I wanted to spit in his face.
But I didn't.
Because those eyes—those sharp, calculating silver eyes—held something terrifying. Something that told me this man didn't play games.
Or rather, he played only one.
The kind where I was the toy.
"You can call me Mr. Valerio," he said smoothly, loosening the black tie around his neck. "Or Master. That one's optional—for now."
He turned his back to me, and I took the chance to study my surroundings.
The penthouse was unlike anything I had ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering skyline. Everything was black, steel, and glass—cold, sleek, dangerous. Like him.
My body still trembled as he poured himself a glass of something golden. Whiskey, probably. He didn't offer me any.
"You will live here. You will eat when I say. Speak only when asked. And you will never lie to me." His voice was calm, collected. The kind of calm that made your heart race faster.
"And if I do?" I whispered.
His head turned, slow and deliberate, like a lion noticing a rabbit dared speak.
"Then you'll be punished."
I swallowed. Hard.
He walked toward me again, his gaze raking over my body like he was already unwrapping me in his mind. The silk robe now clung to me, sweat and fear making it nearly transparent.
"I don't care who you were before," he continued. "Here, you're mine. You will kneel when I say. Moan when I touch you. And beg—only when I let you."
His voice was a command in itself.
He stepped in close—so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my neck. His fingers grazed my collarbone. I flinched, instinctively backing away.
He gripped my chin hard, forcing my eyes to meet his.
"Rule number one," he said softly. "You do not retreat from me. Ever."
His fingers released me. I was shaking.
He walked to a panel on the wall, pressed something, and the room shifted. A section of the sleek black wall rotated, revealing a secret space. A room within a room.
No. Not a room.
A dungeon.
Leather restraints. St. Andrew's cross. Benches. Chains. Tools I didn't even recognize. Everything was spotless, beautiful, and terrifying.
"You're not just a toy, pet," Damien said, stepping into the room. "You're a canvas. I will draw pleasure into your skin. Paint submission into your soul."
I couldn't breathe.
"I didn't ask for this," I whispered, trying to stand tall, even as my knees wanted to buckle.
"I paid for you." His voice dropped, deep and slow. "But don't get it twisted—I don't want a doll. I want your fire. I want to break it. Rebuild it."
He circled me like a predator.
"You'll scream. You'll cry. But you'll come harder than you ever thought possible."
"Why me?" I asked, unable to stop the words.
He stopped behind me. His lips brushed the shell of my ear.
"Because you don't know how to beg yet," he murmured. "And I want to be the man who teaches you."
Then—without warning—he ripped the robe off my body.
I gasped, arms instinctively flying to cover myself.
He slapped them away.
"First rule," he said, stepping back to admire. "Never hide from me."
And just like that, I realized:
This wasn't about sex.
This was about control.
And I had none.