Present Day
The word slave tasted like poison on my tongue.
But I'd said it. Agreed to it. Because what choice did I have?
Maxwell's smirk deepened as he leaned back against his desk, arms folded, watching me like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
"Good girl," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "Now that we understand each other, let me make the rules very clear."
My chest tightened. "Rules?"
"Yes." His eyes darkened as they dragged over my body, slow and deliberate. "First—when I speak, you obey. No hesitation. No backtalk. If I say sit, you sit. If I say kneel, you kneel. Understood?"
My stomach dropped. "That's ridiculous—"
"Rule two," he cut me off, his voice razor sharp. "No lies. If I catch you lying, even once, you'll regret it."
I swallowed hard, my pulse thundering.
"Rule three." He leaned in closer, his breath grazing my ear. "You belong to me now. That means no running. No hiding. And no snooping. This house has secrets, Mia. Secrets that will get you killed if you go looking for them."
My heart slammed against my ribs. The way he said killed—it wasn't dramatic. It was matter-of-fact. A warning.
"What kind of secrets?" I whispered.
Maxwell straightened, his expression hardening. "The kind you don't ask about."
I wanted to scream at him. To tell him this was insane. But the truth gnawed inside me—I had nowhere else to go.
And he knew it.
"Now," Maxwell said coldly, "get on your knees and clean up the mess you made."
My blood boiled, but slowly—shaking—I sank to the floor.
The shards of glass glittered like tiny knives mocking me. I forced myself to pick them up one by one, humiliation burning hotter than fire.
Behind me, Maxwell's voice echoed. "Careful, or you'll bleed."
My spine stiffened. "I know how to pick up glass."
The air shifted. I felt his gaze drilling into my back.
"What was that?"
I froze. "Nothing."
"That's what I thought," he said smoothly. "Slaves don't talk back."
I bit down on my lip, swallowing every ounce of pride I had left.
Then—a sharp sting shot through my palm.
"Shit—" Blood welled up, scarlet drops sliding down my skin.
Before I could react, a strong hand closed around my wrist.
Maxwell crouched in front of me, his grip firm. "I told you to be careful."
His face was too close. Water still glistened in his dark hair. The cold steel in his gaze clashed with the warmth of his touch.
"It's just a scratch," I muttered, trying to pull away.
His hold tightened. "You'll sit still."
He pulled a first-aid kit from a drawer and dabbed alcohol on my palm. The sting was sharp, but nothing compared to the way his thumb pressed into my wrist, grounding me in place.
"That hurts," I hissed.
"Good," he said flatly. "Maybe it'll remind you to listen."
My glare shot up to meet his. "You're a monster."
Maxwell's lips curved into that dangerous smile. "And you're mine."
The words sank deep, leaving me breathless.
He wrapped my hand slowly, deliberately, like binding me to him. When he finished, his fingers lingered, stroking over my knuckles.
My heart raced. I hated him. Wanted to scream at him.
But my body betrayed me, shivering under his touch.
Finally, Maxwell released me and stood. "Get up."
I rose on shaky legs.
"From now on," he said, his voice cold and final, "you'll learn exactly what it means to belong to me."
That Night
Sleep refused to come.
I lay on the expensive leather couch, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.
He's not who you think he is.
The note's words haunted me. Who had sent it? Why did someone want Maxwell dead?
And what had I just walked into?
Around midnight, I heard it—footsteps. Not Maxwell's heavy tread. These were lighter, quicker, coming from somewhere deeper in the house.
I sat up, my pulse spiking.
You belong to me now. No snooping.
Maxwell's warning echoed in my head. But curiosity clawed at me, stronger than fear.
Slowly, I slipped off the couch and crept toward the hallway.
The mansion was dark, shadows stretching across marble floors. I followed the sound of voices—low, tense, coming from behind a closed door.
"—running out of time." A man's voice. Not Maxwell's.
"I'm handling it." That was Maxwell, his tone sharp.
"You're not handling anything. They know you have it. If you don't deliver by Friday—"
"I said I'm handling it."
A pause. Then: "And the girl?"
My breath caught.
"She's nobody," Maxwell said coldly. "A complication. Nothing more."
Nobody. A complication.
The words stabbed deeper than they should have.
"If she becomes a problem—"
"She won't."
"Make sure of it. Because if the Arrow Society finds out—"
"They won't."
Arrow Society.
The same words from the note.
I pressed closer to the door, straining to hear more.
Then—a floorboard creaked beneath my foot.
The voices stopped.
"Someone's outside," the stranger hissed.
Panic flooded me. I turned to run—
But the door swung open.
Maxwell stood there, his eyes blazing with fury.
"What did I tell you about snooping?"
Before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the room.
It wasn't an office. It was something else entirely.
Weapons lined the walls—guns, knives, things I didn't even have names for. A massive desk sat in the center, covered in documents, photographs, maps. And standing beside it was a man in a black suit, his face cold and calculating.
"Well," the stranger said, his lips curving into a cruel smile. "This is unfortunate."
Maxwell's grip on my wrist tightened painfully. "I'll deal with her."
"Will you?" The man's gaze slid over me like oil. "Because she just heard everything. And the Arrow Society doesn't tolerate loose ends."
My stomach dropped.
"She won't talk," Maxwell said, his voice low and dangerous.
"How can you be sure?"
Maxwell turned to me, his eyes boring into mine. "Because if she does, I'll kill her myself."
The room went silent.
My breath stuttered. He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
He meant it.
"Fine," the stranger said finally. "But she's your responsibility now. If this goes wrong, her blood is on your hands."
He brushed past me, his shoulder knocking mine as he left.
The door slammed shut.
I stood frozen, trembling, my wrist still caught in Maxwell's iron grip.
"Let me go," I whispered.
He didn't.
"I warned you," Maxwell said, his voice cold. "I told you not to snoop. I told you this life would destroy you."
"I didn't mean—"
"I don't care what you meant." He yanked me closer, his face inches from mine. "You just signed your death warrant, Mia. Do you understand that?"
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "Then let me leave. Let me go, and I'll never—"
"You think you can just leave?" His laugh was bitter, hollow. "You think they'll let you walk away now that you know?"
"Know what?" I snapped, anger overriding fear. "I don't know anything! I don't even understand what's happening!"
Maxwell's jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought he'd tell me. Explain.
Instead, he released me so suddenly I stumbled back.
"You want to know?" His voice was deadly quiet. "Fine. I'll tell you."
He crossed to the desk and picked up a folder. Tossed it at my feet.
"Open it."
My hands shook as I knelt and picked it up. Inside were photographs—men in suits, locations marked with red X's, documents stamped CLASSIFIED.
And at the center of it all: Maxwell's face.
But the name beneath it wasn't Maxwell.
It was Dante Cross.
"Who…" My voice broke. "Who are you?"
He stared at me, his expression unreadable. "Someone you should've never met."
"The Arrow Society—what is it?"
"An organization," Maxwell—Dante—said flatly. "One that deals in information, weapons, and death. I used to work for them. Now they want me dead."
My head spun. "Why?"
"Because I took something from them. Something they'll kill to get back."
"What?"
His eyes locked on mine, dark and dangerous.
"A ledger. Names, transactions, everything. Proof of every crime they've committed for the last decade. And if I don't deliver it by Friday, they'll come for me. And anyone close to me."
The weight of his words crushed my chest.
"That's why you wanted me to leave," I whispered.
"Yes."
"But now—"
"Now you're in it." His voice was cold. Final. "And there's no way out."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
Then, from somewhere outside, glass shattered.
Maxwell's head snapped toward the sound. "Stay here."
"What—"
But he was already moving, pulling a gun from a drawer with practiced ease.
"Stay. Here."
He disappeared into the hallway.
I stood frozen, my heart hammering.
Then I heard it—voices. Shouting. Footsteps pounding through the house.
They're inside.
Panic surged. I looked around the room—weapons, documents, nowhere to hide.
A gunshot split the air.
I screamed.
Then—silence.
Heavy, terrible silence.
"Maxwell?" I called, my voice shaking. "Dante?"
Nothing.
I grabbed the nearest weapon—a knife from the wall display—and crept toward the door.
The hallway was dark. Empty.
Then I saw him.
Maxwell—slumped against the wall, blood spreading across his shirt. Again.
"No—" I ran to him, dropping to my knees. "No, no, no—"
His eyes fluttered open. "I told you... to stay..."
"Shut up." Tears blurred my vision as I pressed my hands to the wound. "Just—just hold on—"
"They're still here," he rasped. "Upstairs. You need to run."
"I'm not leaving you—"
A door slammed above us.
Footsteps.
Coming closer.
Maxwell's hand closed around mine, slick with blood. "If they find you... they'll kill you."
"Then we go together."
His eyes searched mine—surprised, confused, something almost like respect flickering there.
Then his lips curved into a faint, pained smile.
"Stubborn girl."