For the past two weeks, Isolde had tried to kill Severin—again and again and failed. Every. Damn. Time.
Severin wasn't the leader of this fucked-up place for no reason. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how "unguarded" he seemed, her attacks never left so much as a scratch on him.
She raised her gun at him once more, and once more, he snatched it from her like it was nothing and slammed her to the ground.
Pain exploded across her back as it hit the floor, but her eyes never left him. Severin stood over her, the gun now firmly in his grasp, and that look—cold, dominant—etched on his face.
"I don't fucking get it," Isolde spat, chest heaving, her exposed skin slick with sweat.
"Why the hell are you doing this? What the fuck do you gain from it? You hate me, right? So let me die in peace. Why drag my family into this shit? I took Lucien's deal, not them!"
"And what's with this sudden urge to teach me how to shoot? You know I'll never fucking land a bullet on you. So what, did torturing my body get boring, and now you've moved on to ripping apart my mind? What do you even get out of this?!"
Severin's lips curled into a smug little smirk. "Simple. Satisfaction."
"When I hurt your body, you didn't react. You just lay there like a goddamn corpse. A lifeless fucking doll. Boring as hell. But when I fuck with your head? When I throw your family into the fire?"
He leaned in slightly. "I see it. That fire in your eyes. That fear. That hate. It's fucking entertaining."
He brought the gun to her face, brushing the muzzle along her cheek like a lover's hand. "And the other reason I'm keeping you alive... is curiosity," he said calmly.
"I want to see just how far Lucien's plan goes. And I want to see how far you can go... under my guidance. Though let's be clear—you'll never be my equal."
"And…"
He didn't finish. Isolde arched a brow. He had something more to say but deliberately held back. Like the last piece of truth was something she wasn't allowed to hear.
"And?" she pushed.
"You don't need to know," he said coldly. "Your job is to survive. To learn. To try your damned hardest to take me down."
The barrel of the gun pressed against the scar on her neck, still tender though nearly healed. "And of course... to serve me. That's your real job."
The pistol in Severin's hand slowly trailed downward from Isolde's neck, gliding over her collarbone and the curve of her chest until it settled against her left breast. The barrel hovered dangerously close to her nipple without touching it, circling the edge of her areola with deliberate slowness as if taunting it to react.
Severin's free hand pushed aside Isolde's skirt, then her damp underwear. "You act like you hate my touch, but your body doesn't lie. You're wet."
Severin's grin widened, cruel and mocking. "Once a whore, always a whore."
Severin yanked down his zipper, freeing his erection—hardened for who knows how long—and buried himself inside Isolde in one brutal thrust.
Isolde bit her lip. Though this wasn't the first time Severin had taken her, his roughness never dulled. He was always impatient, refusing foreplay because he couldn't care less about Isolde's comfort or pleasure. The only thing that mattered was his satisfaction—in fact, he reveled in her discomfort, in her pain.
The way Isolde winced only amused him. She hated Severin for his cruelty, for using her however he pleased. But what she hated most was herself—the way her body betrayed her, reacting to Severin's harsh touch even as her mind and heart recoiled. Her flesh answered him, even as her soul screamed in refusal.
Isolde's body trembled, her lower half growing even wetter despite herself, and she clenched her jaw, fighting with every ounce of strength not to let out a moan.
The pistol still clutched in Severin's grip returned to her face—or rather, to her lips. His voice was heavy, commanding. "Lick it."
He ordered her to lick the barrel of the gun in his hand. Of course, Isolde refused, keeping her mouth tightly shut. But Severin dug his fingers into her hips and slammed into her so hard that she cried out in pain—her pelvis throbbing, her cervix burning from the brutal impact of his length.
Still, she refused to open her mouth. So Severin leaned down, his breath hot against her ear, and whispered something low—no threat, no insult—just a name—a place.
Isolde's eyes flew wide, her cheeks flushing crimson with rage. He had just recited the address of her younger brother's school.
The urge to kill Severin surged through her like wildfire. She wanted nothing more than to end him. This vile bastard who had exploited her violated her and now dared to threaten her family.
"If you don't want the rest of the bullets in this pistol buried in your little brother's body, you'd better obey every single one of my commands." Isolde reluctantly opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue to lick the barrel of the gun gripped in Severin's hand. Severin watched, satisfied, as Isolde finally submitted.
The tip of the gun glistened wetly, and when Isolde's brown eyes locked onto Severin's, she saw his jaw tighten—his thrusts growing rougher, faster.
The dampened muzzle, slick with Isolde's saliva, trailed down to her chest. This time, Severin didn't tease her nipple into hardness. Instead, he dragged the wet metal directly over it, smearing her spit against her skin until her nipple glistened.
Isolde's legs trembled, her stomach muscles tensing as the muscles lower down clenched even tighter around Severin's erection—drawing a growl from his throat.
Isolde could feel Severin's erection moving inside her—she knew he was close, that he would soon spill himself within her, chasing his release.
The training room door suddenly swung open. Nikhael stepped in, his gaze landing on Isolde and Severin. His expression remained flat, unfazed by the sight of Severin pounding into Isolde with ruthless force.
He didn't speak until Severin drove in one final, brutal thrust—deep and unrelenting—emptying himself inside her with a hot, searing release before pulling out and standing to adjust his zipper.
Isolde was left sprawled on the floor, breath ragged, warmth already trickling from between her thighs.
"It's time, Boss," Nikhael said, his voice snapping Isolde back to awareness. She hurriedly sat up, tugging her disheveled clothes back into place, too ashamed to meet Nikhael's eyes.
"I'm going away for a few days. I won't be able to keep training you with firearms while I'm gone," Severin said as he stepped away from Isolde. "You can practice here under my men's watch, or Nikhael can take over."
He walked past Nikhael, who bowed his head in acknowledgment. "You can take her back upstairs to her room," Severin added—his final order before disappearing from Isolde's sight.
"Can you stand?" Nikhael asked quietly.
Isolde nodded. Her legs trembled as she slowly pushed herself to her feet. She could barely walk, her steps unsteady, shaky like jelly. She nearly collapsed—but Nikhael didn't rush her. He just stayed by her side, silent and patient, as if he understood exactly how fucked her body felt after what she'd been through.
.
.
.
Severin had been gone for three days. And during that time, Isolde kept training—despite Nikhael telling her she didn't have to. But she wanted to. She wasn't about to waste the rare chance to train without Severin constantly breathing down her neck, distracting and humiliating her.
Without him around, she made progress—real progress. On the second day, she finally managed to hit the target right where she was supposed to: head and chest. A perfect fucking shot.
She allowed herself a satisfied smile, imagining that target as Severin himself. God, if only those bullets were real. If only that had been his head. His heart. She would've watched him bleed with a smile on her face.
Done for the day, she placed the firearm back in its place and turned to glance at the three men standing in the corner—Severin's men, assigned by Nikhael to watch her like hawks.
Isolde raised both her hands, showing them her palms—empty. A gesture they now expected, ever since day one when she'd tried to shoot one of them. Of course, she'd missed, and they took her down fast. She still remembered the way Nikhael had looked at her afterward—sharp, cold, and disappointed.
Since then, security has been tighter. Every movement and breath she took was monitored. Her escorts began leading her out of the underground and back upstairs. As she followed them through the corridors, she frowned. Nikhael hadn't shown up today, not even once.
Isolde stepped out of the elevator and started walking down the hallway toward her room—but stopped dead in her tracks.
Severin was there. Had he returned?
But it wasn't Severin's presence that shocked her—it was the fact that he wasn't alone. He emerged from the room, yanking Liraine by her long hair and dragging her out while she cried.
Liraine clutched at his wrist, screaming, clearly in pain, as Severin dragged her like a ragdoll. Nikhael stood nearby, hesitating—taking a step forward, then stopping, torn between interfering and keeping his distance. Severin's face was flushed red, jaw clenched. He was furious.
What the hell happened?
"You think I wouldn't find out what you've been doing behind my back?!" Severin roared.
"I let you live—I didn't kill you like I did your brother, your mother, and your father, because I thought maybe you'd be useful. A bargaining chip. Something I could trade with some other mafia scum who might want a taste of the daughter of their dead enemy."
"I didn't sell you. I didn't kill you. You know why? Because Nikhael begged for your life. And this is how you repay me?!"
He slammed Liraine's head against the wall. Isolde flinched at the brutal sound and rushed forward. She couldn't just stand there and watch—she couldn't let Severin beat her like this.
Liraine was the only person in this hellhole who had ever cared about her. Isolde wrapped her arms around Liraine, trying to shield her with her own thin, shaking body.
"Why the hell are you attacking your own sister?!" Isolde shouted at him.
"Because this little whore betrayed me!" Severin snapped.
"I let her live. I gave her a roof. I fed her. And what does she do? She tries to fucking trap me. You think I wouldn't notice the letters? You think I wouldn't figure out she's been in contact with Lucien this whole time?!" Severin didn't stop. Even with Isolde in the way, he kept kicking. One of the blows struck Isolde in the ribs.
"She's the one who leaked the location of our illegal weapons cache. The one who told Lucien where we store the drugs. She's the one who kept visiting Room 429 with that goddamn candle. You think I don't know what you were doing with that candle?!"
He screamed the last part and kicked again. Blood dripped from Liraine's head, but she raised her face—glaring up at Severin with eyes full of hate. Gone was the soft, gentle girl Isolde had known. This Liraine looked like a stranger. A furious, dangerous stranger.
"Yes, I'm the one who leaked everything! I planted that damn candle in Room 429 on purpose! I've been waiting for a chance to destroy you," Liraine screamed hysterically, tears streaming down her cheeks—but her eyes burned with rage.
"You took my parents from me! You took Lorenzo! You ruined my life and now I'll ruin yours! You deserve to die, you fucking bastard!"
"You think everyone working under you actually supports you just because you killed their former boss? They hate you. Quietly. Just like I do. They helped me pass information to Lucien behind your back. They gave me that candle because I couldn't step a foot out of this place without Nikhael breathing down my neck."
"I left that candle in Isolde's room every damn time you went to see her. How did it smell, Brother Severin? Was it calming? Did it help you sleep? After all those nights of insomnia, after you killed your own parents, your own little brother… and don't forget your pathetic excuse of a mother. You slit her throat with your own fucking hand that night. A mother who didn't even bother to give you a name."
Her words hit like a hammer, each one heavier than the last. Severin's expression shifted—darkened. His hand moved behind his back, reaching for the pistol tucked into his waistband, and he raised it, aiming straight at Liraine's face.
Liraine shrank closer to Isolde, trembling with fear at the barrel now inches away. Nikhael, who had been frozen the entire time, suddenly dropped to his knees before Severin.
He reached out, gripping Severin's leg.
"Please, Boss," Nikhael begged, his voice trembling. "I beg you, please. She has no idea what she has done. Let me handle the punishment. I swear I'll make sure something like this never happens again."
Isolde glanced down and saw Nikhael's hands shaking. He was terrified. Nikhael—Severin's right hand, the one who followed his every order without question—was begging, pleading, like a man facing death.
That's when it truly sank in for Isolde. Severin wasn't just dangerous. He wasn't just cruel. He wasn't human.
No, this man was a fucking demon in the flesh—or maybe the Devil himself, wearing a flawless face and a tailored suit.
…