---
Ava Carson didn't remember when her heartbeat became louder than her thoughts.
Maybe it was the moment the pen touched the paper—or maybe it was the man watching her do it.
The contract lay open before her, printed on thick black parchment, the ink shimmering in a strange crimson hue that looked too close to blood. Her signature bloomed across the bottom, curling like a vine that had grown from her fingertips.
One clause echoed in her mind, over and over:
> "Thirty nights. Absolute obedience. No questions. No refusals."
The moment she lifted the pen, her fate sealed itself like wax hardening under flame.
She had just sold herself.
Her name. Her will. Her body.
And yet... she felt no regret.
Only heat.
It started low—between her hips—then spread like fire licking its way up her spine.
The contract trembled as she pushed it away. Or maybe it was her hands that shook.
Damien Wolfe hadn't moved once. He stood across the room, leaning against the fireplace, his silhouette carved from shadow and gold. The flames danced behind him, making his black-on-black suit gleam at the edges. His face was partially hidden—sharp cheekbones, an unreadable mouth, eyes lost in flickering light.
But it was his stillness that unnerved her most.
Still as a wolf before the pounce.
Then, finally, his voice.
Low. Velvet. Dangerous.
"Strip."
One word.
Soft.
Measured.
It didn't need to be loud.
It didn't need to be repeated.
It didn't even sound like a demand.
And yet, the moment it left his mouth, the air shifted. Ava's lungs stopped moving. Her body locked in place, throat dry.
Her blouse was already gone, discarded in the adjoining room. She stood now in a black lace bra and a pencil skirt that hugged her hips like it didn't want to let go.
Her fingers hovered over the waistband.
She didn't move.
Not yet.
Then his voice again—firmer. Sharper. Beautifully cruel.
"Now."
Her heart slammed once against her ribs.
He wasn't angry. He didn't shout. But something in his tone promised consequences if she disobeyed.
And Rule Two was clear: Obey, or be taught how.
Ava's fingers moved.
Slow. Uncertain. Desperate.
She slid the zipper down. The skirt loosened. Whispered down her thighs. Fell to the floor.
Now she stood in nothing but her underwear.
Her breath came faster. Not from fear. Not exactly. From knowing she was no longer the one writing the script.
"Turn around."
The words wrapped around her throat like silk.
She turned.
Slowly.
Facing the wall. Shoulders bare. Heart exposed.
His footsteps followed, unhurried. She could feel the gravity of his presence before he even touched her.
And when he did—a single fingertip, tracing down the center of her spine—her knees nearly buckled.
"You're already shaking," he murmured.
His breath brushed her nape.
"But you haven't even felt what I do to obedience yet."
A shiver climbed her neck.
He came closer.
No longer a ghost in the room.
Now heat.
Now pressure.
His gloved hands slid along her hips, then over her thighs. His touch wasn't frantic. It was precise. Designed. Like he was mapping her.
Then his fingers pressed lightly against the silk between her legs.
Damp.
A gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it.
He leaned in, voice darker now, closer.
"You're wet."
She said nothing.
"I told you, Ava. Rule Three."
He traced along the seam of her panties. Just enough to make her tremble. Not enough to let her fall.
"Never lie. Especially to yourself."
Her breath hitched. She wanted to run. She wanted to melt. She wanted—
Him.
And he knew it.
God, he knew it.
"You want this," he whispered. "You're terrified of me. But you want this."
Ava swallowed hard. Her body said yes. Her pulse screamed yes. Her voice refused to betray her.
But her silence was permission.
Damien stepped back, and just when she thought he might leave her trembling on the edge of shame and longing—
He whispered four words:
"Follow me. On your knees."
She hesitated.
Then knelt.
And crawled after him like gravity had a name—and it was Damien Wolfe.
---
The second room wasn't what she expected.
She'd imagined chains. Cold. Maybe even pain.
But the moment she stepped inside—still on her knees, still breathless—it felt like entering a dream painted in velvet and wine.
Curtains draped the walls, thick and red. The room smelled of leather and sandalwood and something darker beneath—something that lived in the space between want and surrender.
A canopy bed dominated the room, its black posts carved with markings Ava didn't recognize. Chains hung from the frame, polished to a sinful gleam. In the corner, a wooden cross stood tall. Elegant. Not for religion—unless worship came with moans.
Beside the bed: a velvet chair. Deep. Worn. Clearly his.
And on the nightstand—items she couldn't name. Some sleek. Some sharp. All beautiful. Terrifying.
Damien sat in the chair.
Crossed one leg.
Poured himself a glass of whiskey.
He looked at her like a painter admiring an unfinished canvas.
"You're not fragile," he said. "You're not weak."
He leaned forward, his eyes hungry.
"But I'm going to break you in all the right places."
Then he stood.
And lifted her onto the bed.
---
He didn't take her. Not yet.
No ropes. No spanking. No toys.
Just instructions.
Just his voice.
"Lie down. Arms over your head."
She obeyed.
He slipped a blindfold over her eyes—black silk, warm from his touch.
Darkness bloomed behind her eyelids.
And then—fire.
Not literal.
Sensory.
A feather across her thighs. A leather strap down her ribs. A slow drizzle of warm wax on her stomach.
Each touch made her gasp.
And he demanded each sound.
"Let me hear you," he whispered. "Every whimper. Every filthy sound you've buried in your throat."
When his mouth finally touched her, it wasn't soft.
It was punishing.
Slow. Deep. Endless.
She came—loud. Shaking.
But he didn't stop.
Not until she screamed his name like a prayer said too late.
---
After, he didn't hold her.
Didn't kiss her.
Just wrapped her in silk.
Poured her a drink.
Sat back in the velvet chair.
Watching her with the eyes of a man who wasn't finished—but didn't have to say so.
She sat at the edge of the bed, skin humming with aftershocks.
"Why me?" she asked, voice barely above the crackle of the fire.
He didn't blink.
"Why not you?"
"That's not an answer."
He sipped his drink. Smiled like sin.
"Your brother owes monsters. I offered them something better. Silence—for a price."
"You bought me?"
"I saved you," he said coldly. "And yes. I bought you. Let's not dress it up."
She should've felt ashamed.
Instead, her thighs pressed together under the silk.
"You're not what I expected."
Damien stood.
Crossed to her.
Took her face in his hands.
"I'm not what anyone expects," he said. "And if you stay for all thirty nights…"
He brushed his lips against her cheek. Just once.
"You won't be either."
---
She woke up in a sleek black car.
No memory of how she got there.
An envelope sat beside her.
Ten thousand dollars. Neatly stacked.
And a note in crimson ink:
> "Night One complete. Twenty-nine remain.
Rule Four: Come willingly… or don't come at all.
—D.W."
Ava stared out the window at the rising sun.
She should've been afraid.
She should've stayed away.
But she knew, deep in her bones, she'd return.
Not because she was owned.
Because she wanted to be.
--
[To Be Continued in Episode 2: The Man Who Knows Your Breath]
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