothing.

Antonio checked his gun magazine snapped in with a click that made my stomach twist. "Intel says The Vipers have inside help. Someone talked."

Damon's jaw clenched. "Find out who. After tonight."

He turned and finally saw me, half-hidden in the shadows. Our eyes met. His face was stone cold, unreadable, not a flicker of fear or doubt.

He looked away. "Move out."

They left. The front door slammed so hard it rattled the windows.

Silence swallowed the house again. A new guard, Enzo, apparently planted himself outside my bedroom, a slab of muscle and zero words.

Night crept in. I sat by the window, staring at the empty gates, replaying Antonio's words. Inside help. Someone had betrayed them.

That sick feeling in my gut just grew. This wasn't business anymore. This was war, and I was trapped in the general's fortress alone.

Then my phone buzzed. Not the house phone, my own cell, buried at the bottom of my bag. I'd forgotten it was even there. My heart thudded as I grabbed it.

A text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Elena? It's Lucas. Are you okay? The man who answered your phone sounded dangerous. Please, just tell me you're safe.

Lucas. Relentless, hopeful Lucas. My last tie to normal life.

My fingers shook as I typed.

Me: I can't talk. I'm not safe.

Lucas: Where are you? I'll come get you.

Me: No! You can't. He'll kill you.

Lucas: Who is he? Your father said you got married. Elena, what's going on?

Before I could answer, another message flashed on the screen. Different number. My blood went ice cold.

Damon: Put the phone down. Now.

How did he know?

Suddenly every corner of the room felt dangerous. Was he watching me? Listening?

The phone vibrated again Lucas.

Lucas: I'm not leaving you in some forced marriage. I'm in the city. Meet me tomorrow. The old bookstore cafe. 3 PM. Please.

The door flew open.

Enzo stood there, palm out. "Phone."

Damon must've sent him. I handed it over, no fight left in me.

He left, locking the door behind him.

Now I was really alone. Disconnected. The hours dragged. Midnight came and went. No sign of Damon or the others.

My thoughts spiraled. Was he dead somewhere? Shot in some dark warehouse? Part of me, just a tiny, guilty part, felt a flutter of relief at the idea. Then the shame hit hard.

A crash shattered the quiet downstairs. Not the front door, something breaking. Glass.

A man shouted at someone I'd never heard before.

My breath stopped. Enzo should've been outside, but I heard nothing from him.

Another crash, closer this time.

This wasn't Damon.

Footsteps thundered up the main stairs. Fast, loud. More than one person. They weren't even trying to be quiet.

The handle on my door rattled. Then a bang hard. The lock is held, for now.

"Check the other rooms!" someone barked from the hall. "He said she'd be on this floor!"

He said. Inside help.

The pounding came again, harder. The frame started to split.

I scrambled back to the window, hands searching for anything to defend myself. All I found was a heavy glass vase.

The door exploded open.

Two men, both in black, faces hidden behind ski masks. Their eyes fixed on me.

"There she is," the taller one said. "The boss wants her alive."

They stepped in.

I raised the vase, voice shaking but fierce. "Stay back!"

The short one laughed. "Cute."

They rushed me.

The vase slipped out of my hands before I even had a chance to swing it. It smashed on the floor, shards flying everywhere.

The tall guy grabbed my arms, his grip iron-tight. "Stop fighting. It'll be easier." His voice was too calm.

"Let me go!" I yelled, kicking and twisting, but it was useless.

The other one slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring. My head snapped sideways. "He said alive. Didn't say unhurt."

They dragged me toward the door. My feet slipped on the broken glass, and I saw a streak of red trailing behind. That was my blood.

Out in the hallway, Enzo slumped against the wall, a dark stain spreading on his shirt. He didn't move.

Terror clawed at my throat. They were going to take me. Whoever wanted me, Damon's enemy finally had me.

We got to the top of the stairs. That's when the front door downstairs exploded open.

Not just open blown back so hard it slammed into the wall.

Dark shapes flooded the foyer. Four, maybe five.

Damon stood at the front.

His coat was gone. His white shirt was ripped at the collar, a smear of dirt or blood across his jaw. He looked straight up the stairs at me, caught between the two masked men.

Time froze.

"Let her go." Damon's voice was quiet, but deadly.

The man pinning my arms tried to laugh, but it sounded shaky. "Or what, Rossi? You're outnumbered."

Damon didn't flinch. "Antonio."

A shot cracked through the air.

The shorter man on my left dropped like a dead weight, blood spreading across his mask.

I screamed. The grip on my arms slipped, just for a second, but I tore myself free and stumbled back.

"Get down, Elena!" Damon shouted.

I dropped to my knees on the steps. The masked guy grabbed for me, but another gunshot rang out. This one caught him in the shoulder. He howled, lurching away.

Damon flew up the stairs. Passed me without even looking, gun drawn now. He towered over the wounded man, who clutched his shoulder, cursing.

"Who sent you?" Damon's voice was pure ice.

"Go to hell."

Damon pressed the gun to his knee and pulled the trigger.

The scream was horrible, raw and desperate. The man writhed on the floor. "The Vipers! The Vipers sent us!"

"Why take her?"

"Leverage...to get to you..."

Damon didn't even blink. He looked over at Antonio, standing below. "Clean this up. Make him talk. Then send a message to the Vipers."

Antonio nodded, grim.

Finally, Damon turned to me. I was shaking so hard I could barely stay upright, crouched on the step, feet bleeding.

He came down to me. For a moment, he just looked, eyes burning. Not gentle. Not soft. Just furious.

"Did they touch you?" His voice was rough.

"N-no. Just my arm."

He glanced at the angry red marks already blooming on my skin. His jaw flexed. He pulled off what was left of his shirt, left in only a black undershirt, and wrapped the fabric around my feet. His hands were quick and sure, not gentle, but careful.

"Can you stand?"

I tried. My legs folded.

He didn't say anything, just scooped me up. I gasped, went stiff. He smelled like gunpowder, sweat, the night. His arms locked around me, steady and strong.

He carried me past Antonio, who was dragging the screaming man away, past Marco checking Enzo's pulse. He didn't take me to the third floor, to my room. He took me on his own on the second.

He nudged the door open with his shoulder. Inside, his bedroom was huge and cold, the air thick with his scent. The bed dominated the space, sheets crisp and dark.

He set me down on the edge. "Don't move."

He disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran. He came back with a wet cloth and a small kit.

He knelt in front of me and started cleaning the cuts on my feet. The water stung. I jerked away.

His grip on my ankle tightened, holding me still not cruel, just absolute.

"You texted Lucas Thorne," he said, not looking up.

All the color drained from my face. "How did you do?"

"Your phone's monitored. Every call, every text. I own the air you breathe, Elena. Don't forget that." He pressed the cloth to a deeper cut. "You were planning to meet him."

Not a question.

"I was scared," I whispered.

"You are mine," he said, voice low, final. "My property. My responsibility. No one touches what's mine. Not some college kid. Not a rival gang." His eyes met mine gray, wild, terrifying. "You could've died tonight. Or worse. Because they wanted a target. And you're my target."

He wrapped my feet with a fresh bandage. His hands lingered, just a moment too long. A jolt of heat shot through me.

He stood, looking down, chest heaving. Fury and adrenaline still radiated off him.

"You stay in this room tonight," he said. "Where I can see you."

He walked to the other side of the bed, sat down, and yanked off his boots. He didn't look my way again.

I sat there, heart pounding, feet throbbing and clean, dangling above the floor. He was going to sleep here. With me in his bed.

He lay back, staring up at the ceiling, one arm under his head. The silence pressed in, heavy with everything that just happened Gunshots. Blood. His hands on my skin.

My breathing was just starting to settle when he spoke, his words slipping into the darkness.

"If you ever try to run to him," he said, his voice low and sharper than I'd ever heard it, "I won't just kill him, Elena. I'll ruin everything he cares about first. And then I'll bring you back."

He turned away, his back facing me.

"Go to sleep."