The night pressed in, thick with silence, broken only by the slow tick of a grand clock echoing through the hall. Avery sat on the velvet couch in the drawing room, the fire low, flickering shadows across the marble floor. The air was still, but her nerves crackled like static.
She didn't know why Dante had summoned her this late. The mansion was a cathedral of secrets, and tonight it felt more like a trap than a home.
The door creaked open.
He entered like a storm held in a man's frame—black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a gaze that could pin lightning to the sky. In his hand was a tumbler of amber whiskey, glinting like molten gold.
"Get up," he said quietly.
She obeyed.
He didn't speak as he led her down the hall, past the rooms she was forbidden to enter, until they reached a door she hadn't seen open before. He pushed it with a knuckle. It creaked open into a study — dimly lit, cold, and magnificent. Shelves lined the walls, packed with ancient books and strange artifacts. A single desk stood beneath a towering window, moonlight pooling on the dark wood like spilled silver.
He walked to a cabinet, poured another drink, then set it on the desk. "Sit," he said.
Avery sat. The chair felt too big for her — or maybe the room did.
Dante stood opposite, resting his hand on the edge of the desk, eyes never leaving hers.
"You've followed orders," he said. "You've obeyed. But obedience isn't the same as transformation."
She swallowed. "Then what is?"
His lips twitched — almost a smile, but not warm. "Becoming someone who doesn't flinch at the game. Who learns to move pieces, not just survive them."
He leaned in, voice lowering. "Tonight, I want to see how much of the old you still remains."
Avery's heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not testing your loyalty," he said. "I'm testing your control. Over yourself." He walked behind her, slowly. She felt him even when she couldn't see him — the heat of his presence, the weight of his silence.
"You fear me," he said, almost amused. "That's good. But fear can be turned. Into power."
She turned to look at him, but he moved closer, gripping the arms of her chair from behind, caging her in.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.
Dante's breath was warm against her ear. "Everything."
The word hung between them like smoke — heavy, choking, undeniable.
He stepped away, returning to his seat across from her, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "There's a man coming tomorrow. He'll ask questions. You'll answer them. Lie when I tell you to. Smile when I say nothing. Think of it as your first… performance."
Her chest tightened. "And if I mess up?"
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You won't."
She knew it wasn't a compliment. It was a threat wrapped in velvet.
A long silence fell between them. The fire popped. Somewhere above, the house groaned.
Then he spoke again — softer this time. "I saw the way you looked at your brother tonight."
Avery blinked. "What about it?"
"You still love something in this world," Dante said, sipping his drink. "That makes you dangerous. And vulnerable."
She clenched her fists. "I won't let you use him."
Dante smiled, slow and dark. "Oh, Avery. You already did."
Her blood ran cold.
He stood, glass still in hand, and walked toward her again. "You're in the fire now. There's no going back."
His hand reached out — not harshly, but deliberately — and he touched her chin, raising her gaze to meet his.
"You made a bargain. And now," he whispered, "you learn what it means to belong to the devil."
---
Avery didn't sleep that night.
She lay in the massive bed Dante had given her — too soft, too quiet — staring at the ceiling, every shadow morphing into something sinister. His words repeated like a curse: You already did.
By morning, her body was stiff with unrest, her mind raw from spiraling questions. When the sun finally pushed through the curtains, she rose, dressed, and followed the scent of espresso and burning wood.
She found Dante in the grand living room, seated in his usual place by the window. The sunlight haloed him like something unholy. He didn't look up as she entered, only poured another glass of wine, even though it was barely past nine.
"You're late," he said.
"I wasn't told a time."
"That's your first mistake," he murmured. "You wait for permission. I expect presence."
Avery said nothing, standing at the edge of the room like a pawn waiting to be moved.
He finally looked up. "He'll be here in twenty minutes."
"Who is he?"
"A business associate. Minor. Observant. You'll say nothing unless spoken to, and if I speak first, your story is mine, not yours."
Avery's pulse kicked up. "What's the story?"
"That you're mine."
She flinched.
Dante's lips barely moved. "A girl I plucked from the gutter. Sharp. Useful. Silent."
The click of his watch echoed as he adjusted the cuff on his wrist. "If he suspects something's off, I'll know by how he looks at you. And if you slip… you'll learn there are punishments beyond words."
Her throat tightened. "You don't need to scare me anymore."
"I'm not scaring you," he replied, rising to his feet, his presence looming. "I'm preparing you."
Before she could respond, the sound of tires on gravel broke the silence. A sleek black car slid into the drive.
Dante didn't look at her again. He simply said, "Smile when you open the door."
Avery walked slowly toward the front entrance, the pressure behind her ribs building like a vice. She opened the heavy doors, and there he stood.
Tall. Well-dressed. Charcoal eyes that flicked across her like a scalpel — not with lust, but calculation.
"Evander Cane," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And you must be the new apprentice."
She tilted her head, her voice soft. "Something like that."
Evander stepped inside, his presence cool and refined — but something about him set her on edge. He was charming in a sterile way, like a man who wore every expression with practiced intention.
Dante met them in the foyer, his tone unreadable. "Evans."
"Dante."
A silent handshake. A brief pause. And then Dante's eyes slid toward Avery, sharp and possessive. Not a word was spoken, but the warning was loud enough to still the air.
Evander's gaze lingered on her — just a second too long.
They moved to the parlor, where Dante poured drinks with the poise of a king. Avery sat where he instructed her, silent and still.
The men talked of shipments, territory shifts, rumors of unrest among smaller crews. But Avery felt the shift — the subtle edge in Dante's voice every time Evans so much as glanced her way.
It wasn't jealousy. It was something darker — ownership.
"I see you've… expanded your circle," Evans said at one point, gesturing subtly toward Avery.
Dante didn't smile. "I keep what's valuable."
"And is she?"
Dante sipped his drink, his eyes locked on Evans over the rim of the glass. "Very."
The weight of that word pressed on Avery's chest. Not a person. An asset.
Evans leaned back, amusement flickering in his expression, but his eyes didn't leave her. "She's quiet."
"She listens," Dante said. "It's rare."
Evans gave her a nod, polite but unreadable. "A good trait. Especially in this world."
"Especially in my house," Dante added, with a tone that made it clear the conversation was done.
The meeting went on for another half hour. Evans eventually stood, offered Dante a nod, and turned to Avery.
"Pleasure, Miss…?"
Dante's voice cut clean across the room. "She doesn't have a name you need to know."
Evans arched a brow, smirked, and left without protest.
Once the door shut, silence settled.
Avery turned, unsure whether to breathe or brace herself.
Dante stared at the now-empty glass in his hand, then slowly turned to her.
"You did well," he said quietly.
She exhaled, finally.
Then his voice sharpened. "But you looked at him when he smiled."
"I—"
"Don't," he interrupted, stepping closer, his tone a blade. "You flinched. You let him make you curious. And that means you are still too human."
She blinked hard. "I didn't mean to."
"But you did." He leaned in, his voice sinking into her like poison. "Curiosity is a leash. And you don't get to have that anymore."
The room felt colder now.
He turned his back to her, walking toward the fireplace. "You're learning, Avery," he said. "But don't mistake small victories for safety."
The flames crackled behind him as he stood still — the devil in tailored black, watching her from the firelight like a judge in his private inferno.
And she knew then — she hadn't passed a test.
She had only stepped deeper into one.